What is Quantum Mechanics – Reality or Magic?

Non-fiction article about the unreality of some real science

Ordinary Mechanics

Somehow, the phrase Quantum Mechanics crept into a conversation I was having with a mate down the pub the other day. "I’ve no idea what it is," he said. I said that it was the most important, most successful, most far-reaching scientific theory ever devised by the human race, and that it affects everything around us.

"But what exactly is it?" he asked.

That is a hard one. Never one to resist a challenge – unless I’ve got something better to do – I shall try to explain the underlying principles on which the entire Universe works, in as few words as possible. To save time, I’ll chuck in a few diagrams. And no maths.

First of all, we need to back-track. What’s classical mechanics? A little bit to do with cars, it’s just how ordinary matter interacts – what happens when you push something, what happens when things collide. By "ordinary" I mean everyday-sized objects. A pool table gives loads of examples of mechanics in action.

Figure 1. The moving red ball collides with the stationary blue ball.

When the moving red ball has a sidelong collision with the blue ball, the blue ball moves off, forwards, in the opposite direction from the collision. The red ball moves the other way (bouncing off the side cushion, giving a very tiny amount of movement to the table and the Earth on which it rests.

There are all sorts of rules you can work out about these collisions. One obvious one is that the blue ball can never move backwards. Lots of tests would show that the balls always come to a halt eventually – what would happen if the table was frictionless? Other rules can be worked out about speed and direction, especially what happens when balls of different sizes are used.

So what’s Quantum Mechanics? It’s the mechanics of the very, very small. Is it different from classical mechanics? Very, very much so.

Enter the Atom

How small are we talking here? We’re looking into the world of the atom. The idea of the atom comes originally from ancient Greek philosophers, some of whom believed that there was a lower limit to how much you could grind up a piece of matter (others thought you could grind it up endlessly.) Those who thought there was a limit called the smallest pieces atoms, which means ‘can’t be split.’ There were more nearly right than the other lot, but not spot on. A typical pool ball is about four centimetres across. If you expanded the ball so that an atom was a few centimetres across, the whole ball would stretch about one tenth of the way across the entire Universe! So, you must remember, we’re talking about really small things here. This will be important later on.

It took a long time for modern day scientists (that is, going back just a hundred years) to discover that atoms really did exist, and it was less than a hundred years ago to learn that, despite their tiny-ness, they had an internal structure – they are not the same all the way through. You may well have been taught this sort of structure at school in basic chemistry.

Figure 2. Model of the Atom - a bit too simplified.

Looking a bit like the Solar System with a central sun and orbiting planets, even this model took some time to come up with. The core is known as the nucleus and is itself made up of still smaller particles, called protons and neutrons, while other, very light particles, called electrons whiz round the outside. For many explanations this model works quite well, like a model aeroplane. But it is only a model and a very simplified one at that. (Incidentally it’s not to scale – the nucleus takes up only 100,000th the diameter of the atom – it is mostly completely empty space – whatever that is.)

The first problem is that the protons in the nucleus are electrically charged and, like magnets of the same pole, repel each other with enormous force, so something has to glue them together. We won’t be going into how this glue works, but we will need to consider how we can get things unstuck at some point.

The second is the electrons are negatively charged and should be strongly attracted by the nucleus. Just whizzing about isn’t enough to stop them spiralling into the nucleus, giving off energy, and all the matter in the Universe should just collapse in an instant and a loud bang. But it doesn’t, so something must be stopping it.

Light – Particle or Wave?

But let’s talk about something else here. Light is energy that flies across space from any glowing object. Some folk speculated that it must travel instantly from place to place, but that wouldn’t explain why my hand casts a shadow on the wall when I shine a light at it – the light must hit my hand before the wall so light’s speed must be finite (though still very fast.) Sir Isaac Newton thought light, too, might be little particles, though he doesn’t seem to have tested this; perhaps he was too busy working out how gravity works. Other people did experiments later that proved light was a wave. How do you do this? Imagine waves on a pond striking a barrier that has two narrow gaps in it. Waves pass through the gaps in an orderly fashion spreading out till they hit the shore of our pond.

Figure 3. Two lots of waves interfere with each other.

Where two crests, from the two lots of waves, hit the shore together, we get an even higher crest. Similarly, where two troughs meet, we get a deeper trough. We can show the places on the shore with the biggest waves as white bars. Where a wave and a trough meet, they cancel each other out and we get little wave activity, which we show as dark bars. Overall we get an alternating pattern of great activity and quietness which is called an interference pattern. It is a characteristic of anything than travels in waves.

Experiments carried out projecting light though a blind with slits, then on to a screen, reveal interference patterns. This simply cannot happen with particles so light must be a wave. In fact light waves, radio waves, microwaves, x-rays and gamma rays are the same sort of thing, just with different wave lengths. But they are definitely waves, not particles. (You try dropping blobs of putty – particles – through two different holes in the floor and you will not get an interference pattern, just two piles of putty.)

There was just one problem with this. Some experiments with light only work if you assume light is made of particles. When talking about light as particles it is usual to call them photons. One example is the way things glow; classical physics expects hot things to glow with as much energy as possible in one go – this means every hot thing should look violet. But we all know things glow red, then yellow as they get hotter. (This is known as black-body radiation, and the classical, wrong answer as the ultraviolet catastrophe.) Another example is that you can knock electrons – particles – out of atoms. This is why some metals give off electricity when light is shone on them. It’s called the photoelectric effect and is used in light meters in photography, amongst other uses. You simply cannot explain the photoelectric effect (or any of the other experiments) if light is a wave. So it must be a particle. But it also must be a wave to explain interference patterns. What the devil is going on?

It gets worse. Once you can get electrons – particles – flying through space you can project them through slits and on to screens. And you get interference patterns.

This turns out to be true for other particles – whole atoms even – that can behave like waves when we perform experiments to find waves but perform like particles we look for particles. The only way round this is to talk about wave-particle duality and say that tiny bits of matter and energy behave like wave-particles. But, I stress, this happens only at the scale of the ultra-small. Nothing we have on a pool table or on a pool for paddling in – the ordinary scale of things – behaves like this. In fact, we cannot even make an ordinary everyday-sized object that has wave-particle duality – we can’t even imagine what it looks like. But it’s how the ultra-small world works. And it has to work like this, otherwise the Universe wouldn’t work at all. Things get even weirder, as we shall see.

Quantum Leaps

Just before we do this, I need to explain just a little more of the photoelectric effect. Photons can have any amount of energy, from the absolutely feeble to enough to crack a nucleus. It was noticed though, that only a photon of a certain energy, or size, would dislodge an electron from any given type of atom. Too little and it didn’t work. Too much and it didn’t work either. In a similar way, and electron can be moved from a lower orbit to a higher orbit – that is, not knocked off altogether, just shifted, by supplying a photon with exactly the right energy. If waves had been able to do this, there wouldn’t have been a need for this preciseness. A chap called Max Planck suggested that it was a certain-sized packet of energy that did the trick. Only he didn’t like the word ‘packet’ so he coined the word ‘quantum’ – meaning a precise quantity, instead ("So that’s where the word comes from!")

As a footnote to this, the electron in the higher orbit has absorbed this quantum of energy, and is in what is called an excited state. After a while, the electron prefers to go to the lower energy state (a bit like things cooling off) into what is called its ground state. When it does so, it gives off a photon of light energy. (Emission spectra are explained in the article, Somewhere Seen Through The Rainbow, elsewhere.) This photon has exactly the same amount or packet of energy as the photon that excited the electron in the first place. No more, no less.

We’re are close to an explanation (admittedly not a full one) of why electrons cannot spiral down into the nucleus, or, indeed, give off (or absorb) other amounts of energy. Each atom’s electron orbits correspond to whole quanta (the plural of quantum.) you could think of two orbits being like railway tracks – your carriage can be on one track or the other, but not half way in between.

Figure 4. Quantum orbital tracks: an electron can leap from one track to another, but it can't run along in the gap in between.

Half a quantum (or, indeed, any fraction) is not allowed. So electrons can only be in certain orbits and can’t go up or down just as they feel like it. A quantum leap is the smallest leap an electron can make, and no smaller. People who talk about "quantum leaps" as if they are giant leaps (usually of progress) are therefore making a big mistake and look rather silly (to those of us who know what a quantum leap really is. Chuckle.)

By the way, the movement of large numbers of excited electrons is what makes lasers possible, from laser-guided missiles to laser bar-code readers in shops.

But can’t a quantum be of any size? I hear you ask. Well, yes. So there must be something about which orbits are ‘allowable’ and which aren’t. Yes. One explanation is that the electron particles have a wavelength as they go round the orbit. When an electron sets off it is some point in its wave. If it is to be in the same part of the wave when it completes an orbit, then the length of the orbit must be a whole number of electron wavelengths. If the orbital length was not a whole number of wavelengths, then the electron wave would interfere with itself and wipe itself out. Therefore only certain orbits are possible.

Figure 5. If the length of the orbit is not exactly a whole number of electron wavelengths, the electron interferes with itself and wipes itself out.

This might not be easy to visualise (and my diagrams, drawn free-hand, aren’t as good as they might be) but it shows again that, at the size of the ultra-small, things are both particles and waves.

Quantum Mechanics has a lot more to say about how electrons populate orbits – henceforth known as orbitals – in what are known as shells and sub-shells. This is too complicated to go into here, but in a nutshell, only so many electrons can fit in a shell and once it is full, no more are permitted (this is an example of something known as the exclusion principle.) This is why every chemical element has a different arrangement of electrons and these determine its chemical properties, what chemical compounds they can form and also why matter is solid (even if atoms aren’t.)

Another question you might ask is, "Where is the electron as it moves between orbits, making its quantum jump?" That’s a good question (which means I don’t know the answer.) But things are going to get so much weirder it doesn’t really matter. It turns out, in the quantum world, we can’t really tell where anything is.

Uncertainty

Obviously, finding out anything about things so small must be difficult – where they are, how fast they are going, for example. It turns out, however, that it is not difficult, it is absolutely impossible. In the normal, pool-table world, we might be able to say exactly where a ball is; we might also be able to say how fast it is moving. With quantum objects, these properties simply do not exist. Many physics books describe this problem incorrectly; they suggest something like this: if you have a glass of hot water that you want to measure the temperature of and you put a cold thermometer into it, then the result you get (after waiting a while) is the temperature of the water after the thermometer has cooled it down and that therefore the measurement is inaccurate. But we could allow for this – either by estimating what effect the thermometer’s glass has on the water or by using such a tiny thermometer it would make very little difference. This implies that, if only we could develop measuring instruments delicate and sensitive enough, we could measure and electron’s position, or speed. This is absolutely not so, because these things do not exist. Not even the electron ‘knows’ where it is or how fast it is going.

If this sounds bizarre, then that’s because it is. An electron doesn’t have a position we can measure any more than a field has an area you can get just by measuring the length of one side. Length is measured in metres, area in square-metres – two similar sounding, but completely different units. You may as well try to weigh something in degrees Celsius.

What the electron ‘knows’ – and then only approximately – is it’s position-momentum. Momentum is just speed times weight; if you want twice the momentum, you either go twice as fast, or get twice as heavy. This is one of the few examples where ordinary mechanics is exactly like quantum mechanics. However, to simplify things: if we are talking about electrons, they all weigh the same so we can just think about the speed. Even so, an electron has position-speed and you can only measure the two things together as if they were one. And, even then, you can’t know what this is, exactly.

Imagine, for a moment, taking a photograph of a rapidly moving racing car. When you look at the picture, all you see is a long, streaky blur. If you know the length of the exposure at which you took the photo, you could estimate, from the length of the blur, how fast the car was moving. But you can’t say exactly where the car is because it isn’t at any one fixed point in the photo. So you try again, this time with a much shorter exposure. Now, you may get a much sharper picture – one with only a tiny amount of blur, and with the car at apparently, more or less, one position.

But you can no longer say how fast the car is moving.

The more you pin down position, the less you know about speed. The more you know about speed, the less you know about position. But this is still not the end of it. In the quantum world, no matter which way you do it, you cannot get an exact measure of position-momentum. This is not because of the limits of your instruments but because there is a limit to how exact this double property is. It’s like an exactness speed limit. The man who discovered this, Werner Heisenberg, called it Unbestimmtheit. This is always translated into English as Uncertainty, but an alternative might be Inexactitude. Don’t ask why the Universe is like this in the ultra small, it just is. If you imagine the Universe to be like a map with grid lines, then there is just a bottom limit to how close the grid lines are drawn together. (It sounds a bit like the Greeks who thought there was a limit below which it is impossible to split matter.)

I said position-momentum is a double-barrelled property. This means that you are entitled to try to measure the position of something as accurately as you like. But, like car in the photo, you will know less about its speed. Measure its speed with great accuracy, and you lose the position. The position and the momentum multiplied together can never be more accurate than the quantum limit. This limit is a number that even has a name – it is known as Planck’s Constant (remember him?) It’s an exceedingly small number which is why it only is noticeable with ultra tiny things. Pool balls and cars don’t count, so we don’t notice what a crazy, fuzzy place the Universe is.

So who cares? If it’s only a problem with the ultra-tiny, how can it affect us? Well, it does, when we start using quantum mechanics to work out how the world works, chemicals, light-bulbs, people and so on. As we shall see.

There is another double-barrelled property that involves the Uncertainly Principle. This is energy-time. In a system, as scientists like to call it, there can be a certain amount of energy and the rules state that energy cannot be created or destroyed, so this amount is fixed. But what the Uncertainty Principle says is that a system can have more energy, providing it is only for a very short time, because of the limit on certainty. The more extra energy you want, the shorter the time. Again, the ‘system’ doesn’t ‘know’ how much energy its got for a very brief interval. Or it can have just a tiny bit more energy for a longer interval and still not know.

This is a bit like having an account at a bank which checks your balance at the end of the day. If you withdraw more money than you have actually got in the morning, so long as you get it back by afternoon, the bank never knows. For argument’s sake, imagine the bank is a little more cautious with large withdrawals. If you take out a very large sum, then the bank double checks your account, at the end of the day and also at lunchtime. But if you get the money back before then, the bank is none the wiser.

Does the Universe really act in this balmy, irresponsible way? Oh, yes! Can we tell? Sure we can. The Sun wouldn’t burn and atom bombs wouldn’t explode without it.

However, this is still not the end of the weirdness. Because, it turns out, that, in a sense, nothing really exists at all! That is, nothing exists, until we decide to take a look at it. Then, depending on what we are looking for, things spring into existence. For more surprises, read on.

Quantum Unreality

Remember when I said we find waves when we look for waves and particles when we look for particles? What happens if we cheat?

The double slit experiment is looking for waves (that form interference patterns) and, hey presto – we get ‘em. What happens if we put some sort of particle detector at one of the slits?

Figure 6. Looking for waves and particles. What happens?

The answer is more incredible than you can possible imagine.

Remember, a wave can spread out and go through both slits. But a particle can go through only one slit – what’s more it can’t make an interference pattern. Suppose we do this experiment with a source of electrons (an electron microscope would do fine.) It’s very easy to sneak an electron particle detector up to one slit, sit back, then just switch it on. And detect particles.

And the interference pattern vanishes.

You have to think hard about this. We had an experiment that was looking for wave evidence and we got waves. But the moment we switch to looking for particles, we find particles and the wave evidence disappears. We see a particle go through one slit. And, as a particle can’t go through two slits simultaneously, nothing, goes through the other slit. The really weird thing is a particle can go through the other slit, but, because we’re looking for particles at the first slit, it’s like the ‘particle’ knows we’re looking and so it behaves like a particle. How does it know, at one slit, what is going on at the other? We don’t know. But we’re sure it happens. Experiments prove it.

To get a feeling for this, see how it might look if the every day world behaved like this: imagine I am in Manhattan, standing on the corner of 34th Street and 5th Avenue – not far from the Empire State Building – and an event has just occurred at the junction on the opposite corner of the city block, at 33rd and 4th. I don’t know what it is yet, but I do know it can be one of only two possible events, and I will find out in a few moments which it was.
The event at 33rd and 4th is one of the following: either a fire hydrant has burst and sent a torrent of water (it’s a really big fire hydrant, you must understand) in all directions; or a taxi has just set off on its way to 34th and 5th. It can go along 33rd Street from 4th to 5th Avenue then from 33rd to 34th Street, or it can go up 4th Avenue to 34th Street, then along to 5th Avenue. In other words, it can take one of two routes to me, but – because taxis can’t split in two, not both routes. Just one or the other. A torrent of water can of course split in two and go two routes at once.
Now here is a funny thing on this day in Manhattan. Somehow, if I shut my eyes and don’t look to see what is coming towards me, I will be soaked! But, if I look up, then a taxi will arrive and no water will appear. Think very carefully about this. If I have my eyes shut and the fire hydrant bursts, water will set off down the streets. But if I open my eyes, the water will disappear on both streets and be replaced by a taxi, on just one street. Magic!

It gets stranger still. Suppose I have closed-circuit television cameras on both routes. If I switch them on, or even just one of the cameras on, all I will see is a taxi, or an empty street (which will mean there is a taxi going by the alternate route. But if I leave them switched off, then a wave of water will inundate me from both directions. Even if water had set off originally, switching even one camera on makes the water disappear as if it never existed and the taxi (which until now had effectively never existed) suddenly appears as if it existed all the time.

This one-slit-affects-the-other is known as non-locality. Einstein called it "spooky action at a distance." I think this sums it up nicely, not least because the distance between the slits makes no difference – switch on the particle detector at one and the other one knows, instantly.

We can try another experiment; get rid of the particle detector at the slit and send one ‘particle’ at a time at the two slits, one after another, like someone throwing balls randomly at two holes in a wall. At first, it seems that each particle goes through one slit or another, but without the detector, we can’t be sure. What happens at the screen? At first, no obvious pattern is recognisable. Amazingly however, after we’ve sent thousands of particles through the whole experiment, we get an interference pattern once more. It’s like the experiment knows we’re no longer looking for particles; what’s more, each wave-particle also knows where on the screen to land – it’s even like it knows the past and the future of the experiment – in order to give a wave result.

What happens if we have the particle detector switched on? You’ve guessed it – we get particles – the interference pattern disappears.

A good question to ask now is – what happens in other areas of the experiment? The short answer is simple – we don’t know! Until we look, we can’t be sure, and when we look, we find what we are looking for. Again, it is like the experiment knows what we are doing. Our observation becomes part of the experiment! Our decision affects the result! Science isn’t supposed to work like that! Meanwhile, the whole of empty space is boiling with virtual bits of matter that come into existence then disappear again before they are detected by virtue of the Uncertainty Principle not knowing they ever existed.

The first work on the theory of Quantum Mechanics started at the beginning of the 20th Century. By 1930, scientists had done enough experiments to want to sit down and summarise what was going on. The result of this is known as The Copenhagen Interpretation. It’s not the only one but it works as well as any of the others. It was concluded that, in the gaps in the experiment where we are not looking, the electrons or photons or whatever are not really in existence at all! More accurately, they are in a superposition of possible states, each having its own probability, like odds in a race. When the wave-particles reach the screen, they have to decide, depending on these odds, where they are going to appear. Some places are more likely than others which is why you get the fringes of the interference pattern. But until they hit the screen they could be anywhere.

This is a bit like tuning into the radio at tea-time to get the horse racing results. The horses have different odds of winning, but once the winner has past the post, its ‘odds’ of winning become certainty and all the other ‘odds’ become zero. You would like to think that, even before you’ve switched on the radio, the results of the races already exist. But, in the Quantum World, the results don’t exist until you listen to them! What’s more, once you stop listening, the uncertainty starts creeping back in as if the race was still being run.

This is described like this in The Copenhagen Interpretation. The object travelling through space might set off as a particle but it travels as a wave of probability. When it encounters a detector at some point, this collapses the wave function so that one result becomes definite and all the others impossible – a particle at one place. To give a different example to get the feel of this, imagine a crowd coming out of a theatre. Some people may drive home, some may get a bus and some a taxi, while some may just walk. We can work out the relative odds of each outcome, saying, for instance, 30% will get a taxi. But, take any one individual, and we have no idea what he or she will do, just that the odds are 30 in a hundred they will get a taxi. Until he gets a taxi we don’t know what he is going to do. This doesn’t sound like the sort of physics Newton would have liked. Einstein didn’t like it either – he was prompted to say, "I cannot believe God plays dice with the Universe!"

No-one seems to have told God this.

We are all made up of matter that could exist in a superposition of states. And yet, we seem real enough. In which case, who has collapsed our wave functions. Who is looking at us? What makes us exist in reality? Tricky.

Is Quantum Mechanics Real?
One scientist once said, "It’s like our everyday-scale Universe is real, but the things it is made up of are not." Whatever happened to reality? Is everything all magic? Those are questions for another day (and another article.) Does all this peculiar goings-on – wave-particle duality, collapsing probabilities, and uncertainty about position-momentum and energy-time – have anything to do with us in the ‘real’ world? Well, yes, fortunately.

For one thing, it accounts for how anything glows (this includes radio transmitters, microwave ovens and x-ray machines too.) It also accounts for how the eye works, how photographic film works and enabled us to make TV cameras and digital cameras too, and makes astronomy possible, as well as movies and why we don’t have to grope around in darkness.

It also explains why we could grope around in darkness if we had to because it explains why you can’t put your hand through solid matter, or just melt into it.

It explains how all chemical elements bond together, so it accounts for all chemical compounds. This was particularly important in understanding the structure and shape of deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, because without knowing its structure we wouldn’t know how it works. This applies to the rest of molecular biology as well.

It also accounts for how, in stars nuclear burning of elements like hydrogen and helium and so on can take place to create, ultimately, all chemical elements. And how stars work generally up to where some of them collapse to become Black Holes (though it doesn’t seem to be able to say what happens next.)

Again, Quantum Mechanics explains radioactivity. Remember when I said the nucleus is held together by very strong glue. It is, but it works over a very short distance – the size of a nucleus. Because the exact position of the parts of the nucleus is not determined, occasionally bits can be outside the nucleus – where they take the opportunity to fly off. In reverse, inside stars, the inexact position of nuclear particles allows these particles to sneak into the nucleus, making nuclear fusion possible and for stars to burn. Alternatively, you can think of the radioactive particle gaining extra energy by the Uncertainty Principle; either way, it’s known as quantum tunnelling and it explains the fission and fusion of nuclei.

It explains how electricity flows through conductors such as wire and not through insulators such as plastic (imagine where we would be otherwise in the modern world.) It explains what happens to super-cold materials that make super-fluids and super-conductors possible. These might seem a little exotic – take, for example, a super conductor – something that allows an electric current to flow with no resistance. If you put such a current in a ring it will flow forever and I mean forever. This makes superconducting magnets possible – really high powered magnets that are used in magnetic resonance imaging which is used in medicine to investigate the inside of the body and to detect tumours, for example.

It also explains how to use materials called semiconductors to make transistors – one of the most universal practical applications in the world. Transistors were originally seen as a replacement for vacuum tubes, also known as valves, in early radios and amplifiers. But they can also be used as switches and as such made ultra powerful computers that were also very much smaller and cheaper (not to mention more reliable.) Again, computers were invented first, but it was the application of Quantum Mechanics to materials science that made the microchips we have today.

Quantum Mechanics also accounts for lasers, both how to make them, and how they are used. When you look at the colours reflected off a Compact Disk, that is a quantum mechanical effect. In fact, when you think of the disks, the amplifier, the computer control circuitry and the laser in a CD player, you have a superb example of a device that relies on the application of Quantum Mechanics to make it possible.

But, then again, that goes for just about everything, if you look at it close enough. However you look at it, Quantum Mechanics is the most successful scientific theory ever and it’s here to stay.

The End.

Humans Make Rubbish Pets

(A bit of doggerel about how bad Humans are for Planet Earth)

I brought me home a human being
They said it’s all the rage
They said that I could let it roam
It wouldn’t need a cage

Things started well, it must be said
Sitting by the fire
It claimed it had invented
Besides the rubber tire

After dabbling with steam
To drive things to a station
It then went on to invent
Internal combustation

Then it learnt how it could fly
And how to sail on wave
Now it conquered sea and sky
And how it misbehaved!

Having mastered half the world
Beneath its tiny feet
It started trampling everywhere
In search of things to eat

Soon the world was all used up
I felt such deep despair
What it had it couldn’t use
It pumped into the air

The world it started heating up
The other creatures suffered
The seas they started rising up
And woods and jungles withered

It gobbled up the fill of fields
Dug metals from the ground
And then it cast its eye to sky
To see what could be found

I feared it might escape the Earth
And tread among the stars
Leaving dirty footprints
Leaving dirty scars

There was one solution left
I could choose with a frown
To take the human to the vet
And have the sod put down!

It all could be so different if
Humans could be taught
The planet’s not for its amusement
A new one can’t be bought

If human being would just behave
Its brain says that it can
To use with care what’s free as air
Man sharing thing with man

So beware what you unleash
A pet’s for idle pleasure
If you release a greedy beast
You will repent at leisure

But in the end I’ve got to say
They don’t make too good pets
You can’t train ‘em – who can blame ‘em?
Just leave them at the vet’s!

The End

The Florist And The Spider

(A small but baffling crime has the local police applying the latest investigative technology to detect the culprit, from a long list of suspects. A humorous short story, with a twist.)

Florist’s Window Smashed For A Bunch of Flowers. This was the headline in the local newspaper that evening. The story went on to report: The Florist’s shop in the High Street had its front window smashed earlier today and apparently an expensive bouquet of flowers was stolen. Police were on the scene immediately as, by chance, a CID officer was in the vicinity at the time. "I just happened to be passing moments after the incident," said Detective Constable Neil Bell. "We are taking this matter very seriously as we are operating a policy of zero tolerance to petty crime and vandalism. We are following up a number of lines of enquiry."

"Why smash a florist’s shop window just for a bunch of flowers?" said Detective Inspector Keating, Neil Bell’s superior, just as Neil sat down and put his feet up on his desk.

"Because you wouldn’t get any flowers if it was a bakery or an ironmonger’s," said Bell, without looking up from his notepad.

Keating bent over Bell’s shoulder and said, "If you’re so clever, show me what you’ve come up with so far. And get your feet off your desk. You make the place look untidy. Number one conference room in five minutes."

"Are you sure?" said Bell, without moving. "I mean, it’s only a bunch of flowers."

"Five minutes. Zero tolerance, remember? And that means the feet too. Put ‘em down – you’re not on holiday."

Five minutes later, Bell was standing before the whiteboard in the conference room with Sergeant Cross, Inspector Keating and Bell’s oppo, Scott McKay. Quite a team. Though Bell knew Cross was only there out of courtesy and that both he and Keating would leave him to it once he’d done his little briefing. Even McKay would probably busy himself with something else – there was talk of a theft of a large quantity of sausages across town.

"Everybody here? Right – " Bell answered his own question, pulling the top off his marker pen. "This is what we’ve got so far."

"Nothing at all, I would imagine," said McKay, who looked like he wanted to be elsewhere.

"You’d be surprised."

"Witnesses?" said Keating, sounding authoritative.

"Not to the smash and grab itself, but quite a number of interesting suspects in the area.

"Do tell," said McKay.

"OK," said Bell, who turned to the whiteboard and drew a big oval in the centre of the whiteboard, and wrote the word Florist in the middle.

"Is this going to take long?" said McKay.

"Shut up and find out," said Sergeant Cross, who was probably wondering the same thing.

"I spoke to the proprietor, Mr Kent. He said that he saw no-one at all in the street at the time. He also said that he’s had a number of breakages in recent months that he can’t account for and he is beginning to the think that the shop may be – well – haunted." Bell drew another circle on the whiteboard, wrote the word Ghosts in it, and drew a line between it and the word Florist.

"Oh, great," said McKay. "So now we have to investigate suspects in the afterlife."

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross.

"He did have one other theory," said Bell, "but as he had never seen anyone he thought it unlikely to be the explanation."

"And a ghost is?" said McKay.

"What was the theory?" said Inspector Keating.

"Kent said he was in dispute with a chap called Gallagher." Bell drew a third circle and labelled it. "Gallagher owns the confectioner’s around the corner. Kent said he once had to get some spare change from Gallagher one day a few weeks back because the cash float in the till was low. Gallagher later accused him of not paying up the full amount, and got quite heated about it, but Kent says it was just a mistake."

"So Gallagher smashes his window and grabs a bunch of forget-me-nots in revenge?" said McKay.

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross.

"I went round to see Gallagher, and he said he’d forgotten all about it – we’re only talking ten quid. But Gallagher had another theory."

"Oh, great," said McKay. Sergeant Cross glared at him. "What was it?

"Gallagher says that there are some property developers interested in the whole block. He’s heard that they can get pretty imaginative when it comes to persuading reluctant tenants to sell up. They are called Astra Holdings." Bell drew another circle on the board and linked it to the centre.

"Intimidation," said Sergeant Cross, pursing his lips with his first show of enthusiasm. "Could be a motive."

"My brother-in-law works for Astra Holdings," said Inspector Keating, with a withering tone. "They’re as straight as a die. Some other property company started that rumour about them."

"Oh," said Sergeant Cross, slumping back in his chair.

"Just a minute, said Inspector Keating, "isn’t there a CCTV camera on that corner of the High Street?"

"I was coming to that," said Bell. "It turns out that the camera is angled on the pub, The Drunken Duck, across the street and doesn’t show the front of the florist shop. But we do know several people who were in the area." Bell left the whiteboard and switched on the trolley-mounted TV and VCR in the corner. Picking up the remote control, he set the tape running. The picture was a mix of black and grey. Faintly discernible was The Drunken Duck. "Here," he pointed to the pavement in front of the pub, "a few minutes earlier was some sort of argument between two men who had just come out of the pub. At one point, one of them – here, you see? – seems to throw something at the other, but misses." Bell paused the tape.

"Blimey, they started early in the day, didn’t they?" said McKay.

"Any idea who they were?" said Sergeant Cross, glaring at McKay again.

"No – I’ll need to go back to the landlord and show him this tape to see if he recognises them." Bell drew yet another circle on the whiteboard and wrote Disturbance –something thrown? in it. Only the lettering didn’t quite fit the circle. The diagram was getting rather crowed. "But there’s a couple of other faces I’ve identified in the street."

"Amaze us," said McKay.

"Shut up," said Cross.

Bell ran the tape on a few seconds before pausing it again. "This is Thomas Fairchild," he pointed to a grey figure. "He’s a known schizophrenic out on Care In The Community – he’s regarded as harmless, according to his psychiatrist, a Doctor Fisher, as long as he remembers his meds. We’ve pulled him in a couple of times for trying to direct traffic on the motorway – presumably he doesn’t always take ‘em. Dr Fisher said Fairchild has a thing about Stargazer Lilies – thinks they are the most beautiful flowers in the world."

"So he took ‘em," said McKay.

"The missing flowers were not lilies."

"Perhaps he’s branching out."

"Dr Fisher said he attended an out-patients clinic twenty minutes later at the General. He didn’t have any flowers on him then. Still," Bell drew on the whiteboard once more, "we can’t rule him out. Then there’s this chap," Bell pointed to the screen. "This is Reggie Blower. He’s an environmental campaigner. He was arrested last year up at Crofter’s Farm for destroying genetically modified maize."

"Does Mr Kent sell genetically modified roses or anything?" said Cross, wearily.

"Kent says of course not. There’s no such thing, apparently."

"You’d still better draw him on the board," said Cross with a hint of irony. "You wouldn’t want to miss him out while you’ve a bit of space left."

"There’s room for just one more," said Bell, as he scribbled with his back to his little audience. "While I was talking about this to Mr Kent, he told me he’d had a customer, a Mr Ledbetter, who had complained that some flowers he’d bought a week ago gave him hay-fever when he’d never had it before." Bell filled one last circle with this name, and added one last line to Florist.

"Was he in the Mafia, this Ledbetter? Did he threaten to have Kent sleeping with the compost before the day was out?"

"No," said Bell. "It was just that, when I asked Mr Kent whether he’d had any dissatisfied customers, Ledbetter was the only one he could think of."

"I never knew it could be so exciting being a florist," said McKay.

Pointing to the mass of circles, lines and scribbles now sprawling out in all directions on the whiteboard, Inspector Keating said, levelly, "Is that it?"

"Yes," said Bell.

"And what do you call that?"

"It’s a spider diagram. It shows all possible lines of enquiry in the case."

"I don’t think you’ve much chance of solving it," said Inspector Keating, rising stiffly to his feet.

"It’s a complete mess," said McKay, as the officers filed out, "that’s what I call it. You won’t catch me getting involved – " he pointed to the diagram – "with that."

"Shut up," said Sergeant Cross, closing the door behind them.

"No," said Bell to himself, shaking his head. "I don’t think I’m going to solve it either."



"Darling, I’m home," said Neil Bell. "Happy anniversary!"

"You remembered!" said his wife, seeing him standing in the doorway. "I didn’t think you’d be able to get me anything – I found your wallet after you left for work this morning."

He handed her a huge and impressive bouquet of flowers. "Well – it has been a busy day… but you know me – I’d always grab you something, no matter what."

THE END

Ice

(Beginning of story about a modern day mystery to track down a large amount of money left behind after World War 2 to spy on the Soviets, and still around today after the fall of the Berlin Wall)

I got off the Tube and stepped out into the summer heat of the Brompton Road. I strolled slowly, not wishing to work up a sweat in my Saville Row suit, passed Harrods and turned on to Hans Crescent and approached the big house. I climbed the stone steps and rang the bell labelled, "Strategic Research Consultants." No voice responded, the door lock simply buzzed and I let myself inside.

Cadwallader was standing at the balustrade of the first landing and beckoned me up. I often wondered whether this was his real name. But surely, if he was going to pick a fake one, he would have chosen something less conspicuous than Cadwallader. He led me into a lounge with Chesterfield sofas, that was noticeably cooler than the sultry day outside. He invited me to sit down. His only concession to hospitality was to give me, without speaking, a glass of iced water, instead of offering me something from the laden drinks tray on a table by the far wall. To be fair, he took only a glass of iced water for himself and, to be fair, the water was welcome.

He settled down opposite me and suddenly his steel-blue eyes fixed on me and the rest of the room ceased to exist.

"What do you know about the SOE?" His voice was quiet, but deadly serious. I wasn’t expecting a history test. Or maybe he was reminiscing, about to write his memoires.

I cleared my throat. "Well, SOE stood for ‘Special Operations Executive.’ They carried out raids and supplied the various resistance forces against the Nazis in Europe during World War Two."

"Absolutely," he said, levelly. "They were the covert British force during the war." He took a sip of his water. "And what was the Secret Intelligence Service’s role during this period?"

I felt like I was at a job interview and I had just been caught out. "MI6? I’ve no idea."

He put his glass down on the rosewood table in front of him. I noticed there wasn’t a coaster – condensation would run on to the table top. "Exactly," he said. His voice was still quiet, but it was as if he had spoken with sudden forcefulness. "And what happened," he continued, "when the war ended and the Soviets took control of Eastern Europe? Where was the SOE then?"

Again I had to admit I didn’t know. "Didn’t MI6 take over then?"

"And what happened to the SOE?" I couldn’t help feel he was harping on about this. "I thought they were disbanded."

"Indeed," he sighed. "They were disbanded. Despite, as Churchill predicted, that an Iron Curtain would descend over Eastern Europe."

"What does it matter?" I tried to stand my ground. "We had intelligence services watching the Soviets. What’s in a name?"

"You are right. What’s in a name? Many former SOE operatives eventually moved over to MI6."

"That’s what I thought," I offered.

"But what you don’t know was that SOE had plans for when the Russians arrived."

"That seems reasonable."

"SOE had plans," he emphasised the word, "to stay back, behind the Iron Curtain. Stay back! They knew the contacts. They knew the territory. They knew what was needed. They were not pleased at being closed down, and the scraps that were left to be assimilated into the SIS."

"I can imagine." I sipped my ice water.

"They also had the funds in place, in certain instances, to support stay-back groups."

I felt he had finally reached the true point of this meeting he had called with me. "Funds?"

"Yes. Funds. You can’t run a spy cell without something to pay your people. The SOE put funds in place to support a number of groups. They had to hand all this over to MI6 when they were closed down."

"I see," I said. Even though I did not. At least, I didn’t see what his interest was in all this.

"Sometimes it wasn’t always possible to keep track, in some cases, just where support of this nature had gone. Especially when a stay-back group had already been up and running for a while… before the war ended and the Soviets arrived."

"You mean," I felt I was being encouraged to guess, "not all the funds were accounted for."

"Why should the SOE hand on a plate, chapter and verse, an account of everything they had worked so hard to achieve, to an organisation that was about to move on to their turf and have them shut down?"

"But surely," I found myself sipping my water again, "any money involved would have been spent within months – years at most – of any cash put forward to run a covert group behind the Iron Curtain?"

"Normally, yes, you’d be right," He nodded. Everything seemed to hinge on that word, ‘normally.’ "But in one particular case, they was a virtual treasure trove set in place, but was never used for any purpose. It was not, how might you say? – ready!"

"But SOE still told MI6 – the SIS – about it, all the same?" It was a dumb question. I already knew the answer.

"SOE had just started to create one of its most ambitious stay-back groups in Belgrade, to infiltrate the entire Balkan region, when it took a bullet in the head from His Majesty’s Government, and MI6 – the Secret Intelligence Service – took over. But one of the many secrets they did not pick up on in those early post-war, Cold War days, was the money SOE had left behind to spy on the Russians in defence of the realm, the job they assumed but had been so absent from during the fight against the Nazis."

I felt this was getting needlessly didactic. "But what does that matter today? Here in the 21st Century?"

I could see Cadwallader bridle at this remark. "I’m not talking about politics," he hissed. His voice had dropped even more, and yet was more malevolent. "I am talking about the money."

"What money?"

"The money. Taxpayers’ money that was sent abroad to pay for a spy network that never came into existence."

"Fine. Right. Taxpayers’ money." I drained my glass and was prepared to hit the streets outside. I stood up.

"The money is still out there. In toto, as they say, if you’ve had a classical education. In a form that has kept – nay, appreciated in value."

"Yeah?"

"In today’s terms, we are talking a lot of money. It’s all still there, nobody knows about it. It’s just waiting for someone to go and pick it up."

"In what form?"

"Diamonds. Round, uncut."

"Worth how much?"

"At today’s prices? One hundred million dollars."

I don’t remember sitting down again. I do remember thanking him for the brandy he handed me from the drinks tray. "And," he added, "I want you to go and fetch them. For a share. Interested?"

To be continued (possibly…)

Imagine

(Imagine meeting John Lennon. A short story where a young piano-tuner from a sheltered background helps the composer of one of the world's most loved songs.)

Dave waited at the entrance to the impressive white mansion in Weybridge, the heart of London’s stockbroker belt. A distinctly un-stockbroker-like voice was audible through the gleaming panelled door.

"I’m not saying that I’m not doing any more rock and roll! I’m just telling you, like I’ve told other people before – I’m not going to be wriggling me ass at thirty to Twist and Shout." There was a pause during which someone may have been answering back, followed by: "Lemme get the door."

The door opened, and there stood one of the four most famous men in the world.

"What the hell do you want?"

Dave gulped. He had tried to prepare himself for this moment, but for the good it had done him, he could have spent the trip down from London playing tiddlywinks.

"Gosh!… Mr Lennon."

"Yeah, I know my name – who the hell are you?"

"I wasn’t expecting meeting you. I thought you’d have a servant or something."

"It’s his night off."

"But it’s day-time," said Dave, now slightly puzzled.

"Well, he’s must be having a hard night’s day. So what are you after?

"I’m from Steinway’s. The London store sent me."

John was studying him carefully. "What for?"

"We sold you a piano," said Dave. "I’ve come to have a look at it."

"I wish I had an exciting job like that. Why?"

For a ghastly moment, Dave began to fear he had made some kind of mistake. "You said it needed some attention. Can I just say that we’re delighted you chose one of our instruments? The thought that it will be on one of your records – "

"I’m not letting you in just like that," John interrupted. "How do I know you’re not just after an autograph or a lock of me hair?"

"Please don’t worry – I’m not a fan… Well, I am a fan, actually… of your music. I think it’s marvellous. But that’s not why I’m here. We understand you have a problem with a piano we supplied."

"Don’t you have a card or something?"

"We don’t normally carry them. But I’ve this." Dave produced a piece of paper from a pocket and read out: "The piano was a Walnut upright Model Z. It says here you paid just over a thousand pounds for it. I understand from the store manager that you took a liking to it when you learnt that it had been made in Hamburg."

"Yeah, that’s right." John seemed to relax. "You’d better come in. Welcome to Tittenhurst."

"Thank you. May I say Mr Lennon, that it’s a privilege to meet you. We’re really not supposed to say this but I am really quite an aficionado of your music."

John closed the door and started to lead Dave into the depths of the house. "Yeah, well… that’s nice. D’you wanna cuppa tea?"

Dave was surprised by this kind, simple offer and nodded.

"Hey, Yoko!" John called out. "Put the kettle on – lad here needs a brew. What’s yer name?"

"David. Dave… to my friends."

They entered what was apparently a music room. "Right, Dave, let’s get cracking. One piano here, crippled inside."

Dave stared at the piano for a moment before saying anything. "Why have you taken the front off it?"

"Well – you have the lid open on a grand, don’t you? Like the big white grand over there?"

"So – what’s wrong with it?"

"I’ve only gone and lost me goddam glasses down the front of it, haven’t I?"

For the first time since his arrival, Dave felt relieved. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too difficult after all. "Oh, I see – I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’ll retrieve them for you right away."

"I’m not usually that clumsy. It was actually Yoko. She came up behind me to give me a cuddle. We got a bit carried away and me specs came off. They weren’t the only thing, either."

Dave was startled. "Good Lord! There’s nothing else in there, is there?"

"Oh no," said John. "Just the specs. I wouldn’t bother but every time I play this… what’s this chord? Something starts buzzing down inside. It’s like fret-buzz on a guitar, when you don’t hold the chord down properly. What chord’s that?"

Dave studied John’s fingers on the keys. "Let me see… It’s F6, in that inversion."

"In what? It’s not one of those aeolian cadences, is it?"

"No, Mr – John. An aeolian cadence is – "

"I don’t wanna know what one is. I still think they sound like exotic birds. Finding out would spoil it."

"But you do know chord names, don’t you? Pardon me for asking, but I was just curious."

"That’s alright. I know chord names on guitar. But I’ve been playing that since I was at art school. I’m composing more stuff on piano now ‘cos I don’t know it as well and I surprise meself."

"That sound like a great idea," Dave said. "I’m really pleased to hear you are still writing. I thought perhaps that when The Beatles – "

"Why does nobody think there’s life after The Beatles?" John suddenly became animated. "We weren’t born Beatles. We had a life before we were Beatles and we’ve got one now The Beatles are over. We were just a band that made it really big, that’s all. It was just a dream. The world will go on without us. It’s over. That’s reality."

"Of course. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take the bottom panel off."

"I tried to do that but I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I thought maybe it was nailed on."

"No – there are catches just inside. I can reach down this gap over the top of the panel, and… there we are."

"Great," said John. "Just as a matter of interest, how old are you?"

"I’m thirty. Why?"

"You’re the same age as me! Yet you look twice my age. And the way you talk. Take that stupid tie off for a start. It makes you look like Sir Joe Lockwood. Or Dick James. I don’t know which is worse."

"Very well. But… I’m not sure how – "

"Don’t grow old early. Walk before you try to run. And just relax, man. Hey, Yoko, where’s that tea? Do you fancy a fried egg butty?… "

Some time later, the two of them were reclining on the floor, tea mugs and plates scattered around them. The piano was fixed, the refreshments had been welcome, and Dave was finally beginning to unwind.

"You know your way round a piano," said John. "I’ll give you that. Perhaps you can teach me which end I blow into."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was only joking. How’s your egg butty?

"Ah," Dave laughed. "I’ve never had one before. Best one I’ve ever had!"

John, seeing the joke, laughed back. "So d’you really like me music, Dave? Honestly?"

"Honestly, John? I love it. You create such wonderful images. Some of the chaps at Steinway aren’t convinced, but to me it’s like dreaming outside your head. Specially that one, I am The Walrus. It’s like a Van Gogh painting in music. It’s like you know a dream I’ve had – even if it was a disturbing dream – and you’ve set it to music. How did you do that?

John was suddenly serious. "Dreams you dream together are reality, man."

"Gosh. It’s brilliant. I think you’re a genius."

"Yeah. I am. I know." And then he winked.

Dave hesitated. "I’d love to know how you compose something like Walrus."

John reflected. "Sometimes it’s easy. It just comes to me in little bits. Then I join them up. You hear something and next thing it’s in a song. I loved that noise you made when you brushed all the strings in the piano at once, Dave. How’d you do that?"

"I was leaning on the loud pedal so that none of the strings was damped. All the strings were vibrating at once."

"The world’s biggest chord. It sounded like thunder. I wonder if you could use that somewhere in a song. It’d sound really weird, – not a lot of people would get it. They don’t get that it’s just as good art as anything else. It’s a con – only it’s not a con. If you call it art, then it’s art."

"I suppose it is," Dave nodded. He’d never thought of art like this. "Who’s to say something isn’t art?

"Exactly, Dave. Exactly!" He turned and peered at Dave over his freshly-retrieved spectacles. "I suppose you know all the chords there is?"

"I’ve grade 8 piano but… "

"When we first started playing, before we even became Beatles, we’d travel all the way across town to meet someone who knew a chord we didn’t. Right back when were The Quarrymen, if we heard someone on the other side of Liverpool had a chord they could teach us, we’d get on a bus and go and see him. Just to learn it."

Dave nodded. "But I’m no composer. Not like you."

"Don’t put yourself down. There might be a hit lurking in you right now."

"Well… you’ve got your glasses, John. I think you should find that the buzzing sound has gone now."

"Ta." John leapt up and perched on the piano stool. "Let me just try it. There’s this song I’ve been working on… That’s a C major, I know that one. Oops – got a wrong note there."

Dave was watching carefully. Standing next to one of the world’s two most famous composers while at work was something he would remember till his final hour. "It’s not really wrong, John," he said quietly. "You’ve added a ninth to the chord. You just caught the D with your thumb."

"Is that it? I thought a ninth would make it bluesy, like a seventh. I wanted something a bit softer than that."

"But you’ve left out the seventh. So it does sound, sort of, more dreamy. Debussy might have used it like that."

"C with a ninth added? I wonder if that smart-ass McCartney knows about that."

"I don’t know, John. He might do. Is he a good piano player?"

"He thinks he is." John grimaced. "Specially since that Long and Winding Road. Probably does know a bit more about it than me. So if I play C with a nine then F with a 6. What do you think of that?

Dave listened thoughtfully. "It’s quite nice, isn’t it?"

"I like the idea of a nine," said John talking almost to himself. "I like it being like a dream. Nine is a very special number. I was born on the ninth. I think special things’ll happen, every time the ninth comes round each month. When me and Yoko had our names changed to John Ono Lennon and Yoko Ono Lennon, there’s nine letter ‘O’s’ in our names."

Dave smiled. "And nine letter ‘N’s’"

"N for nine. Nine’s me lucky number. I like that. Lemme try it again. If I just rock me hand, like strumming a guitar softly… What d’you think of that.

Dave could feel the prickle of hairs rising on his arms. "That’s so simple. Yet it’s so beautiful."

"Yeah. That’s going to be me fave rave. Thanks for your help, Dave. I think I’ll do it like that. It does sound better with the nine in."

"It really is lovely," said Dave, drifting into the music. "Peaceful. Uplifting even. What are you going to call it?"

"You’ll have to wait and see, Dave," said John. "It’ll probably be on the next album. Till then, just imagine."

THE END.

Love In Birmingham

(Short humorous story about a romantic tryst in The Midlands city)

Steve would never say he was, as they say, "desperate," but it had been a good few months since he had last been out on a date. In a moment of elation – or, possibly, weakness – after Birmingham City had actually won a match, he confided in his friend, Jerry, this fact, just as they were leaving St. Andrews football ground.

"How long?" said Jerry, choking on his Bovril.

"Many moons," Steve replied.

"I know someone I can set you up with. Her name’s Ann. Leave it to me."

A week later, Jerry said he had got Steve a date.

"How will I recognise her?"

"Easy," said Jerry. "She’ll be in the Bull Ring tomorrow afternoon, dressed all in purple. If you miss her, here’s her mobile phone number."

Steve, however, had his doubts. What if he didn’t like the look of her? To be on the safe side, he took the binoculars he used at football matches with him, so that he could do a reconnaissance of his intended companion, unobserved from a safe distance, and arrived at the Bull Ring twenty minutes early.

He was glad that he had. He spotted a female figure, dressed, unmistakably, all in purple, hovering near the market stalls. All in purple, except for a claret-and-blue scarf.

Just as he was about to sneak away, his mobile rang. It had never occurred to him that Jerry would give his number to her. He didn’t want to be rude.

"Where are we going to meet?" asked a female voice.

Steve had a brainwave. He told her where to find him, then slunk off home.

Next week, Jerry caught up with Steve.

"How could you? How could you do such a thing?" Jerry demanded crossly.

"Do what?"

"Tell Ann to meet you like that?"

"I said, ‘Meet me at the corner of The Rotunda.’ I thought she would have known it was a joke."

"But she was an Aston Villa fan! She was walking round outside the building for three hours!"

The End

Little Miss Perfect

His life was simple and perfect, but not everyone was pleased. So he tried to do better. Then she came along... and that's when things started to get complicated.

"Spare some change, guv’nor"

"Why don’t you try getting a job and doing some hard work, you lazy so-and-so?"

The man was smartly dressed, a typical City type.

"Can I ask you a question?" said Bill. Bill was far from smartly dressed.

"What?"

"What do you work at? What do you do?"

The man gave a patronising smile. "I’m a futures and derivatives trader – if that means anything to you."

"Any particular market?" Bill asked affably.

The man, who had looked as though he was about to hurry away, hesitated. "Well, Commodities actually."

"Metals? Oil?"

"Some oil. I’m not at the Petroleum Exchange."

"I bet Brent Crude at 50 dollars a barrel is causing a bit of a headache for you, isn’t it?"

"It wasn’t to be expected." The man was no longer smiling.

"You’re not happy."

"Nor would you be, with the market so volatile." The man was beginning to look uncomfortable, as if he had entered what he thought was a familiar building but had got the wrong address.

"Well," said Bill. "There you go. I’m happy. I’m not worried about anything at all. And there you are – dashing off to work with the weight of the world’s future oil prices resting on your shoulders. Sure you wouldn’t like to swap places?"

"I, er – "

"‘Cos I wouldn’t."

The man made a sound as close to "Harrumph!" as makes no difference and started to stride off, when Bill called after him: "Don’t bid 55 dollars."

The man halted once more and turned reluctantly. "Why not?"

Bill smiled as he himself began to turn away from the conversation. "Because people don’t like a price that divides exactly by 11. It looks too much like an accountant’s stuck on an extra 10% for himself."

The man glared at him. "You’re wasted down here," he said with a hint of rancour, "do you know that?" With that he marched off in one direction, while Bill sat down on the door step next Soppy Sally and Big Jimmy, a broad grin now creasing his grimy face.

"Poor sod," said Bill. "What a day he’s going to have, eh?"

Soppy Sally was staring at him seriously. "He’s right, you know," she said after a long pause.

"Oil going over 55? No chance – it’ll slip back first and then he’ll be happy – for a few minutes."

"No – not about that," said Sally, "I don’t even know what that means. I mean what he said about you being wasted down here."

The grin evaporated from Bill’s face. "Oh don’t you start," he sighed.

"No, really. You’re young, you’re clever, you know things. What are you doing here, living rough, sleeping on the streets? You could make something of yourself."

Inwardly, Bill cringed. "You’re sounding like my father."

"Maybe he was right," said Big Jimmy. "Are your folks still around?"

"My Dad is," said Bill, "my mother died when I was a kid."

"Why don’t you go and have a word with him? You never know – maybe he could help you go to college or something. Got to be better than sitting here all day, getting piles."



So that’s what started it really. Bill was still on good turns with his father, Archie, despite the "dropping-out" thing, and Dad was only to glad to welcome his prodigal son home. And when the son expressed a firm intention to finish his schooling at college and get some qualifications, his father could not help but be delighted. By the time Bill had got some ‘A’ levels and was all set to go to University, Daddy could hardly believe the reversal of fortune in his only child.

"You must be very proud of yourself."

"I suppose…"

"Aren’t you pleased you’ve become such a success."

"Maybe."

Bill’s father couldn’t understand his son’s lukewarm attitude to his own achievements. "You’re not… just doing this to please me, are you son?"

"No, of course not, Dad," Bill laughed, "I’d never do a thing like that."

"OK," said his father, choosing to let the matter rest – seeing as he couldn’t understand it – "what do you want to want to study at University?"

"What do you want to want me to study?"

"What do I want?" said Archie, surprised. "Let me think. You were always good with numbers and you did well at economics. Why don’t you do a business studies degree?"

"In that case, I’m going to do biology."

His father was crestfallen. "Is that to get back at me in some way – for something I’ve done?"

"No, Dad," Bill assured him. "I just don’t want to end up working in the City."

Bill’s degree course flew past. He got a double first in molecular and physical biology. Bill’s father had retired by now from his job in the fitted-kitchen-bathroom business, and could not help the glow of pride he felt every time he thought of how well his son had turned out. "What are you going to do now?"

"Doctorate," said Bill, without expression. Then he shrugged. "I’ve got this thing about genetic diseases I wanted to check out."

Bill’s father still felt puzzled. "Do me a favour, son. Don’t get too excited or anything."

"Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t"

And so it happened that Bill spent two years at a university in the West Country, doing research in genetics, quietly and with application, without ever once communicating any sense of enthusiasm for what had become a considerable body of work. He even got a paper published in a prestigious journal, but mentioned it only in passing to his father, when he was home one weekend early in the summer, just as he was popping out to fetch some milk. If anything Bill by now seemed to Archie almost morose, sullen even. When he came back with the dairy product, his father was waiting for him.

"What’s up?" his father demanded, as if he was claiming the repayment of some debt his son owed him. "You’ve become a real high-flyer, achievements other people could only dream about, you get your work published, yet you hardly remember even to mention it. What is wrong?"

Bill chewed on his lip. He knew there was no way of evading the issue with his father. "It’s just that – this life… It just feels like, like I’m missing something."

"Well, you are son. I’ve known you were missing something for some time – and you’ve only just realised?"

Bill took a deep breath. "What am I missing, Dad?"

"I should have thought it was obvious! There’s no woman in your life. No love. No fun!"

Bill regarded him steadily. "I think you might be right." He nodded to himself. "Yeah, that could be it. Ever since I met – well, there’s this one woman I met recently… I really like her, but – "

"But what?"

"I don’t know how to get near her. I don’t know how to impress her."

"You are joking. What is she, Little Miss Perfect or something?"

Bill sat down at the kitchen table, interlocked his fingers and covered his mouth. "She could well be," he mumbled.

"Why don’t you ask her out?"

"Because it wouldn’t work," Bill said, shaking his head behind his fingers, like every word was a betrayal of some personal secret.

"How do you know until you give it a go?"

"I know."

His father considered for a while. "Bill – nothing’s ever out-smarted you before. You must have idea you can try."

Bill bit the flesh on the sides of his fingers. "There is one thing. There is a trip being organised for this summer – a canal boat-trip. She’ll be going. Some of my colleagues have been arranging it. She’s an environmentalist – background in biology, natural history, usual stuff. This group are going away for a trip on The Grand Union in two boats. It’s sort of a working holiday – like minds get together, sail through the countryside, discussing nature and so forth. If I tag along, I might just be able to get to know her a little. Then maybe I could ask her out or at least talk to her or something."

Bill’s father narrowed his eyes. "Sounds like it could be tough. A real challenge."

Bill knew what his father was doing but went along with it anyway. "I’ll give it a try."

"What’s her name?"

"Felicity. Felicity fforbes-Akel."

"Is that a fact?" said his father, raising an eyebrow. "I’ll look forward to meeting her."



Felicity fforbes-Akel was not just "some environmentalist." She was widely recognised as one of the leading authorities on ecosystem modelling in the world. The Green Party in Germany came to her for advice. What she didn’t know about Mendel and the hybridisation of peas simply wasn’t worth knowing. She was also very pretty, attracted men like flies and had a tendency to swat them down as such, if they didn’t match up to her quick, witty and articulate intellect. Which was most men, actually. She left a trail of battered and bruised egos across the surface of the planet that she so strove to preserve. Yet still they came – while there was no man in her life, she was regarded as fair game. Game that had a habit of turning on and slaying the hunter. Bill’s father had spoken no less than the truth when he called her Little Miss Perfect. She wanted – demanded – perfection in everything. Bill had spoken rather less than the truth when he said he "rather liked her." He idolised her, he was besotted with her, he was in awe of her. This was the woman he thought would make him happy. He was sure, on this holiday, that he was about to die.

"This boat trip," Bill said to Archie, "I’ll go on it, on one condition."

It was typical of Bill, his father thought, to manoeuvre the issue so it seemed like he was the one forcing Bill to do something – as if that were ever possible! "What condition?"

"That you come with me. If I’m going to be flayed alive, I want some behind me in my corner, for moral support.

"If that’s what it takes," said Archie, in turn pretending that he was under duress, when actually the idea of a summer canal trip and the opportunity to meet some of Bill’s pals quite appealed to him, "then I insist on bringing someone along with me."

"Who were you thinking of?"

"My drinking mate, Freddie. He’s retired too now – could do with getting away for a bit of a break.

"It’s a deal."

It was quite a group, spread over two narrowboats. Dr Aubrey Pinkerton, an authority on ecological systems, Mr and Mrs David Souther who had once had their own natural history programme on TV and who argued a lot, Stephen LeClare of the Worldwide Fund for Nature, Jennifer Tiffin, Felicity’s closest friend and confidant, three other colleagues from Bill’s university department, and of course, Archie and Freddie. Archie has suggested, as it was being decided who should go in which boat, that Bill would be best positioned if he shared a place on the same boat as Felicity, but Bill had said that was getting too close too fast. So Bill, Archie and Freddie, with Bill’s associates took one boat while the rest were in the other.

"Hello, Felicity, you remember me?" Bill said as cheerfully as he could. "I once borrowed your library card off you and I never gave it back." Perhaps not the best gambit in the world.

She thought for a moment. "Aren’t you that post-grad who just published a paper on a theory of DNA-sequence-transposition-generated diseases?"

"Yes, that’s me."

"I thought I recognised you," she said, pausing to think. This sounded promising. "I thought it was flawed in a number of fundamental areas. I’ve already started drafting a critique in response." This did not sound so promising. It was, after all, the main thrust of the research for his thesis. More important, it was supposed to be impressive.

"By the way, Felicity," said Bill, with a nervous cough, "I’d like to introduce you to my father. Dad, this is Felicity fforbes-Akel."

"Heard a lot about you, Miss fforbes-Akel. It’s nice to meet you." Archie thought this would set a convivial tone.

Felicity addressed Bill: "I didn’t know one was bringing guests. Is your father an expert in something?"

"I certainly am," Archie answered when Bill looked as though he couldn’t.

"What’s your field?"

"Bathroom fittings."

"I see." Felicity turned to put her sports bag luggage into her chosen boat. "I was thinking in a little more global terms."

"Doubtless you were, my dear girl, but it still wouldn’t help you fix a leaky tap."

Bill prayed that he could just slip beneath the waters of the marina and drown quietly.

"That went rather well," said Archie to Bill as they clambered aboard their own boat.

"I’m glad one of us thought so," Bill replied heavily.

Things did not improve noticeably from there. Every morning, after being moored up overnight, the party was usually woken by Mr and Mrs Souther having a fight – or "debate" as there preferred to put it, about something or other. Bill tried to get across from his boat to Felicity’s whenever he could think of a pretext, but always found Dr Aubrey and Stephen LeClare in close attendance – when she wasn’t in deep discussion with her pal Jennifer – and, for his pains for trying to be helpful, he was given jobs like emptying the chemical toilet – which kind of ruled him out any romantic overtones until the smell had worn off.

On the second day, When Bill popped aboard asking if there was any way he could make himself useful, Felicity remarked that she was having some difficulty steering the boat. Only too glad to oblige, he took over the tiller and promptly grounded the keel in a silt-bed. Bill noticed the boat was sitting too low in the water. He immediately realised what the problem was – the bilge needed emptying and he promptly switched on the pump to drain it. This got the boat off the mud, but it got Bill into very hot water with Felicity for polluting the canal with diesel-laced mucky water and killing the fish. At a lock, he dropped the windlass in a bank of nettles and while Jennifer tried to retrieve it with the boat-hook, he accidentally hit the throttle, causing Stephen LeClare to crack his head on the hatch. Worse, Dr Aubrey fell overboard. It was difficult to be sure which of these catastrophes upset Felicity most, but if Bill had had to guess, it might have been this last thing. Dr Aubrey seemed especially esteemed in Felicity’s eyes.

Evening conversation at various canal-side pubs did not prove to be a successful second front. If Felicity spoke to him at all, it was with a cold, aloof air – usually to remark on something he’d said she didn’t agree with, think correct, or to remind him of something he’d done. Archie was watching all this carefully. At least his friend Freddie seemed to be having a good time.

One evening, Felicity seemed so overwhelmed with the ennui of it all that she and Jennifer returned to their boat early. As soon as they had left the pub, Archie dragged Bill outside.

"Son – you’ll never get her – I know you’re clever and successful and all but she’s Little Miss Perfect. She wants everything just-so, and you’ll never be able to please her. She wants someone not human. One of these other dweebs will get her ahead of you."

"Thanks, Dad."

Bill, as usual, was loathe to accept his father’s judgement on anything; he decided he would go on a little spying mission and listen at a port-hole to Felicity’s and Jennifer’s conversation. He recognised Jennifer’s voice first.

"I thought you were going to be spoilt for men on this trip," – Bill noticed she was giggling and probably a little tipsy – "Is there anyone who takes your fancy?"

This was just the sort of inside information he was hoping for. Better to know the score than play in the dark.

"There are those three chaps from the university," Felicity answered in a frivolous tone Bill had not had the pleasure of hearing before. But I think if I had to choose, it would be between Stephen LeClare and… "

"Who?" Jennifer was excited in anticipation.

"Dr Aubrey! I think he’s gorgeous!"

"What about that post-grad fellah, Bill – the one who’s brought his dad?"

"You are joking! I’d rather go out with David Souther than him."

"But David Souther’s married and a loud-mouthed bore."

"Nobody’s perfect" she replied.

Bill was, as they say, devastated. Nothing could save him from the awful mess his life had become.

Little did he know they were about to get a lot worse.

He was in no mood to returning to the boat and his father or the pub and the loose collection of folk he of recent times started to call his friends. He thought back to the days of living on the street, with real friends like Soppy Sally and Big Jimmy. He had kept in touch with Big Jimmy over the years and paying him the odd visit – there was no way Jimmy would have come to see him. As for Soppy Sally, everyone had lost track of her – but that was probably something of her own choosing.

Thinking about the old times gave him an idea. He hitched a ride – something he had become adept at doing in his former life – to the nearest big town, even though it was late in the evening. He needed some place to consider what he was doing, to take stock of his life and the changes he had made over the past few years. Somewhere he felt comfortable and familiar. Somewhere he could think.

Every town has one and it wasn’t long before he found it – a run-down part of the urban landscape, seldom visited by the affluent and well-heeled. Scruffy, dirty, all but deserted. It felt like entering his bedroom after a long trip abroad. It was a seasonably warm night. He found the cosy little alcove of a set of loading bay doors behind some industrial-size bins and had the best night’s sleep he had enjoyed in years.

When he woke up, the stiffness in his limbs from sleeping on a stone step was almost pleasantly familiar. The bright light of morning prickled his eyes. The first thing to do, as always, was to go for a walk to get the circulation flowing again. Then perhaps find some breakfast; then: some serious thinking.

He’d found himself an abandoned bagel, still perfectly fresh – a real hunter’s trophy – and he’d treated himself to a cheap mug of sugary tea from a vendor’s van, and felt ready to decide what to do about Project Bill’s Life. He was aware of a reluctance to go back to the DNA disease research, but that didn’t seem important. He was aware of how utterly he had failed with Felicity fforbes-Akel, and that did. This wasn’t going to be easy. He’d wandered into a park and was seated on a bench, rapt in thought, when he was suddenly and unwelcomely interrupted.

"Did you drop that?"

A female figure of singular ugliness was addressing him. It wasn’t so much her appearance – though, in all honesty she was no oil painting, unless someone had splashed the canvass with thinners before the paint had dried – but her manner; that, and the uniform – with a bag across her shoulder – made her look a little like a military man, he thought. But, mostly, it was her attitude. A uniform meant authority and her voice was authoritarian. If there was one thing in life he detested, it was authority.

"Drop what?" he challenged her, querulously.

"Don’t be dumb with me, young man – " young man? he thought; on closer inspection she was not much older than he was – "that soft drinks can underneath your seat."

He put his elbow on one arm of the bench, propped his chin on his hand, tipping his face petulantly up towards her. "Where would I get a soft drink from?"

"Probably the gutter, judging by the state of you. Do you know it’s an offence to drop litter?"

Bill paused to bend forward and look between his legs to look at the offending article. He raised his head and said, "It isn’t mine," and blinked innocently.

"It’s between your feet. That’s as near to property you’ll ever have. Put it in the bin."

"No I won’t – it’s not mine!"

"Yes you will – it doesn’t matter!"

"And if I refuse?"

"You will be fined."

"I won’t pay."

"You’ll go to jail."

"I have a get-out-of-jail-free card."

She pushed his face close to hers. "No, you don’t."

"I know my rights."

"And I know mine. If I say something, it’s right. Pick up that litter, or I will arrest you."

"You wouldn’t."

"Look into these eyes. Am I lying?"

Bill looked. She had a point. "I’ll pick it up."

"It’s too late now – I’ve decided to give you a ticket anyway."

"For what?"

"Dropping litter."

"I didn’t drop it."

"I’d say you did."

"You’d be lying."

"Who would believe you when I have these eyes?"

She had another point. "That’s not fair," he protested mildly.

"I never said it was. What’s your name?" She had extracted a pad of forms from her military-style bag.

He hesitated. It was always appropriate to hesitate at times like this. "Freddie," he said at last. "Freddie fforbes-Akel."

"You’re kidding," she accused.

"Would I lie about a name like that?"

Touché. She wrote it down.

"Are you sure?"

"It was my father’s wish, God rest his soul. He left me an orphan. No-one raised me not to drop litter. How was I to know it was wrong?" Perhaps a bit of pathos would help.

"Address?" She barked. Perhaps not.

"The homeless hostel on Exchange Street." He had overheard it mentioned at the tea-van. Always good to get to know the local environment.

She asked him a couple of other questions, then she wanted to know if he had any identification on him. No, of course not. She persisted – then he had a brainwave – Felicity’s library card – it only showed her surname and initial. "I’ve a ticket for the library where I come from," he said.

"Why would you be in a library?"

"Because it’s warm."

"You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Because if you lie to me, I’ll have you for conspiring to pervert the course of justice."

"It wouldn’t be much of a perversion. You’d never make it stick."

"Look at these eyes again. I’m a community police officer and this is a no tolerance zone. Or, to put it another way, this is my zone, and I’ve no tolerance. I could make anything on you stick to a non-stick frying pan and fry. You’d feel the heat of my displeasure. I’d make sure if I brought you to book you wouldn’t need a library to keep warm for a long time, if you told me anything other than the truth. Believe me. Everyone else would."

If there was one thing Bill hated more than authority, it was authority’s version of the truth. He hated telling them his truth. He had no intention of telling this authority figure anything truthful.

"I believe you are right," he said, showing her the library card.

She glanced at it. "So your name really is Frederick fforbes-Akel?"

"That’s right," he said, sounding as honest as he could.

"Sign the bottom of the form," she directed, "here."

He was just in the process of signing the form, Mickey Mouse, and preparing to make a run for it – he reckoned in his casual clothes he could outstrip anyone in uniform – when who should come into view, walking down the path, but the real Freddie and Bill’s father, Archie?

"There he is!" said Freddie.

"Bill!" shouted his father, as the two hurried towards the bench.

The community police officer who looked a little like a military man, turned to look at the newcomers then turned back to face Bill. Her eyes seemed to grow until he could see the whites of her eyes all the way round their dark, piercing centres. "Bill?"

Bill swallowed hard. "I’ve no idea who this man is."

Freddie overheard this. "How can you deny your own father, Bill?"

"Your father?"

Bill wanted to look sideways to see how far a single bound would free him. But she would see his eyes move and give him away. "What’s your name?" he asked, as conversationally as he could.

"I’m your worst nightmare, but you can call me Doris. I say again. Father?"

"I can understand how the concept might be alien to you. He is my father but we’re not really close. In fact, he’s closer to that chap he’s with, if you see what I mean."

Doris made the error of looking round. Bill made no mistake as he fled across the sedate bowling green with a running-track sprint. Doris glared after him. "You can run," she said to herself, but you can’t hide, Mr – " she looked down at her pad – "Mickey Mouse!!!" Doris’s anger boiled over. She swore she would track down Bill if she had to chase him to the ends of the Earth. The Romans’ pursuit of Hannibal would be a mere bagatelle in comparison, she vowed, if he wanted to play pinball with her.

Still furious, she arrested Archie and Freddie for loitering with intent, soliciting, and performing a lewd act in a public place, just to help her calm down.

And so Bill started his first day on the run. Every police car that came near him put him into a panic, and with good reason, because on every occasion they started chasing him. Goodness only knew what story Doris must have told them. He could not go back to the canal, the to the boat trip and his friends whom he now missed slightly. He needed to hide. He felt sure he could loose himself in the town. But he could find no respite from the hunt. Hell had no fury like an officer of the law belittled. He moved on to another town and things were no better. Doris tracked him down inexorably. In every town he went to, just as he found his feet, she found him.

He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he was developing a respect for her persistence, as well as her ability seemingly to follow – even predict – his every move. He gave up trying to hide in the town and moved to the city. Firstly, Birmingham, but she was hot on his trail – too obvious perhaps, being at the end of the Grand Union Canal. Then Manchester, but to no avail. Next Liverpool and he nearly walked into a trap. Then Leeds – once again she was waiting for him.

He could not risk returning to the university. He managed to contact them and made a vague description of his circumstances and they merely replied, in effect, that he had to submit his thesis with six years of starting for it to count, two of which had elapsed and beyond that they seemed not to care. He wasn’t too concerned about this; he might want to return to his PhD at some point – the thought of all his work going to waste chafed him mildly; as he said to himself, he just liked to have as many options as he could and keep them all open. He dare not risk, for a variety of reasons, to attempt to approach Felicity – she appeared more than ever to belong to a different world, one he could never reach. He wrote to his father on a few occasions but never risked leaving a return address.

Yet, still, he found himself, for all his care and cunning, just one step ahead of his arch-nemesis, Doris. There was apparently nothing this woman would not do to get her man.

He went down into the very depths of the city, places nobody outside knew, a world within a world, a world he had grown used to and could understand, move in, get lost in, but where no outsider should be able to follow. She followed. She knew the streets as he knew the streets, she even seemed to know how he walked the streets, where he would eat, where he slept. He was accepted by other street-dwellers wherever he went but, wherever he went, he got reports that "a woman from the law" had been asking about him. Sometimes it was the previous day, sometimes a few hours earlier, sometimes just a few minutes before. The occasions where he just managed to elude her were growing. And she never gave up. Why did she trail him so? How did she know where to look? He couldn’t help feeling that, in a different life, they could have been friends. Certainly, or so it appeared, they would have had a lot in common to talk about.

How did she do it? No matter where he hid, she was on to him. It was as if she could read his mind, know his very soul even. He couldn’t help admire her, her tenacity, her cunning… But. He was running out of place to hide and of patience to run. He was going to have to resort to something drastic. Fortunately, he had left himself one option here also.

He had to go and see Big Jimmy. It was not a step he chose lightly. Big Jimmy had been a special friend. The one thing Bill didn’t want to do was to bring this authority figure into his neighbourhood, bothering him. It would also mean a farewell. It would be the last time he saw Big Jimmy. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised there was no other way out. Big Jimmy held the answer. Literally.

During one of his occasional visits from his new life to Big Jimmy, Bill had given him something to take into safe-keeping. A package. A package, containing something potentially very valuable. Bill had anticipated this, something he might need in his new life, and, as he had said before, he liked to have as many options as possible and keep them all open. He headed, by a circuitous route down to London, managing, on the way, to send a message to Big Jimmy that he was coming.

"Good to see you, Jimmy."

"Aye, and you, mate. Sounds like you’ve been having a rare old time of it."

"You heard?"

"Everybody’s heard. We may not move in your high-flying circles, but gossip’s a commodity – which you may remember from when you were one of us."

"One of you… I sometimes wish… Never mind."

"Why do you think she’s after you? She doesn’t fancy you, does she?"

Bill frowned. "I wouldn’t think so."

"Do you fancy her? Have you been leaving a trail she can follow?"

"Of course not!" Bill expostulated. "Don’t be daft."

"Alright – you don’t have to bite my head off."

"You’ve got it?"

"Here you go," said Big Jimmy, handing Bill a sealed package.

"You really haven’t opened it?" said Bill, scrutinising Jimmy’s face.

"Of course not… Well, maybe just a little."

"Of course you did. I would have. You saw what’s in it?"

"Passport, driving-licence, birth certificate, credit cards – a whole new identity. You’re going away and you’re not coming back."

"That’s right, Jimmy. I’m sorry. This is going to be goodbye… You could have sold all that stuff for a lot of money."

"Aye, I could have."

"I’d have paid you more."

"I know."

"I’ll give you money now, if you like."

"There’s no need, lad."

"Payment for holding the package."

"Alright, a few quid, but that’s all."

"One other thing," said Bill, "you won’t tell… anybody, anything about – "

"I didn’t even look at the name on anything. So I couldn’t even tell her, even if she used thumbscrews."

"Thanks, Jimmy, you’re a gem."

"Besides, it’s looks like I won’t have to. She’s standing right behind you."

Bill froze, Just for a moment, he thought Big Jimmy might be joking. But two things suggested that this was not the case. Firstly, Jimmy wasn’t really noted for is sense of humour. Secondly, he could feel the presence that had been on his tail for so long. Only this time it was very, very close.

"Hello, Bill," said the oh-so-familiar voice he had heard so many times in his dreams.

"Hello, Doris. You’ve caught up with me at last."

"You knew I would."

"I was wondering what took you so long." He turned to face her. Somehow she looked different. Still the same outfit, still the same outlook, but not the same anonymous figure of threat. She looked almost… well, desirable.

"You’re under arrest, on a list of charges too long for me to go into here. Anything you say will be used against you in any way possible."

"Doris, I wish to make a statement."

"Yes?" she said without interest, reaching for her cuffs, her finest pair of Kenwood Rigid-Locks; she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

"Doris, I think I love you."

Doris stared at him, speechless. Her eyes went all white a bit like the way they did when she first tried to apprehend Bill. But this time, it was with astonishment. She was not used being astonished. Even her face was astonished at showing an expression of astonishment, and it was astonished also.

"Love me?" No-one had ever said that to her before. She was not sure the words made any kind of sense in the real world.

"Yes," said Bill, "love you." You know me better than anyone else I’ve ever met – anyone alive. You know my likes and dislikes, you know where I like to go, you know the places I know. You know everything I do."

"Love you?"

"You do?" said Bill. "You love me?"

"I – " she began, but ran out of words. She dropped her cuffs on the ground. "I don’t know. What does it feel like. I’ve never loved anyone before."

"Like you want to stop running. Like you’ve found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. Like you’re home."

Doris turned away to think. Stared at a wall, like the uneven pattern of poorly lain bricks were in a code that might hold the answer. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, it does feel like that. Ever since you signed your name Mickey Mouse on my ticket. Funniest thing anyone’s ever dare do with me. Ever since we first met."

"Love at first sight," said Big Jimmy.

"Shut up" Bill and Doris both said to Big Jimmy, although they were both staring at each other. Then Bill turned to Big Jimmy and gave him back the package.

"Here," he said, "you might be able to sell this for a few quid."

"What’s in that?" said Doris, although she already knew.

"Believe me," said Bill, facing her once more, "you don’t want me to tell you."



It was, as they say, a whirlwind romance. They got a special licence and were married within six weeks. Big Jimmy declined to come but he sent his best wishes on a postcard, bizarrely, from Acapulco. Some of Bill university friends attended and one was Best Man. Felicity fforbes-whatever-her-name-was wasn’t invited – rumour had it she had married Dr Aubrey and the two of them were occupied writing pretentious articles for heavyweight journals describing the dire peril the planet was in. Bill’s father Archie was there, in a state of delighted bewilderment at the way things had turned out: "Are you sure she’s the one you want?" he said to Bill, before the ceremony.

"Yes, quite sure," said Bill. "She really is my Little Miss Perfect."
Archie remained bewildered, but luckily Freddie was there too, helping Archie drink too much.

For a honeymoon, the happy couple had been of one mind. They were going to go on a tour of the countryside, stopping at any bed-and-breakfast that took their fancy, and avoiding cities as much as possible, until they felt ready to come home – wherever that might be – when they were ready and not before. Their starting point would probably be somewhere near the university in the West Country which had agreed to take him back so that he could finish his PhD. They decided they would start in this general area and work their way in a rough clockwise direction around the country.

"You’re not hoping you might just bump into Felicity fforbes-Akel before we set off, are you?" said Doris.

"You knew about her?" said Bill.

"Of course," said Doris. "I backtracked where you had come from and found your little boating trip. Everyone was impressed by your efforts to impress her. Everyone except her, of course."

"No," said Bill, shaking his head. "She’s the last person I ever want to see."

As they set off westward down the motorway, little were they to know that Dr Aubrey and Felicity fforbes-Akel-Pinkerton were in fact just a few miles ahead of them in their new hydrogen-fuel-cell-powered four-by-four, which had just broken down; they had brought the huge but eco-friendly vehicle to a halt, as irony would have it, in a large diesel spill on the hard shoulder.

"Don’t you worry," my Sweet," said Dr Aubrey, "I’ll walk to a breakdown phone and call for help." (Felicity did not approve of Dr Aubrey having a mobile phone either.)

"But who are you going to call? The AA, the RAC or NASA – after all, they designed the power cells."

"Let’s see who gets here first," was all Aubrey could think of to say. He was just about to set off when he realised that diesel oil was all over his boots. He stepped on to the grass verge and was trying to scrape the offending fluid off, when he lost his footing and fell down the bank out of sight. At least he had not tumbled the other way and landed on the slow lane.

"Aubrey! Aubrey! What’s happened," cried out an alarmed Felicity at the sudden disappearance of her husband. "Where’ve you got?" She clambered out of the passenger door and stepped straight into the slippery mess her husband had trodden in.

"I’m down here," he wailed faintly. "I think I’ve twisted my ankle."

Felicity looked down the bank and saw her husband in an ungainly tangle with hedge of meadowsweet.

"Hang on, I’m coming," she called. She never spoke a truer word; just one step and she too slipped and hurtled down the bank to join Aubrey in the bush.

"Are you alright?" said Aubrey, breathless and anxious.

"I – I think I’ve twisted my ankle too," she gasped.

"How are we going to get out of here?"

Meanwhile, cruising along the motorway came Bill and Doris.

"Do you know," said Doris, "I’ve never been happy like this before?"

"I know what you mean," said Bill. "I’ve never been happier." It was the first conversation between them for some miles. It was as if they were reading each other’s minds.

Both saw the large four-by-four, pulled over on the hard shoulder, door open, but no-one in attendance.

"Something wrong here," said Doris."

"We should check," said Bill.

"Right."

Doris pulled over. They checked out the exotically powered vehicle but could find no trace of its passengers. Something made them both feel they should look further.

"Damn – I’ve got Diesel on my shoes."

"Me too."

Just as they topped the rise, they saw the two unhappy eco-warriors, both waist-deep in a hedge.

"Felicity!" said Bill.

"Help!"

"We’d better get them out," said Doris.

Just at that moment, the pair of would-be rescuers both lost their footing, and tumbled down the slope towards its earlier victims, with a cry of dismay.

Now there would be some fun.

THE END