Vacuum

(Space colonists fear only one thing)

The stars jabbed out of the blackness of infinity from every direction. They were above and, as above, so below. They were to port as to starboard and ahead as aft. They freckled the face of the endless night and tried to pierce the eyes of the lovers, but the lovers only had eyes for each other.

Albion was looking into Roxette’s eyes with keen adoration as she was telling him the news of the forthcoming grand festival.

"So we are all to congregate in the hanger decks and try to make it as much of a celebration as possible."

"What? Isn’t that a bit… well, tacky, under the circumstances?"

"Don’t you see what my father is trying to do?" said Roxette. "It’s to boost morale after everything that’s happened."

The stars swam dizzyingly all around them outside the Observer Dome as the great craft rotated. It was the only sky that Albion and Roxette had ever seen throughout their lives.

"This was your father’s idea?" said Albion.

"Well – now that the crew of the Argo are joining us on the Prospero for the rest of the mission, he felt as captain that he had to make their arrival into some of occasion. Don’t worry – he’s going to say something about the other crews that… were lost. But he thought if that was all he did everyone would be miserable for another couple of light-years and he didn’t want that. So – we’re having a big bash."

"I should hope he does say something," said Albion. "What happened was tragic."

"I know," said Roxette. "But at least we know we are safe on the Prospero. Our cargo hold door has been double-tested and there’s no flaw. And we found out that the Argo’s door was faulty before it blew, so we do have something to celebrate."

Albion was coming round to Roxette’s view, but he still remained to be completely convinced. "A pity no-one found out before we lost the other two ships," he murmured.

"It’s a pity there was a design fault at all! Just think how lucky we are that, as flagship, the Prospero is built differently."

"That’s true," he shrugged, "otherwise we would have had it. We’re only just reaching half-way."

"My grandfather told me of the festivities they had on Earth when the fleet was launched. I don’t know how they could they have made such a huge mistake."

"We don’t know what Earth was like, come to that. Neither of us have ever been there."

"I wonder what the new world will be like," said Roxette. "That will be something to celebrate for sure."

"Just so long as we get there," said Albion.

"Oh, stop being such a junk-dump!" she said.


The small fleet of four huge spacecraft had set off from the closeting comfort of Earth orbit for their exoplanetary destination two generations ago, the fusion-powered ion drive engines thrusting the ships at a steady acceleration, such that inside the craft, the feeling was exactly like the gravitational pull on the surface of their home planet. Within a year, they were close to the speed of light, though the convoluted warping of space and time, as described by Einstein’s theory of General Relativity, meant that this velocity was only approached but never reached. The one thing that was simple to understand: they would never be going back. Families set out on that stupendous journey, of such stupendous duration, that the parents would age and die, while children would be born and grow to take their place. At least, that had been the mission plan. Half way through their transit to their new home, a second Earth orbiting around the star Tau Ceti, the ships were to turn about face – no problem in the lifeless vacuum of space – and fire their engines forward as brakes, to bring them to a timely halt at their destination.

But not all had gone to plan. Sealed inside the enormous containers, ever to be held with means neither of ingress or egress to the airless void save for inside a full, hard-pressured spacesuit, the fecundity of the travellers had fallen well below expectation. A full complement of passengers was 500, expected to be reached as journey’s end approached. However, not one ship held even a hundred as mid-point neared. Then disaster struck.

The first ship to fall victim was the Mexico. The demise was as sudden as unexpected. A catastrophic failure of the hull, and the one thing feared by any who ever ventured into the void of space befell all on board, the loss of life-giving air to the unfillable vacuum of space. With no time to don pressure suits, death was swift. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. Blood was its Avatar and its seal – the redness and the horror of blood. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim as the nitrogen in the tissues boiled through the skin, shutting him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the process, were the incidents of half a minute.

At first the survivors on the other three ships, the Prospero, the Argo and the Calypso, thought that the Mexico had been prey to the most extravagant bad luck, a one-in-a-million chance encounter with a primordial chunk of space débris. Then barely had the shock and the grief at the loss begun to subside when the Calypso’s automatic monitoring systems detected that its hull too had been compromised, only this time without the explosive, balloon-like bursting that had laid waste to the Mexico. This time the true fault was identified – the massive hatch to the cargo bay, that would have been opened to unload the myriad items required to colonise and populate a new world, was found to be terminally compromised about its edge, its seal ruptured. Too late – the loss of air so rapid, that all had perished before they could evacuate in shuttle craft or in emergency pressure suits to the two vessels gliding alongside.

Now forewarned, the crew of the Argo, identical in every way to its two sister ships, checked and eventually yet with haste identified a profound error in the construction of its own cargo bay door. Only the Prospero, with a slightly more elaborate and different design, offered refuge. The Argo was abandoned, and all of the remaining colonists joined together on the one sound craft for the final years of their fated journey.


"I presume you will be accompanied by Albion at tonight’s festival?" said Captain Prospero. The ship he commanded was named after his family.

Roxette fidgeted uncomfortably. "Are you sure this festival is the right thing to do, dad? I mean, some people might think it’s a bit in bad taste. Do we all have to go?"

The Captain faced his daughter and studied her gravely. "Yes, everyone. In all the time since I took over as commander of this mission from my father, I have never instructed passengers of this vessel in a more important duty."

"But it seems disrespectful to the dead," said Roxette.

"It is in honour of the dead that we celebrate. In that, and a restatement of the mission. You do understand?"

Roxette Prospero looked levelly at her father. "I suppose so. It’s not as if we have any option."

Captain Prospero frowned. "What do you mean? I’m not going to force you to attend if you would really prefer not to. But it would seem strange to the rest of the crew if my daughter were not there."

"No, dad. I meant: it’s not like we can turn round and get back to Earth. We have to go on."

"Life has to go on. Our life and our future lie ahead of us – something which is true for anyone. I was wondering – have you and Albion ever considered the idea of getting married?"

"Dad!"

"One day you may take over this command. One day when I am too old. It would be beneficent to yourself if you had someone, such as I have your mother, by your side to share in the burden of command, Roxette. Someone such as Albion, for example."

"Oh, dad! Is our whole future planned out for us?"

"The future of all of us," said Captain Prospero, "is in the stars. It has always been so."

"But it is not set, is it, dad? We still do not know what the future is."

Prospero knelt down at his daughter’s side. "My darling daughter, I am determined to make the festival as exciting an occasion as possible. There will be no shortage of stores from which to prepare a banquet. There will be actors playing skits, dancers, comedians, musicians. All these and security inside our spaceship home. Only outside will be the limitless vacuum. But perhaps you can help me."

"In what way?"

"The hangars, where the shuttle craft for planet-fall lie sleeping, offer plenty of room for revelry but are joyless in their appearance. I am thinking of decorating them, each with its own colour-scheme. One is to be blue, lit with blue lights, to suggest the oceans we long to see, the next exotically in purple, the next green, with green illumination to look like inside a jungle, the fourth orange, the fifth white and the sixth violet."

"It sounds a bit gaudy," said Roxette. " Are you sure you’ve an eye for this sort of thing?"

"Well, exactly," he allowed a modest grin. "And I’m sure it’s something that runs in the family. So I was wondering – maybe you could suggest the colour scheme for the last hangar."

Roxette reflected. "How about… black?"

"Black?"

"Yes. Black velvet, like a dreamless sleep."

"That sounds a little… moody."

"No – it will be romantic. Black with red lights, a passionate scarlet, a deep blood colour. So that people who want to get close can do so in an intimate setting, not in a bright glare. That is what you want, isn’t it?"

Captain Prospero was dubious. "Perhaps we could have a big digital clock at one end, with a red display, counting off the time to our arrival at our new home."

"Yes," said Roxette. "After all, you do want us to look forward to raising our children there."

"Perhaps – who knows? – tonight would be good time to announce a forthcoming marriage?"

Roxette regarded her father strangely. "Perhaps."

Everyone was to wear fancy-dress, costumes of their own making. The anticipation that would build in such preparation would heighten the excitement, Prospero thought. No-one was to remain at duties. Prospero alone would man the bridge, watching the festivities from the cameras mounted on the decks.

"All seems to be going well," Albion said to Roxette.

"Things have livened up since the music and dancing began," she replied.

"And since your father suspended restrictions on alcohol. I’ve never seen so much booze. Amazing how quickly people forget."

"Don’t be harsh," said Roxette. "It helps melt their hearts."

He turned to her. "Lucky we don’t need it."


From the bridge, Prospero watched, content that his instructions for a joyful occasion were going to plan. There were to be generous prizes for the most inventive costumes awarded at the height of the evening. It was then that he spotted something on the blue hangar’s monitor that appalled him. Some idiot had thought it would be amusing to come dressed in a pressure suit, the sort that would be worn in an emergency evacuation of a stricken craft. The very suit the kind of which the poor souls of the Mexico and the Calypso had been so grievously unable to don before they were overcome.

Furiously, Prospero hurried down to the blue hangar, but the callous fool in the suit had already left for the orange hangar.

"Master-At-Arms?" Prospero addressed a man dressed as a cowboy.

"Sir?"

"I know you’re not on duty but – somebody has come in a really offensive costume. We need to remove him before he upsets everyone."

"Where is he?"

"There he goes – into the next hangar!"

Prospero called his master-at-arms, though not dressed for duty, to come with him to catch the offensive culprit. The figure passed between other party-goers, all of them falling silent. Captain Prospero and the Master-At-Arms followed but could not catch him as he slipped between the crowds from one hangar to the next. At last, he arrived at the final hangar, with its black fabrics and scarlet illumination. Albion and Roxette were there, hand in hand, watching on.

Prospero strode to the middle of the deck. "Who is that idiot who has come here dressed so distastefully?"

The figure turned slowly to face Prospero. The gold-tinted visor was drawn down on the face-plate of the helmet, the thin film of metal hiding the visage within.

"Master-At-Arms, grab that man."

The Master-At-Arms however, hesitated.

Prospero turned on him. "Unmask that vile interloper!"

"Sir, I…" the master stammered and fell silent.

"Very well," said Prospero, "I shall do it myself!"

He reached forward and snapped back the all-concealing visor.

Instead of someone he recognised, he saw a face, contorted and twisted in a rhesus of agony, fluids bubbling from the bulging eyes, blood sweating from skin and oozing from the nose and mouth, as one dying in the final stage of catastrophic decompression in the vacuum of space.

Prospero fell back, a vaporous shriek wretched out of him as all air was torn from his lungs. He collapsed to the black-clothed deck, dead. Roxette screamed, and threw her arms round Albion, his name dying on her lips. He grabbed at her before he too succumbed. Within scarce a beat, those nearest likewise crumpled as the atmosphere ceased to exist, throats ripping, eyes exploding. On it went like a wave through the whole flux of people inside the spacecraft, and the digital clock stopped and its glowing ember lights went out. And now was acknowledged the presence of the vacuum. It had come like a thief in the night. And darkness and decay and the vacuum held illimitable dominion over all.

The end.

Away Day

Many people have to travel for business. Best advice is: don't leave home... unless you have a good reason to go back.

(First published in Runshaw Writers' Write Lines magazine)

Just another commuter, Lizzy thought, as she stood at the barrier, collecting tickets. Everyone in London always in a hurry. Never time to stop and exchange pleasantries. Pity – he had a certain look about him she liked.

" ‘Morning," he said, courteously. "This is Farringdon Underground station, isn’t it?"

Ah, she thought, not local. "Big city, isn’t it?"

"Vast," he replied, struggling with briefcase and unnecessary raincoat as he passed her his ticket.

That settled it – definitely a Lanky accent. Like her Dad’s. "This is the wrong ticket," she said, patiently.

"How much more is it? I’ve got a job interview at half past. I’ve only come from Euston."

It flashed through her mind how her Dad had "got on his bike" and come down to London from the Northwest looking for work in the Eighties, and had never gone back. "You’ve given me given me your Virgin Day Return ticket – you’ll be wanting this back. It’s your Underground ticket I need to see."

He swapped the ticket for the Virgin Return to Wigan North Western. "You see, this job means a lot to me if I get it and I’m running late. I’ll have to be fast."

"This is the right ticket," she said.

He thanked her then sprinted for the station exit.

He sprinted back a moment later. "You couldn’t tell me where Saffron Hill is, could you?"

She told him.

"Thank you – must dash."

He was back within the hour. His pace was rather more measured but he seemed no less agitated. "Excuse me."

"Yes?"

"I – I’m awfully sorry, I don’t even know your name."

"Lizzy."

"Nice to meet you. I’m Arnold. Lizzy, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour."

"Well… I get off in half an hour so you might be lucky," she grinned. She was kidding with him, but wasn’t quite sure he realised.

"Oh. Ah. That’s jolly kind of you. Thank you. You have a nice laugh. But what I really wanted to say was – I don’t suppose by any chance anyone has handed in a Virgin Day Return ticket, have they?"

"You mean this one?" She held up the little card. "You must have dropped it before. I didn’t notice it till you’d gone."

"Yes, that’s it…"

Lizzy noticed that her customer had suddenly gone rather quiet, as if a final burden of anxiety had been taken from him. But not in a good way. "I expect you’ll be down South here again before long."

He hesitated. "I wouldn’t bet on it."

"Oh? Why’s that?"

"I don’t think the interview went that well. In fact, not awfully well at all."

"You can always hope," she said.

"I think when they say, ‘We don’t want you, you’re not adequately qualified and you don’t have the necessary experience,’ it’s hard to take it as a good sign."

"Oh," she said. She looked him up and down. He was about her age, clean-cut – smartly dressed, if a little crumpled. Did he really want to come and live down here? If her father hadn’t come South, would she herself have moved anyway? She could imagine Arnold, setting out that morning neat and tidy and eager, hopeful and optimistic. Now all he had was a return ticket and a long journey home. "You’ll be going back to Euston then?"

"With these Away-Day tickets or whatever they’re called, you can only travel on certain trains. The return is not till early this evening. I was expecting the interview to last a little longer. I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to pass a few hours."

She studied him again. "You know," she said, "I wasn’t joking when I said I was getting off-duty. Perhaps I could join you. How does Kew Gardens take your fancy?"

"I was hoping you’d suggest something, I didn’t like to ask."



They had explored the hot-houses of white-painted wrought iron and glass with their exotic foliage, climbed the spiral stair cases up to the walkways just below the roof, and looked down on the succulent fronds, while exchanging idle chit-chat that had been about nothing, yet told each everything that needed to be known by the other. Now, sated and not a little tired, they went outside.

"You’re a Lancashire lad, aren’t you?"

"How d’you mean?" Arnold said.

"‘Vast, pass, dash, laugh,’" she recited.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Arnold was puzzled.

She burst into giggles. "No Southerner would pronounced them the way you do!"

"Really?"

"No – it’d be all ‘Varst, parss, darsh and larf!’ You say them proper, like me Dad.

"In that case, he grinned, "let’s sit on the grass."

"I like coming here," Lizzy announced, gazing at the parkland as if it were her own private garden. "Me Dad grew up in the country, so he said."

"I like countryside. Do you?"

"When I can get to it. Either here or Richmond Park. That’s almost real countryside."

He rolled on his side to look at her. "I suppose so. I’ve never been. But isn’t it still inside London?"

"It feels like countryside. I once saw a deer. Don’t tell me Wigan is countryside."

"I don’t live in Wigan."

"Where do you live, then?"

"It’s a village, outside. Called Appley Bridge."

"What’s that like? Is that countryside?"

"Oh yes," said, turning away. "It’s in a beautiful river valley, full of fields and trees. I live in a small old house near the Leeds and Liverpool canal. I bet you’d love it."

She looked round at the park, with its strolling visitors and pathways and its feeling of being ersatz – familiar, totally explored and well-trodden by countless feet. Not wild and strange and fresh. "Why do you want to move down here then?"

"Job, career, prospects… Don’t know really."

"You mean – it’s someone else’s idea of what’d make you happy."

He considered her remark. "You’re probably right, Lizzy. In fact, now you mention it, I’m sure you’re right!" It was as if an epiphany had befallen him. "I don’t want to move down to London at all! It’s just a big sprawling city that some people think is important. There are other important things." He stopped, as if another thought had struck him. "But you live down here."

"Why should that matter?"

"Well…"

"Yes?" she teezed.

"I wouldn’t like the thought of not seeing you again. Meeting you has been the nicest thing that’s happened to me today. The nicest thing in a long time."

"What a sweet thing to say," she said, making fun of his grave tone. Then, herself, more serious: "In fact – actually – Arnold, this has been the nicest day I’ve had for a long time, too."

He plucked a green stem from the lawn. "Oh, Lizzy," he said, mock-serious. "What are we going to do?"



Euston Concourse, early evening. People bustling over the black rubber tiles, heaving luggage, dragging reluctant children, staring nervously at the annunciator board, checking arrivals and departures.

"Tickets, sir?" said the inspector at the gate.

"Here," said Arnold. "One return…" he turned and took Lizzy’s hand. "And one single."

The End

The Meeting Place

To commerate the re-opening St Pancras railway station and inspired by its Paul Day statue, The Meeting Place

The Friday evening Eurostar glided into St Pancras like an ice dancer, three minutes ahead of time, having left Paris just over two hours earlier. Jocelyn felt her stomach flip and her heart jump at the sight of the white, blue and gold train. It slid into place along the platform and sighed to a halt. This, she realised, could be the most important moment of her life. The most wonderful, or the most horrible.

Either way, she would never forget what was about to happen next.

Don’t go

Wait for me

She made her way from where she had been standing beneath the Paul Day statue to watch the crowds coming up to the ticket barrier. Dozens upon dozens of people, like a ragged, growing tide, began to drag round her. The business man in his smart suit, shoulder bag and lap-top, the family group perhaps back from a holiday, the young woman with a child, the middle-aged woman steering a trolley of luggage, the couples and the singles, like a billowing cloud around her, blocking her view. And still she could not see the one face she sought. Was Dominic going to be there, amongst them?

She was distracted by a cry from her right, as two people fled into each others outstretched arms, reunited at last.

"I expect you’ll forget me," she had said.

That day, she had just been to order a new tumble dryer for her flat. On the way back from the store, the heavens opened, great fat gobs of water splattering. As she dived for the cover of a taxi, they met.

"Share?" he suggested.

The rest of the hours of the day they passed together. As the light faded, Jocelyn realised a feeling of contentment, like she had never known before. She was thinking of the many days to come when Dominic broke his news.

"I have to go away – a long trip. Europe, then the Middle East, India, China and Polynesia. It’s all to do with work, liaising with local offices."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That – " she shifted her gaze from his, "… not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. I’m sorry. It’s my job. It will be the big trip for the company. Once it’s done, someone else can worry about the day-to-day details. I was quite looking forward to it. I never took a gap year from college. Now I’m not so sure I want to go."

"It’s part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," she said. Where was that from? "Where is Polynesia?" she tried to sound intellectually curious, detached.

"What is Polynesia? – That’s what I said," he told her, trying to joke. "I thought it was the ability to forget a parrot, when they first told me. Either that or being able to forget about several things at once."

"Are you likely to forget things?"

"Oh, lots of things. I forget almost everything given half a chance."

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

"You’re not a stranger," he said, "I feel I’ve already known you for ages."

"But you haven’t."

"Don’t misunderstand – I’m sure it will take ages more to get to know even a tiny bit about you."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About two months. Not sure exactly. Perhaps you won’t want to know me then. I mean, if I can’t wash my clothes while I’m away." He offered a remorseful smile.

"You’ll need a tumble dryer," she said.

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget

His postcard had a picture of a parrot – a scarlet Macaw. It said when he would be back. After that were the words, "Wish I wasn’t here."

Perhaps she had got the wrong date or time. She had washed the sweatshirt she jogged in, not realising she’d pushed the postcard into the pocket, until she found it mangled and shredded in the very same tumble dryer she’d bought that day. Somehow she had forgotten to check before she threw the shirt in the wash after her morning run. The date and time of his return had been on the card and she was sure she remembered them anyway. But what if she were wrong?

What if he didn’t want to come back and see her after all. They had barely had time to get to know each other. Time – something you always have too much or too little of.

The stragglers from the train were clearing the platform. If he had been amongst the passengers she had missed him. More probably, he just wasn’t there. He’d said he forgot things. Perhaps she was one of them. She was positive she had seen everybody who had got off the train. Even when she’d glanced away at the affectionate couple greeting. Hurt and disappointment pricked and stabbed at the back of her eyes. She turned and, slowly at first, but with gathering pace, she began to walk away.

Just as she hurried beneath the statue, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, someone got in her way. Before she could side-step, she had collided with the stranger. Why couldn’t the fool look where he was going? She stared up angrily into the eyes of the irritating person blocking her path.

"Hullo," said Dominic.

"Dominic!" She thought her eyes were lying to her. "Did you just come in on the train?"

"Why else would I be at the station?" he smiled.

"But I didn’t see you coming off the platform." She almost stamped her foot.

"You must have missed me."

"Missed you? Missed you? I was waiting at the barrier!"

"I did say, ‘beneath the statue.’ If you’d stayed at the barrier I might have missed you."

I remembered

I’m here now

He put his arms around her waist. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. She didn’t speak, just looked into his eyes.

"I told you I’d come back," Dominic said.

"I never doubted it," she answered in a whisper. It may have been a lie, but it didn’t matter.

She was right. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.

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

The Magic Sword

Summary

A short, fantasy story with a touch of romance, and a message.

King Boden, in despair at losing yet another battle to defend his kingdom, the Kingdom of Icia, was sheltering in a cave and in fear for his life, when suddenly he was trapped by a Tall Stranger.

"What do you want?" cried King Boden. "I cannot defend myself for I have no weapon."

"What would you wish for yourself?" said the Tall Stranger.

"If I could have anything right now, it would be a sword so that I could strike down any who threaten me or cause me fear."

"Then take this," said the stranger, producing from inside his voluminous cloak a sword. It was a sword like no other King Boden had ever seen. Its balance in the hand was perfection, its blade gleamed and its edge would make shame of a razor. King Boden hefted the sword in his hand. "You give me this, yet are unarmed. Do you not fear me now?"

"No," said stranger, "I have fear of no man."

"But why do you give me this sword?"

"I tell you this," said the stranger. "This sword is a Magic Sword. With this, and as King, you will never taste defeat again. But you will never know love..."'

And with that, the Tall Stranger was gone.

Sure enough, from that day on, King Boden was victorious in every battle. His armies grew stronger till all feared the power of Icia. Then one day he captured the Princess Alsanda, daughter of King Ezeck of the neighbouring land of Maggedor and took her hostage. Ezeck swore revenge against King Boden and declared war. But on the eve of battle, King Boden realised he was falling in love with his prisoner.

"You are indeed a beautiful princess," he said. "I feel my heart yearning for your affection. What would it take for you to become my bride."

"More than you have in your power to give!" she vowed. "Take yourself from me, for your presence poisons the very air."

"But, Princess, if you would be mine there is nothing I would deny you. For without your love my heart will surely break."

"Then let it break. Your destiny is on the battlefield and not within my affection."

Angrily, King Boden left the Princess and went to prepare for victory or death at the hands of Ezeck and his warriors of Maggedor.

That day, on the vast Plain of Ildion, the mighty armies of Icia and Maggedor faced each other. Their weapons glinted in the pale cold sun shining balefully down upon them. King Boden had the unwilling Princess brought by guards to watch the battle.

"I ask you one last time," said King Boden to the Princess, "If you would surrender to me as I demand, and be my bride, I would recall my soldiers. But if you deny me, you will see the men of you homeland scythed down like ripe corn."

The Princess raised her noble head. "I and all the troops of Maggedor would sooner die than suffer such dishonour." And she lowered her head once more and wept.

"That is your answer?" roared King Boden.

"That is the answer of all of the line of Maggedor," whispered the Princess.

"Then so shall it be," said Boden. With a curse, he wheeled his horse and galloped off to the head of his troops.

Arranged in the first line of battle upon the Plain of Ildion were the two cavalries, the horsemen of Icia decked in their colours of blue and gold, the knights of Maggedor in purple. The crests of their colours stood proud in the wind on the manes of the battle horses. But when at last the order to charge was given, not an animal would move from either side. The riders urged them on fiercely with blood-curdling battle cries, but the horses, snorting and pounding the earth with their hooves, refused to move forward, even an inch.

Realising the peril if his horsemen remanded still and were charged by a powerful enemy, King Boden raced to the front of his troops. He had the Magic Sword, the ownership of which had made him the victor of so many battles. He could not be defeated.

King Ezeck, too, saw the danger his army was in, if the horses would not charge and attack the enemy. He galloped to the head of his army to urge them to attack. But to no avail. It was as if the horses had no wish to be a part of the wars of men.

Across the plain, the two kings dismounted from their steeds and turned to face each other. King Boden raised his sword in signal, and shouted. "King Ezeck. Our armies are evenly matched. There is no need for them to fight this day. We two can determine the outcome of this battle. Let us fight, just you and I, to decide the day."

Ezeck knew of King Boden’s recent successes on the field of war. He had heard rumours of the Magic Sword, of how King Boden had come by it, in the cave with the Tall Stranger. He knew the promise the stranger had made that King Boden would never taste defeat as king while he had the sword. Yet he was not afraid. "I accept your challenge! He who wins our duel will win the war between Maggedor and Icia!"

"Victory in war!" cried King Boden.

"Victory in war!" Ezeck shouted back.

The two paced across the plain till they were in sword’s reach. A pause stayed them. The two armies looked on in thrall. Princess Alsanda swept the tears from her eyes upon seeing her father, standing proud. Then King Boden raised the Magic Sword and swung it fearsomely at King Ezeck’s head.

It was a mighty blow. Yet Ezeck parried, and deflected the lethal blade harmlessly. He too struck out with his weapon, but Boden denied the steel a target in his flesh.

And so the fight was joined. On it raged, blow followed by counter blow. Sometimes the fight seemed to favour one man, then the advantage would swing the other way. But neither man took wound.

"Surely I cannot be defeated," King Boden thought between thrust and parry, "for I have the Magic Sword. The Tall Stranger swore to me."

For hour upon hour the epic struggle raged without rest, quarter neither given nor taken. But then, just as the sun that had blazed down upon this momentous day seemed to weary, and kissed the horizon, King Boden lofted the Magic Sword high above his head and brought it down with a crashing fury greater than any before.

King Ezeck raised his sword in defence and, as steel clanged on steel, the blade of his weapon shattered. The broken tip fell to the ground. King Ezeck, in despair, let the hilt slip from his hand and join the rest of the now-useless weapon in the dirt.

Quietly he spoke. "King Boden, you have your victory." He stole one last look at his daughter, Princess Alsanda, in the lines of the men of Icia. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable death.

But death did not come. Kind Boden, following the gaze of his adversary, also spotted the beautiful princess. He saw, even at this distance, the tears upon her face, and the sadness in her eyes, and he felt his heart leap.

"As King, you will never taste defeat again. But you will never know love." The words of the Tall Stranger who had handed him the Magic Sword repeated themselves on his lips. He raised the Magic Sword one final time.

But the blow never fell.

Lowering the sword, he spoke, almost in a whisper, to King Ezeck. "Open your eyes, King Ezeck. I cannot strike you down."

King Ezeck looked into the face of Boden. "What do you mean?"

"As a king, with this sword, I can never taste defeat."

"So strike me down, for I will not live if my daughter is to remain your prisoner!"

Again Boden looked to the princess. "But, as a king, I will never know love." He looked again at King Ezeck. "Therefore I choose no longer to be King! I am now a common man, and a common man cannot strike down a king." And with that he laid the Magic Sword at King Ezeck’s feet.

"And what of my daughter?" said Ezeck, in a bare whisper.

"She is free," he said. With a wave, he commanded his guards to release her. For a moment, Princess Alsanda was frozen to the spot. Then she, tearfully, ran into the arms of her father.

"Oh, my beautiful daughter," cried King Ezeck, for tears had come to his battle-drawn face also, "I thought that I should never see your sweet face ever again."

Ezeck turned to face Boden. "So how do we decide the battle?"

"What battle? There is no battle. There is no war. We should leave this place in peace, with honour."

For a moment, Ezeck was unable to speak. "You could have won the day," he said.

"I would have won nothing."

"But is there nothing you would wish for?" said Ezeck.

Boden hesitated. "I can barely say this. But if I could have one thing, it would be to ask for the hand of your daughter, the beautiful Princess Alsanda, in marriage, for I am under her spell, a spell greater than that of any sword or weapon. And I ask, not demand. I would have her answer freely, as only her heart dictates, and I would be content with any answer, though I hope for only one."

Princess Alsanda looked at Boden. Suddenly, now that he was no longer a king, it was as if a blindfold fell from her eyes, and she could see a handsome, wise and generous man. She turned to King Ezeck. "Father, this man is more noble than any I have ever met, nor even dreamed of. With your permission, nothing would make me happier than to be his bride."

King Ezeck wiped the tears from his face, and for the first time since news of her capture in Icia had come to him, he smiled. "Then his bride you shall be, with my blessing." Upon these words, she let go of her father, and embraced Boden.

At that moment, as the shade of evening was drawing upon them, a figure appeared from between the two now-silent battle lines. It was the Tall Stranger who had given Boden the sword so long ago.

Boden, recognising him, said, "How can we be of service to you?"

"It is you who have served me," said the stranger. "I have merely come to collect the possession I lent to you."

"You lent to me?" said Boden, astonished. "So it was never really in my ownership?"

"No man can own this sword. I take it back now, for its magic is done."

"And what magic is that?" asked King Ezeck in awe.

The Tall Stranger faced both of them. "Know this truth," he said. "It is a truth equally for king and peasant, high-born and humble, rich or poor. War is not the true purpose of any living thing." He paused to smile at Boden and Princess Alsanda, hiding the sword away in his cloak.

"Then what is life’s true purpose?" Boden asked the Tall Stranger in a hushed voice.

The Tall Stranger looked one last time at the two former enemies. "Love is."

And, with that, taking the Magic Sword with him, the Tall Stranger was gone.

THE END