Short stories for your enjoyment

Red Baubles

Living in a one bedroomed flat had always meant that Millie had to have limited Christmases, and when her grandmother passed away leaving her a considerable inheritance, her first thought was that she would buy a property where she could have the sort of Christmas she had always wanted. However, she soon realised that her vision of the house she wanted to buy was exactly the one her grandma had left her, so she simply handed in her notice on the rented flat, and moved to the more affluent part of town.

She had spent almost six months decorating the old rooms, changing them from the brownness that had been in situ to white, beautiful clear white. and now, with Christmas a mere ten days away, she was giving in to the spirit of the time and adding the colour she craved to bring the white to life. Brightly coloured cushions, rugs, kitchenware, showing up beautifully against the white walls and furniture.  

The Christmas tree was stunning. Moving into the huge old Victorian property part way through the year had caused Millie to discard her old artificial tree into the skip instead of taking it with her, and go for a real one for the first time in her life. At eight feet tall it had been a spur of the moment purchase, and she hadn’t given much thought to putting the fairy in her beautiful white organza dress on top, or indeed decorating any of the higher up branches. Her decorating steps had come in very handy.

She carried the steps to the cellar head and left them there – she had no doubt she would need them again before all her decorations were complete. A cellar head. When she moved into the house she didn’t know what her friend Lisa was talking about when she mentioned the term, so they investigated together. It transpired the cellar had been where coal was stored, and the cellar head, a spacious area at the top of the cellar steps, was used as a pantry of sorts.

She doubted she would use it as a pantry, but it was very handy for tins of paint, stepladders and such, and after Christmas her decorations would be stored there.

The tree stood magnificently in the centre of the ornately beautiful bay window, and all the white decorations gleamed and glowed, highlighted by the white tree lights. It stood in a copper pot, and she had tied a huge bow of white satin ribbon around it.

Millie smiled. ‘Thank you, grandma,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you approve of what I’ve done. I haven’t found any decorations you had, so I’m guessing you didn’t do Christmas. You’ll be very welcome to watch over my Christmas.’

She couldn’t really remember much about the old lady. There were vague memories of seeing her during her early childhood, but suddenly all visits stopped. Even when Millie’s parents died in that dreadful car crash, Grandma hadn’t appeared. But she had obviously never forgotten her granddaughter, because she had been the only beneficiary in her will.

Millie felt relieved that the decision to only use white on the tree had paid off. It was indeed a wondrous sight, and she hummed merrily to herself as she swapped the position of two or three of the white baubles until she felt satisfied that nothing could be improved.

Ten days to go, and it would be Christmas Eve. Lisa, without family of her own, had been delighted to be invited for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, and Millie had put a lot of effort into making sure the guest bedroom was warm and welcoming for her first house guest. The bed was adorned with a Christmas quilt, and the Tiffany bedside lamp cast an ethereal glow around the room that brought a smile to Millie’s face every time she switched it on.

Wine had been bought, the turkey had been ordered, and Millie finally felt her life was starting to be exactly how she had always wanted it. It seemed that every day now she was whispering ‘Thank you, Grandma,’ at some point in it, and sometimes she almost felt as if she could feel the old lady’s presence, although not in a scary way. There was just a small warm ambience, and Millie somehow knew her grandmother had been happy here.

With decorations completed, Millie popped a small pizza into the oven; she was happily tired, and couldn’t bear the thought of anything more complicated than a pizza for her evening meal.

While she waited for her food she poured a glass of Prosecco, and raised the glass towards the tree. ‘’Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Congratulations, Millie, cracking job.’ She had carefully tucked one of the tree lights under the skirt of the fairy, and the beautiful little doll glowed. Her dress appeared magical, and brought a huge smile to Millie’s face. ‘Titania,’ she said, ‘I shall call you Titania.’

Millie slept soundly, her own Christmas quilt wrapped snuggly around her. She woke to the voice of Alexa telling her it was time to get up, so she asked the disembodied lady to turn on the tree lights.

She had commissions to fill; portraits of pets painted by her had given her a good income for three years now, enough that she had been able to leave a stutteringly boring office job and set up her own studio. Christmas was always her busiest time, with people wanting the portraits for Christmas gifts. She had taken orders for five the previous day, but today was a day to post out the three completed ones.

She showered and dressed before heading downstairs, made herself toast and a coffee and wandered into the lounge, collecting her mail as she did so. Three Christmas cards from highly satisfied ex-customers who like to keep in touch each year, and she knew she would have to come up with some idea for displaying the cards, instead of them remaining in a small pile on the bookshelves.

She bit into her toast and looked at the tree. She couldn’t help but look at it, it was mesmerising. And then she shuddered. What…

She stood and walked over to the tree. A red bauble was tucked tightly between two white ones. She reached into the branches and tugged it out, staring at it as if it was something that had appeared from outer space.

‘How the hell did I not notice I’d put a red one on?’ She spoke aloud, not expecting any sort of answer. All the other baubles were white, there was no way she would have bought a red one. She would have noticed one red one, surely, in the new box of all white baubles she had specifically purchased.

She carried it as if it was a contaminated object and dropped it into the bin in the kitchen, before returning to her lounge. Her toast had gone cold, so she left it, and sipped at her coffee. Pensive. A red bauble. Her mother had always liked red, red was Christmas.

‘No,’ she said to the world in general, ‘white is the new Christmas. My Christmas.’

She went out early and posted off the three parcels, then strolled back home. She enjoyed the walk, on that mild December day, and looked forward to a few hours of painting. The Yorkie was coming along beautifully, and she knew it would be finished by lunchtime. The Dobermann was up next, with his brown/black sheen on his coat, and she reflected that the breed was a first for her, so she was looking forward to getting the initial sketching done.

Lisa called around later and the girls ordered in a Chinese takeaway, chatting constantly, mainly about Lisa’s day as a primary school teacher.

Millie took her into the studio to show her the finished Yorkie and the sketch of the Dobermann, and Lisa sighed. ‘You’re so lucky to be able to work from home. But I’m wrong, aren’t I? It’s not luck, it’s talent. Do you ever regret leaving Mortons?’

Millie laughed. ‘Not for one minute. I’ll never make a fortune, but now thanks to my lovely grandmother I don’t need to worry about that. I make enough, I enjoy life, and I’m never totally without work. People seem to love their pets more than their kids, I often think. And leaving Mortons got me away from Jon. Best thing I ever did.’

‘He’s got somebody new now,’ Lisa said. ‘Some employee. Maybe he just tries them all out.’

‘I thank God every day I found out in time. I really couldn’t care less about him now. Glass of wine?’

The following morning There were two red baubles. These caused a definite frown to appear on Millie’s face, and she dumped them unceremoniously in the kitchen waste bin. She felt a little unnerved, and walked back into the lounge to cast a speculative eye over the tree. The baubles were all definitely white, no coloured ones anywhere amongst the branches, and she took out her phone to take a quick snap of it.

‘Grandma,’ she said, keeping her voice down to its minimum volume, ‘no disrespect, but if this is you doing this, I’m not amused. Red on the tree isn’t my choice, so pack it in.’

She headed to her studio, and tried to put it out of her mind, a little unsuccessfully. She worked on the Dobermann, pleased with how it was progressing, and then put it to one side to begin the next sketch, which was of a cat. She thought it looked pretty evil with its black fur and white paws, but guessed somebody loved the animal very much.

With the sketch completed, she returned to the Dobermann and it was almost four by the time she went back to the lounge, feeling hungry.

The three red baubles on her tree made the hunger pangs disappear completely. She checked the picture on her phone that she had taken only that morning when she had removed the previous two baubles, and saw that these new additions definitely weren’t visible at that point.

She rang Lisa, gabbled on about the house being haunted, and Lisa attempted to calm her by saying she would be there within half an hour.

She arrived with a bottle of red wine, and made Millie sit down and repeat, a bit more slowly, everything she had tried to say on the phone. ‘Go and look in the kitchen bin,’ Millie insisted. ‘You’ll see three red baubles there. And there’s another three still on the tree.’

Lisa checked, agreed she was right, but refused to believe it was some sort of haunting. ‘No such things as ghosts,’ she said. ‘There has to be a more logical reason.’

‘Go on then,’ Millie said.

‘Well, I don’t know. Let’s have a think. And a glass of wine.’

They decided, amidst drunk giggles, that Lisa would stay the night, would witness Millie removing the three baubles and throwing them in the kitchen bin which would then be transferred to the black bin outside immediately, and would be first downstairs the following morning.

There were four baubles the next day. They had locked the lounge door as they went to bed and Millie had insisted Lisa take the key with her, and gave her a piece of ribbon to tie it around her wrist.

‘Then you’ll know it’s not me sleep walking or anything, because I can’t get into the lounge if you’ve got the key.’

And yet it seemed somebody was getting into the lounge. ‘I’m beginning to believe in ghosts,’ Lisa said. ‘Should you be talking to the local vicar? He can come and bless the house or something, get your grandma to move on to the other side.’

‘So you agree it’s her spirit that’s doing it?’

‘I can’t come up with any other explanation. You need to talk to somebody.’

The blessing went well, although the vicar did say he could get no sense of an unhappy spirit. He went away after praying with Millie, and she settled on the sofa, feeling happier that it would now stop. Hopefully.

She glanced towards the top of the tree, allowing her eyes to follow the branches as they grew smaller towards the spike. There had been none today, and she wondered if Grandma had sensed the imminent arrival of the vicar.

Then she saw it. One red bauble high up near the fairy with her incandescent dress lit up by the tree lights. A last throw of the bauble by her dear departed grandma?

She brought a dining chair through, stood on it and reached up to grab the bauble. It came away easily. And then she heard a small voice.

‘Okay, let’s get this sorted, thicko. You’ve shoved a tree light up my arse, and while it may make my dress look even prettier, it’s bloody uncomfortable. Let’s have a deal. No more red baubles if you’ll take this light out of my nether regions. Deal?’

Millie felt dizzy. She clung onto the chair back while she tried to work out what was happening. She dropped the bauble on the floor.

‘Clumsy.’

She stared at the little doll, and realised that what she had thought of as a pretty face was actually quite demonic. Her hands reached towards the light under the fairy’s dress, and she moved it so that it was positioned back on the tree.

‘Thank the lord for that,’ the fairy said.

Millie reached up and removed the doll from the tree, broke her in half to the sound of a shriek, and carried her outside to the black bin.

Millie went out later that day and bought a star tree topper that came with its own built in lights. She told Lisa that she’d changed her mind about a fairy, and decided she wanted a star. Lisa simply nodded, and took the conversation no further. Red baubles were never again mentioned.

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Flora Davis cried almost continuously for the first two days and nights.

Nothing could have prepared her for Andy’s words when he had called off their wedding with only three weeks to go, and her reaction to the whole situation had been to run away, once she had stopped crying.

She ran as far as the nearest travel agent, said she needed a small cabin somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire, and she wanted it for two weeks from the twenty-first of December to the fourth of January; her intention was to forget about Christmas and the wedding planned for Boxing Day and as for New Years Eve, with its promise of new beginnings, stuff that one. Jools Holland could take a running jump, alongside bloody Andy Thompson and his new floozy, Mel Collins. Pregnant Mel Collins.

The cabin was tiny; a lounge and kitchen shared the main room, and the bedroom was en-suite. The owners had put in a Christmas tree, charged her three times the normal rate, and left her a welcome pack of milk, bread and cheese, along with instructions about lighting the wood burning stove with the wood kept outside.

Her first action had been to investigate the woodpile; the temperature had dropped and she knew she needed to warm up the place. She took the huge log basket and headed outside, grumbling under her breath that she would have preferred the basket to be filled rather than the meagre welcome pack.

It was only a few steps to the covered wood store, and she quickly loaded the basket and carried it back inside. Following the instructions to the letter she soon had a roaring blaze going, and she moved on to emptying her car boot.

She had brought plenty of food to supplement the welcome pack left by the absentee owners, and it didn’t take long to stash it all away, before moving on to the bedroom where she hung her clothes.

The cabin was feeling nicely warmed and comfortable and after checking the time she decided to slip into her pjs, batten down the hatches, and try to forget there was a world of sorts outside the confines of the home she had chosen for two weeks. She unplugged the Christmas tree lights that she couldn’t remember having plugged in, said bah humbug and settled down into the armchair, before jumping up immediately to check she had locked the door. She took the added precaution of sliding on the chain, then opened her Kindle and a bottle of wine. Both were equally pleasurable.

Flora read until her eyes began to close, so she double-checked the instructions for keeping the fire slumbering through the night and ready to spring into action next morning, then took herself off to bed.

Snuggled under the duvet and temporarily awake again, she read for a few minutes longer, felt the Kindle bang her on the nose, and gave in to sleep.

Flora woke at six, disoriented and a little bit frightened. Her dream hadn’t been pleasant; not nightmare nasty, but nevertheless it made her feel uneasy. Combined with an initial “where am I” shock, she sat up, trembling slightly. Slowly she recovered, and pulled the duvet higher up her shoulders to warm herself through before venturing out into the morning air.

She switched on the lamp; dawn’s influence hadn’t arrived in the northern hemisphere. The inky blackness of her bedroom was exactly that. She decided that in future she would leave her bedroom door open a little, giving a bit of a glow from the banked up wood burner, and allowing the warmth to permeate the entire cabin. She never had liked sleeping in total blackness.

Her thoughts drifted to Andy. Six o’clock every day had been the time when Andy went into the kitchen, made them a coffee each, and they stayed in bed and drank the drinks until half past six, before starting their work days. That wouldn’t happen in future, thanks to floozy Mel and Andy’s half-mast trousers.

The image caused her to splutter with laughter, and she threw back the duvet and walked into the lounge to get her own early morning coffee. There was still a tiny bit of life in the fire, so she placed more wood on it, noting she would need to stock up the wood basket again very shortly.

Her chores done, she crossed to the kitchen area and switched on the kettle. Two minutes later she cradled a hot mug and curled up in the armchair, her eyes drawn to the flicker of the wood burner. And the flicker of the Christmas tree lights.

‘What the…?’ Flora muttered under her breath. She stood and approached the tree, knowing it had been off when she went to bed. She had unplugged it, there was no on/off switch for the lights. She stared at the plug fixed firmly into the wall socket, touched it tentatively and then pulled it out, dropping it with a clatter against the skirting board.

The heat from the fire no longer warmed her; she felt chilled through to the marrow, and shivered. There was nobody else there who could possibly have plugged that bloody tree back in.

Crossing to the door, she tried the handle. Firmly locked. To make doubly sure she was secure, she slipped on the chain. The chain that was dangling from the door jamb, the chain she knew she had slipped into its brass channel on the door the night before.

She moved slowly back to the armchair, her eyes never leaving the door. How could that be? Had she been sleepwalking? There were only two rooms, for heaven’s sake! Nobody else could be in here! And she’d already used the bathroom so nobody was lurking in there.

Flora finished her drink then headed back into the bedroom to have a shower and change. A good walk and a think was all she needed. She had to have been sleepwalking, but as far as she was aware she’d never done that in her life before. Perhaps it was the shock of losing Andy after ten years together that had prompted her sleeping brain to become restless. Or the Stephen King book she had been reading as she had fallen asleep.

She took off the black jumper and swapped it for a red one. This twenty-second of December wasn’t a time for blackness, it was a time for redness, for temporarily leaving skirt suits and blouses behind. A time to learn to live without the routine of Andy.

A weak wintery sun had put in an appearance, but the icy-coldness of the air snatched at her throat. She locked the door behind her, wrapped her red scarf a little higher to cover her nose, and set off to explore her surroundings. She was deep in the heart of the woods, and could see no other cabins but knew they were there. The travel agent had said they only had one vacancy, the one she was in, all the others were inhabited for the Christmas period. Probably by others running away from something, she thought. Not everybody fancied a date with a man dressed in red. Sometimes it was best to forget the whole thing, and listen to the radio.

There was no television in the cabin, so Jools Holland wouldn’t have been an option anyway, but she had found a small radio under the sink and thought that might be good to have on to take away the absolute stillness of the evening. Stephen King could be just a little too spooky in absolute silence, and she wondered at her choice of re-reading Salem’s Lot – maybe she should have gone for one of the others that wasn’t so terrifying.

She picked up a stick to help her navigate the trail she was following; parts of it were muddy and she was having to travel those parts with care. In the distance she could see another cabin, smoke rising from its chimney, but she decided not to approach it. She stood for a moment, leaning on her stick, and surveyed the area for signs of humans, but saw nothing. She checked her watch, saw she had been out for over an hour so decided to head back and warm herself once more. She turned around, ever hopeful she would be able to find her way home, and he was standing right behind her.

She gave a small scream, and he held up a hand as if to say sorry. He was an older man, she thought, and the only part she could see of his face was his bright blue eyes. Like her he had a red scarf covering his mouth and nose.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you lost?’

She smiled, although he couldn’t tell. ‘No, I don’t think so. I only arrived yesterday, so I’ve more or less come in a straight line for a walk. I was just about to turn back. I was so deep inside my head I didn’t hear you coming up behind me.’

‘You’ll be okay going back? You’ve probably noticed mobile phones don’t work here so if you get into trouble, you’re really in trouble.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Flora said. ‘Nice to have met you.’

‘And nice to have met you. If you need help at any time, that’s my place,’ and he pointed to the cabin she had been observing.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and he stood aside to let her pass him.

‘You’re welcome. Happy Christmas.’

She didn’t respond, instead began to climb the slight incline that led towards her own cabin.

She kept her coat on until she had filled the wood basket, then decided enough was enough of fresh air. Now she needed the fug and warmth of indoors. The tree bore green branches and baubles, no lights, and she put the strange occurrences down to her absentmindedness.

She didn’t really want lunch but knew she should as she had omitted breakfast, so she opened a tin of soup and ate it without tasting it. Her Kindle was her companion and she blessed her foresight in loading some new books onto it for when she finished Salem’s Lot, as lack of a signal would have meant re-reading older books. She switched on the radio, but every station seemed to be playing Christmas music only, and she really didn’t want Christmas. She turned it off and put it back under the sink.

She read, found the pack of cards she’d slipped in as a last minute addition to her handbag and played solitaire, had several cups of tea, and generally passed the day away. Every minute ticked relentlessly towards Boxing Day, but she planned on spending the whole day in bed, head under a pillow if necessary, lost in sleep. And unhappiness.

The morning of the twenty-third dawned and it was light, much to her surprise. She checked her watch; eight-thirty-two. She luxuriated a little longer but in the end her bladder won and she got up just after nine.

No Christmas tree lights, chain on the door; she must have been hallucinating the day before, she decided. The fire had given up the ghost and gone out but the cabin still felt reasonably warm, so she quickly relaid the fire and lit it.

She had a quick fifteen minute walk around the close locality of her cabin, saw the man she had met the previous day off in the distance, and waved. He waved back, but that was as close to civilisation as she wanted to be.

She returned to the cabin, images of a warming hot chocolate filling her mind, and took off her coat before putting some milk in a pan. She knew she would have to go out eventually to track down a shop selling milk, even if she could manage with everything else, but she reckoned she would be okay until after Christmas. After Boxing Day.

The Christmas tree lights were flickering gently, and she paused, her mouth open, hot chocolate clutched in her hand. She placed the mug on the coffee table and walked over to the tree. The plug was firmly in the socket.

‘It’s freakin’ haunted,’ she whispered, and spun around, half expecting a diaphanous white sheeted figure to be standing behind her. ‘It’s the only answer.’

She spent the next five minutes re-arranging the furniture so that the back of the chair was to a wall, and nobody could approach from behind her, put the pouffe in front of her so that she was a little more comfortable, dragged her quilt through and settled down. The tree was dumped outside, and leant crookedly against the wood store.

She would stay awake all night and watch whatever was happening in this spooky cabin before heading out the door as if Satan himself was after her if there was so much as a flicker of anything vaguely supernatural. She had locked and chained the door, but had left her car unlocked ready for the getaway if it should be needed. The keys were in her dressing gown pocket.

By midnight she could feel her eyes closing despite Stephen King; she retrieved the radio in an effort at staying awake, and found a station that she could sing along to. That was okay up to the point they played ‘their’ Billy Joel song. The tears came yet again, so she switched it off. She was fully awake now.

By three she was fast asleep, darkness enveloping and surrounding her cabin, silent and still as snow started to fall.

She woke with a start and the first thing she saw was the Christmas tree. It was back in its usual place, the plug in the socket.

‘No,’ she moaned, ‘I can’t do Christmas this year.’

Somebody seemed determined that she would do Christmas, and she half wondered if Andy had found out where she was and was tormenting her. She wouldn’t have thought it was in his nature, but had she really known him at all? She wouldn’t have thought he would have screwed floozy Mel either, so it just went to show she knew nothing.

Could it be the owners? Did they object to her putting their tree outside? That seemed ludicrous, she imagined the owners would be off holidaying in Jamaica or somewhere on their ill-gotten gains from her rental money of their cabin, and so the last thing on their minds would be the bloody Christmas tree.

She gave up. If it was the local neighbourhood ghost, she hadn’t seen it, it clearly meant her no harm, and she supposed the tree could stay. She felt too tired to argue about it with anyone, spectral or otherwise.

She opened the curtains, and was shocked to see the depth of the snow. It turned her thoughts of a quick escape with the car keys still firmly in her pocket into a bit of a joke. That car wouldn’t be going anywhere.

As the day wore on she found her mind going back to earlier Christmas Eves when they had been happy and she thought Andy had loved her. She had certainly loved him, and they had spoken of having children, but most of all having the big white wedding she had always dreamed of.

She finally gave in to sleep just after nine, but left the tree lights on and the door to her bedroom slightly ajar. Maybe her nocturnal visitor would turn them off instead of on, just to be awkward.

Flora had eleven hours of undisturbed sleep, and she made the fire as a priority. Then she switched on the kettle, considered a bacon sandwich for breakfast as it was a special morning, but decided to hang fire on that until she had woken up properly. She turned on the radio to have Christmas Day wishes flung at her from around the globe, and she finally sat down in the armchair with her cup of tea.

That was when she saw it.

It was a silver and red gift bag, fairly large, with a star tag attached to the handle. She froze. It was all very well getting glib about potential ghosts in the offing, but ghosts that left gifts? Not an earthly. This was truly scary. And didn’t the atmosphere suddenly feel cooler?

She glanced around her and touched her dressing gown pocket. The keys were still there. Then she realised so was the snow.

She stood and walked over to the tree, still merrily flashing its lights. She didn’t know whether to touch the gift bag or not, prepared to concede there may be a severed head, or something equally gruesome in it. Stephen King had a lot to answer for. She tentatively touched the handle, and, without picking it up, peered inside.

There was no blood, so she figured it wasn’t a severed head. She gingerly hooked one finger under the cord handle, and lifted it away from the tree. It was quite heavy. Not the severed head, surely…

She took it back to her chair and placed it on her knee to read the label.

It couldn’t have been simpler. ‘For Flora’.

Carefully she opened the top. It was packed with festive tissue paper, so she began to remove it.

The first item out of the bag was a bottle of champagne. Expensive champagne. She stood it on the coffee table and took out a gold box containing a champagne flute, a stunningly beautiful one.

She stood that by the bottle, and then removed the third item, a small tablet. She took it out of its packaging, wondering what on earth was happening. She opened it, and watched as the screen sprang to life.

The cabin through the woods was in the background, and a man – the man who had made her jump – was in the foreground, dressed in red with a resplendent white beard and standing by the side of a reindeer.

‘Hello, Flora,’ he said. ‘Guess who? I’m no longer in my cabin, I started work pretty early yesterday, and will have nearly finished by the time you get this, then I’m going straight home. The wife makes me have a break on my own before Christmas Eve every year, and this year I knew you would be coming. The champagne and flute are to wish you every happiness. This coming year will be amazing for you, so drink to that, won’t you. And as for tomorrow, get out in those woods, celebrate the day, and forget about the half-baked loser you’ve managed to avoid having in your life. Next year is your year, and you’ll be happy again. Oh, and when you have your children, and they get to about nine or ten, don’t agree with them that Santa isn’t real, that won’t do at all. You’ll be the one telling the lie.’

He smiled and waved, blew her a kiss and faded slowly from the screen as the little sign saying NO SERVICE appeared in the top left hand corner.

The Happy Seat

The sign on the worn bench said it was a Happy Seat.

This is a Happy Seat. Sit here if you would like somebody to join you for a chat.

It stood on a tiny paved area and surrounded by grass, overlooking the beautiful beach at Bude in Cornwall. The wooden slats had clearly been well used over the years.

The woman, who looked to be in her twenties or thirties although a little old-fashioned in her dress, had been sitting there for around ten minutes, and Annabel had been keeping an eye on her, fearful of intruding yet knowing that if somebody did want to talk, that was why they had chosen that spot. In the end, Annabel found her courage, and walked up the slight incline leading to the seat.

‘Hello,’ Annabel said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’ The woman responded with a smile, and shuffled along the bench slightly to allow Annabel room to sit comfortably while placing her two shopping bags alongside her.

‘I come here almost every day,’ Annabel said, ‘simply to look at the beach, pet a few dogs and have fifteen minutes or so of peace.’

‘It’s a beautiful spot,’ the woman agreed. ‘People should stop a while at this bench, give themselves a few minutes break from their busy lives.’

‘Exactly!’ Annabel exclaimed. ‘My nan and I used to come here every day. She died on this bench, six weeks ago. We sat watching children playing on the beach, and a little dog ran up to us. I bent to stroke it, but Nan didn’t, and I knew something was wrong. She’d gone, but she’d gone in her favourite spot. I miss her so much, I was her carer, and I know I should get a job now, but…’

‘But you don’t want to, not yet,’ the woman finished for Annabel. ‘You aren’t ready yet. Give it time. You’ll know when it happens. And my deepest condolences. Your life must have changed immediately.’

‘It did. We were very close. I never knew my granddad, he died when he was very young. My nan always said she stopped living the day he died. I was born a month later.’

‘You must have been such a comfort to her.’

Annabel nodded, suddenly aware she was doing all the talking, and yet it had been the lady who had sat on the Happy Seat. ‘I was, and when my mum died when I was six I went to live with my nan. I never had a dad, he apparently disappeared when he found out Mum was pregnant with me. I had such a lovely life with Nan, but the payback is that now I feel lost.’

Annabel brushed her dark hair away from her face, surreptitiously removing a tear as she did so. Love caused tears, no doubt about that.

The woman half moved her hand out in comfort, and said, ‘Oh, you will, you’ll not get over it quickly. But that doesn’t matter. Keep coming here, to this special place, live with your memories. The pain will lessen.’

Annabel gave a slight laugh. ‘Listen to me going on about my sorrows, when you are the one sitting here requesting that somebody stop by to chat with you. I’m so sorry. I just feel I haven’t spoken to anybody since Nan went.’

‘She’ll always be with you, your nan,’ the woman said gently. ‘And I only came here on a whim, I certainly didn’t expect someone as nice as you to pass some time with me. I will always be grateful for these few minutes we’ve shared.’

The two women sat in silence for a couple of minutes, watching the beach activity. Surf boarders catching the waves were in the distance, while closer to them were the children, digging huge holes, or patiently waiting for their daddies to finish the castles so they could jump on them and knock them down. It was an idyllic scene in the warmth of the sunshine.

Annabel slipped her hand into her coat pocket. ‘Would you like a jelly baby?’ she asked, and offered the packet to the woman. ‘Nan and I kept the Bassett factory in business over the years. We love them. Loved them.’

The woman smiled at her and declined. ‘I allow myself a couple of sweets each night so I’ll not spoil my evening treat by accepting one now, thank you. You’re very kind to offer, though.’

Annabel began to gather her bags together, then stood. ‘I’m here most days around this time,’ she said to the woman. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again soon.’

‘I hope so,’ the woman smiled. ‘It’s been an absolute delight to chat with you.’

Annabel walked down the slight grassed incline towards the tarmac path, and then she heard the woman speak once more.

‘Goodbye, Annabel, my lovely girl. Have a happy life. I love you.’

Annabel gasped and turned at the sound of the so familiar voice.

The seat was empty apart from an unopened packet of jelly babies.

WHAT’S MY NUMBER?

Summerlea, in the golden glow of the evening sun, looked magnificent. Andrew had never tired of the view from the south edge of the lawn; it was a sight he had enjoyed all his life.

In the long scorching summer of 1973, the sun had reflected on its mullioned windows almost every evening; now he was contemplating the possibility of moving into the small lodge cottage by the gates at the bottom of the drive, with Carl, his manservant of many years and of equal age.

He knew that Emily was nearing the end. Her cancer had robbed her of everything but her fear. She was so afraid.

He sighed and walked slowly across the verdant stretch of lawn, enjoying the last few rays of the sun that had been there all day. Carl met him at the front door.

‘Emily is asking for you. She’s much more aware than she was earlier.’

‘Thank you, Carl, I’ll go straight up.’

‘Do you want a drink, Andrew?’

‘I’ll have a small whisky, Carl. I’ll go up to Emily now.’

He climbed the ornate staircase leading out of the massive entrance hall and turned right at the top, before heading for the room prepared for his wife now that she needed twenty-four-hour nursing. How he missed sharing a bed with her, his beautiful Emily.

She smiled as he walked in.

‘Hello, my darling, Carl says you’re feeling a little better.’

‘I am.’ Her frailty showed in her voice.

‘Then would you like me to read to you? Or maybe watch a little television?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I need to talk before my strength goes again.’ She looked pointedly at her nurse.

Andrew smiled. ‘Jean, will she be okay if you leave us for a bit? Go and have a break while I’m here. I’ll knock on your door as I’m leaving.’

Jean smoothed down the bed covers and nodded. ‘Fetch me if you need me.’

Carl passed her as she left, holding Andrew’s drink.

‘Thank you, Andrew. Emily and I are just going to have a little chat, but maybe you and I could have a game of chess after we’ve eaten?’

‘Of course. It’s cook’s night off, so she’s left us a salad for our meal. I’ll see you later.’ He smiled at Emily. ‘And don’t rush. You’re looking a little better today, Emily.’

He left the room and quietness returned.

Andrew bent and kissed his wife’s forehead. ‘You’re as beautiful as ever. I love you, Em.’

‘I know you do, but, oh, my lovely Andrew, I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’

They had been completely open with each other since the diagnosis and prognosis of the cancer had been confirmed. Emily knew she had, at best, six months left with her family, and already five of those precious months had slipped away.

‘There will be no pain,’ he said gently and brushed away a recalcitrant tear from his cheek.

‘That’s not my fear,’ she whispered.

‘Then…?’

‘What if I’m not dead?’

‘What?’ Shock was etched on Andrew’s face.

‘What if I’m not dead?’ she repeated. ‘What if I slip into one of those comas where they can’t detect anything? I’ll be in that coffin and unable to get out.’

Andrew was at a complete loss for words. She’d always been able to throw curve-balls at him, but this was overwhelming.

Eventually he spoke. ‘But you’ve asked to be laid to rest in the family vault. I will visit you every day, stand by the side of your coffin.’

‘I will be weak, you may not hear me.’ Her logic was taking his breath. The worry was clearly overwhelming her.

He held her hand. ‘I don’t know what to say to reassure you, my love. Except to say they don’t make mistakes like that.’

‘Yes, they do. You hear stories of people suddenly sitting up in the morgue, because they’ve come around from a coma.’ Her voice was weakening. ‘Listen to me, Andrew, if you install a phone on the wall next to where my coffin will lie and cut a hinged hatch in the side of the coffin so that I can get my hand through it, I will be able to contact you.’

He stared at her, his eyes wide. ‘I don’t think BT will install a phone in a mausoleum, Emily.’

‘Andrew, they will install a phone in the dog kennel, if you pay them enough money. And we certainly have enough money. Please, my love, stop this dread for me.’

He knew he had no choice.

‘I will ring tomorrow.’

Three days later the phone was installed. He watched the two engineers work and offered no explanation why a phone in a place of eternal rest was necessary. To their credit, neither man asked.

It didn’t take them long and he gave both men a hefty tip, with words of admonishment. ‘Speak nothing of this. I do not need anybody to know of it.’

Emily’s passing was peaceful. He was with her, along with their two sons, Michael and Philip. Michael and his wife Clare would now take control of Summerlea fully, although they had shared it with Andrew and Emily for the last eight years. Andrew had told them he would be moving out, along with Carl, as soon as the refurbishment work on the lodge was complete.

Philip had returned from his life in America to be with his mother at the end, but he would be flying home shortly. Life would go on.

Never, in the whole of Andrew’s life, could he remember feeling as he did in the final moments of Emily’s life. Her breathing had slowed, until finally it was no more. Jean had felt her neck, and simply shook her head. ‘I’ll ring the doctor,’ she had said.

And they had taken her away from him.

The funeral hadn’t been a sombre affair, at Emily’s request, and she had asked to be smothered with flowers. All had happened exactly as she had requested, and the hatch cut into the side of the coffin was hardly visible, so expertly had it been done.

Michael and Philip had queried the phone on the wall, but he had explained he didn’t want to be taken ill in the vault, and unable to get help. It was just a safety precaution.

Three weeks after the funeral he moved into the lodge. The small three-bedroomed cottage was large enough for the two old men to see out the rest of their days, finally changing from employer/employee status to friends.

And life went on. He visited Emily most days at first, but after moving into the lodge he settled into weekly visits where he told her all the family news, including the fact that Michael and Clare were expecting their second child. Summerlea would remain within the family for a long time to come.

The phone in the vault faded into the back of his mind. It wasn’t visible because Emily’s coffin hid it from view, and he had almost forgotten its existence until one day when Clare walked down the drive delivering mail that had been delivered to the main house.

She grinned at her father-in-law. ‘Look at this,’ she said, and patted the bump that was now obvious.

‘You can’t help but look at it,’ he smiled. ‘Tea?’

‘No, I’m fine thanks. I need to get back, we’re turning one of the smaller rooms into a nursery for this little one, and the decorators are coming to discuss what we want. I just thought I’d better bring this post to you. Could be bills,’ she said with a laugh. She kissed him, said goodbye, and left them to their elevenses.

He looked through the mail, six letters in all, and saw one was from BT. He opened it, assuming it was notification of a price increase. The telephone at the lodge was paid on the same bill as the Summerlea one, so he knew it couldn’t be an actual invoice.

It was. He was temporarily puzzled by it, but then realised it was the telephone in the vault. Installation charges and the first six months line rental.

‘Just a small bill,’ he said and waved it at Carl. ‘I’ll see to it when I go into my office.’

And he did. He wrote out a cheque, changed his address to the lodge, and put a stamp on the envelope before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He would post it later.

He put the original bill into his paid folder and went out into the garden. It was very much cooler now and he was surprised to see a few roses still struggling on, bringing a little colour into his life. The chrysanthemums were starting to wilt now, and he vowed to remove them; the smell of them reminded him all too clearly of the day of the funeral.

Carl had taken over the mowing of the lawn but there had been no growth since the last cut, two weeks earlier. Time was moving on for the two old men, but he missed Emily so much.

They would often speak of her as they sat with a whisky at night, pondering over the next move in their chess game.

That damn bill had caused the grief to rise very close to the surface again, a grief he had managed until now.

He went back into the cottage; Carl was reading the newspaper. ‘Want anything?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m going for a walk down to the village, post this letter, and get us some fresh bread. Do we need anything else?’

‘Don’t think so. Do you want me to drive you?’ Carl had always driven him around.

‘No, you relax, do your crossword. The walk will do me good. I won’t be long.’

He was out just over an hour, and as soon as he returned to his armchair, he slept. Carl smiled. They really were aging.

Carl woke him with a sandwich and a cup of tea. ‘If you sleep much longer, you won’t sleep tonight.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Just after two. Here, have this sandwich. We’ll have a late dinner tonight.’

‘Good Lord, I’ve been asleep a while, then. It was so cold out there, and when I got back in and warmed up, I thought I’d close my eyes for five minutes. Looks like my five minutes turned into a couple of hours.’

He finished lunch, washed the few dishes they had used and went into his office. Summerlea remained in his ownership until his death, but that involved routine paperwork occasionally, and he knew he had some stuff to clear up.

It had been a good life, an exceptional life, and he knew when he re-joined his Emily, he would have no regrets. His hand strayed to the paid bills folder, and he took out the BT bill.

It suddenly occurred to him there was a telephone number on it.

If only he could dial it and have a chat with her. A sort of hot line to Heaven. He straightened out the bill and read through it.

Zero for calls, line rental charges…

What if he rang it? It wouldn’t be answered so the call wouldn’t show on the bill that went to Summerlea… could he indulge himself just this once, and pretend she could hear him, one last coming together? He missed her so much…

He pulled the phone towards him, then hesitated. Was he being stupid? Of course he was. Utterly stupid. His hand hesitated over the dial, and then without any further thought, he dialled the number on the BT bill.

It was engaged.

VODKA AND CHOKE

Karen Hardcastle loved Crete. She loved the heat, the people, the hotel they visited every year, and she loved Rethymnon.

She didn’t love her life and she most definitely didn’t love her husband, but that was the price she paid for her two weeks in the sun, by a pool.

The lottery win of eight years earlier had been immediately commandeered by Jimmy, with him saying the £138,000 would give them holidays for the rest of their lives. She never saw a penny of it.

The clothes she had bought from the charity shop for that first holiday, she kept carefully washed and pressed. By judicious use of her housekeeping money, she had managed to add a couple of tops, or a pair of shorts each year, and he hadn’t queried their appearance – so far.

He never spoke of how much was left of the money; he always booked them on an all-inclusive board basis to ensure they didn’t need spending money. The €200 he bought every year from Sainsbury’s almost always went back into the bank in its entirety.

Jimmy, she knew, loved his two weeks in the sun. His miserable attitude that pervaded him for the other fifty weeks a year was non-existent for that fortnight, as the notion of a free bar for fourteen days settled over and surrounded him.

She lay on the pool-side lounger and closed her eyes. Jimmy was to her left, the small coffee table and the umbrella pole between them.

‘You want the umbrella up or down?’ he queried.

Still with her eyes closed, she replied, ‘Oh, leave it down for a bit. I’ll work on my tan today.’

He nodded and leaned back on his lounger. He liked this time of year, early June; it meant there was no frantic early morning scramble to claim the loungers, and very few children about. The temperature was perfect… he closed his eyes and let the mid-morning heat wash over him.

‘What time is it?’

Karen sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up slightly so that she could see the poolside clock. It occurred to her that Jimmy could have done the same, but she didn’t mention that.

‘Almost ten o’clock.’ Why the fuck couldn’t you have looked at the clock?

‘Fancy a drink?’

Inwardly she groaned. She’d just got settled and now he wanted her to fetch drinks.

She began to sit up.

‘You wait there, I’ll go and get them,’ he said.

Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. He was already on his feet.

‘Diet Coke?’ he asked.

She nodded, still fully expecting him to tell her to go and get the drinks. He headed towards the bar and her eyes followed him.

This was their fourth day at the hotel, the fourth day of sitting around the pool, and he had never once been to get their drinks. His “standing order” drink of vodka and Coke in the evening, saw him collect their first drinks of the night, but she was expected to go and collect any subsequent ones from the bar, as he became progressively more drunk. And Gorgio had been on duty for the duration of each evening, so far.

Gorgio, with the smiley brown eyes, the dimple in his cheek when he laughed; they knew several long-term members of the staff, but Gorgio was a newcomer.

Last night she had positioned herself at their table, so she could see his area of the bar at all times, and it had made the evening bearable.

Jimmy returned carrying two diet Cokes in plastic glasses, and placed one on her side of the table, before taking a sip of his own drink.

He put down the plastic tumbler, took off his t shirt and announced he was going for a swim. Karen watched him walk to the shallow end of the pool, and quickly took a sip of his drink. She couldn’t smell the vodka, couldn’t see any difference between the two drinks, but she could certainly taste the vodka.

She felt cold, despite the heat of the sun. If he was drinking at 10am, it was going to be a very long day. She replaced his drink and watched as he went backwards – very carefully – down the steps into the pool. He had never been able to swim and always stayed in the shallow end. To him, the pool was a place to be used to cool down, not a place for fun and exercise.

He climbed out ten minutes later and returned to his lounger, sitting with his back to his wife.

‘Sun cream,’ he said, and Karen sat up and oiled his back. In her head she was using acid and doing it with a pan scrubber.

He sipped intermittently at his drink until there was only a small amount left in the bottom.

‘I’ll fetch us another Coke,’ he said, and ambled over towards the bar.

By lunchtime, he had consumed four ‘Diet Cokes’ to her two. They went into lunch and she noticed the slight stagger as he went through the door. He frowned and explained it away by saying the change from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the restaurant interior, had thrown him off balance.

Karen almost laughed aloud when he ordered water to have with their meal. They filled their plates at the buffet servers, and retook their seats. Neither spoke.

Half an hour later, Jimmy stood.

‘Ready?’

She shook her head.

‘No, I’m going to have a coffee. You go back to the loungers, I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so.’

Jimmy hesitated, nodded, and walked away. She followed his progress and watched as he caught his foot on the back of the wooden sun lounger. She hoped it hurt.

She turned her back on him, smiled at the young waitress, and ordered a coffee. She managed to stretch it to half an hour before leaving to return to Jimmy.

Her diet Coke was waiting for her. Jimmy’s drink was almost gone. He was fast asleep.

Karen slipped off the floaty cover-up she had put on to go for lunch – another charity shop buy – and went in the pool. Swimming lazily from one end to the other, she began to think. That brief half hour without him had been wonderful. He normally never left her on her own, and she had thought for a couple of seconds that he was going to order her to go with him. She could only assume that he had realised he could sneak in a quick vodka and Coke while she was enjoying her coffee.

Karen climbed out of the pool and walked up to the bar.

‘A diet Coke, please,’ she said, and Gorgio handed it to her with a smile.

‘And one for your husband?’ he asked, in heavily accented English.

‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s asleep. I thought I’d sit over here for a while.’

She carried the drink to a table, where she could see both Jimmy in the distance, and Gorgio much closer. She watched the barman as he served drinks, always with a smile, and with the occasional wink in her direction. She didn’t move until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jimmy try to sit up.

She had been momentarily distracted by a poor swimmer out of his depth in the deep end, and in panic as he realised he couldn’t feel the bottom of the pool. As a result, she hadn’t seen Jimmy waking.

He watched her walk every step of the way as she hurried back towards him.

‘And where the fuck have you been?’ he growled.

‘Swimming,’ she replied, ‘as you can see.’ She indicated her bikini.

The grumpy, aggressive stage was starting to kick in. He hadn’t been like this for a long time – as he had grown older he had changed and had tended to veer towards silence as the alcohol took hold.

He had gone beyond the silence stage, and Karen was afraid; afraid that his jealousy would overtake every other thought, if any of the men around the pool dared to look at her. She feared the consequences of that.

‘Put some clothes on,’ he said. His speech was slurred, and he was clearly well over any normal limits. She slipped on her cover-up and lay back down beside him. For two hours he didn’t move, or speak, and then suddenly he sat up.

‘I’m going for a shower,’ he announced.

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘So?’

Karen looked at him. His belligerence was shining out of him.

‘You need me to come up with you?’ she asked.

He stared at her for a moment.

‘Oh, please your fucking self,’ he responded, picked up his towel, drained the last dregs of his “Diet Coke”, and walked away from her.

Karen knew it was the end. She couldn’t live like this, afraid to breathe without Jimmy gave her permission. This would be their last holiday together out of the lottery winnings, and with divorce she would finally see some of that money.

She slipped off her cover-up and went back into the pool.

Gorgio’s eyes never left her, and he hoped her husband wasn’t too drunk. It didn’t take a genius to recognise it would be a problem for her. He watched her as she slid smoothly into the pool at the 1.20 metres end and then swam effortlessly towards the 2.20 metres end, before climbing out, gathering up her belongings and heading for their room.

Jimmy was sitting on the stool in front of the dressing table, dressed in smart shorts and a white t shirt. He looked good, and inwardly she sighed.

He turned to her. ‘Sorry, babe, for being nasty.’

She gave a tentative smile. Uneasy. Had the shower sobered him?

‘I’m going to lie down for a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘Wake me around seven, will you, and we’ll go for our meal? Then we’ll make a night of it.’

A night of it. A euphemism for falling down drunk.

She nodded and went into the bathroom. By the time she came out, he had fallen asleep and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Karen went out to sit on the balcony; she spent some time reading and some time staring into space, thinking things through, making decisions. Cheryl would give her a bed until she could get her divorce settlement. That’s what sisters were for – support when all else had failed. She would just have to put up with Cheryl’s “I told you so”s; her sister had seen what Jimmy was like from day one. Tight-arsed prick had been one phrase she had employed.

Jimmy was still unsteady when she woke him, but he was reasonably inoffensive towards her. They ate their meal, and by eight o’clock were seated at their usual table in the poolside bar area.

‘Shall I get the drinks?’ she said.

‘Mine’s vodka and Coke,’ he responded.

Gorgio walked the length of the bar to serve her.

‘Two glasses,’ Karen said. ‘Double vodka in one, single shot in the other. And a can of Coke. I’ll pour that in.’

He followed her instructions and handed them to her.

‘You are okay?’ he queried, his voice soft.

She nodded. ‘I will be.’

She carried the drinks back to Jimmy and divided the can of Coke between the two glasses. She matched his consumption, sip for sip.

She volunteered to go up for the second round, but poured her own single vodka into Jimmy’s glass. Then she divided the can of Coke while still at the bar. She was smiling as she carried them back to her husband.

The pool bar closed every night at 11pm, but was usually empty much earlier than that. By closing time, Jimmy, totally legless, and Karen, totally sober, were the only ones left, keeping Gorgio from closing everything down for the night.

He walked across to the table where Karen was trying to get Jimmy to move.

‘We are closed now, sir,’ he said.

‘Fuck off,’ said Jimmy.

Karen stared at her husband. ‘You coming, Jimmy?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Jimmy.

‘Okay,’ responded Karen.

She walked away and didn’t look back, leaving Gorgio to switch off the bar lights.

Jimmy tried to stand. Twenty measures of cheap brand vodka said it wouldn’t be easy. He rolled down the steps that connected the pool bar to the pool area.

‘Karen!’ he yelled. ‘’Where the fuck are you, now? Bitch!’

There was silence. He staggered along the edge of the pool, occasionally dropping to the ground and holding on to a sun lounger. He reached the end of the pool area, and the last lounger in the row of twenty loungers, moved. It hit his legs with an audible thud, and he went into the pool head first.

Karen crawled away until she felt it was safe to stand, unseen. She ran to their room. It was now in the hands of the Gods, Greek Gods.

Gorgio paused and stared at the distant deep end of the pool, then turned and walked inside the hotel. His shift was over.

Karen brushed her teeth and put on her nightie. She switched on the air-con and climbed into bed. She heard no sirens, no shouting, and eventually sleep claimed her.

The poolside cleaning staff found him. Gorgio confirmed just how drunk he had been, and that Karen had gone to their room ten minutes before Jimmy had been able to move from his table.

One Greek God, Dionysus, had delivered in full.

—

With Karen’s arrangements made to fly back to England, to return to the home she had shared with Jimmy, she went to say goodbye to Gorgio.

He kissed her cheek. ‘Safe journey, Karen, and I’m sorry for what happened.’

‘Thank you,’ she responded quietly, in the grieving widow voice she had perfected over the past week. ‘I’ll be glad to get back to England.’

He looked into her eyes. The dimple showed up as he smiled. ‘Be careful as you walk past the pool, Karen. Sometimes, the loungers move on their own. Have a happier life, sweet Karen.’

Her smile was genuine. ‘Oh, I will, believe me.’

She never went back to Crete, and she never again drank vodka and Coke. There was more than enough money left for the odd bottle of Champagne, though.

THE FOOTBALL MATCH

Evie Dalton pushed her way through the crowds, feeling so relieved she had a season ticket. The game was a sell-out. The Wednesday-United derby games always were, and when the game was at Hillsborough that generally meant around thirty seven thousand people trying to hustle through the turnstiles.

She joined a queue and took her season ticket from her capacious bag. As a regular, she knew all the turnstile men, so nobody bothered checking her bag anymore. Every week she brought a flask of coffee in with her, it could get cold on the kop.

She reached the front and held out her pass for inspection. Alf didn’t seem to notice it was her, he just stared and clicked for the next one. She surmised he was simply overwhelmed by the sheer amount of numbers going through his gate. She hoped she hadn’t upset him during his visit to her a few weeks ago, when she had turned down his offer to take her out for a drink. She liked Alf’s company but was having yet another off day.

She dropped her season ticket back into her bag, walked up the steps leading to the kop and paused only when she reached the top. She breathed in the special quality of the air that encompassed Hillsborough; every time she got to this spot she drank in the glorious green pitch, and today it was enhanced even more by the blue sky and sunshine.

She had on her scarf, but the sun had burned off the colder air of the morning. Still, she decided, the scarf would stay. It represented her team, and she was so proud of supporting the lads who played in blue and white.

She made her way down to pitch side, then climbed the steps again to take her to her seat. This had been her place ever since the Hillsborough Disaster had forced seating to be installed in every standing area, and she recalled the horror of it all every time she attended a home game. She prayed that one day the relatives and survivors would get justice.

She settled herself in her seat. Already most of them were full and it was still an hour to kick off. She didn’t know the people who sat either side of her. She had never found it easy just to chat to people, to invade their space, and so just watched the match, occasionally sharing a smile after the scoring of a goal.

She often joked that although she attended every home game she had never physically seen a Wednesday goal scored at Hillsborough. Every time it looked as though there could be a goal, the whole Kop erupted and everybody stood up. Evie, at slightly under five feet tall, never stood a chance, but it never mattered. She could watch the goals on the television. She just loved the atmosphere; not seeing the goals was a small price to pay for being able to join in with the singing of hi-ho Sheffield Wednesday, and the bouncing up and down on the concrete beneath her feet, along with everyone else on the Kop. Sometimes, when the concrete really shook, it felt scary, but she trusted her club, they wouldn’t let a second disaster happen.

She waited patiently. When the team came out she would stand and cheer along with the rest of them, especially when the name Liam Dalton was called out.

It had been the proudest moment of her life when Liam had been accepted into the Academy, and now he had progressed to regular first team status. But it had been that Academy induction that had taken her breath away. Patrick, her late husband, hadn’t lived to see how successful his son had become; he had died before the Academy offer, and she had had to visit his grave to tell him the news.

On that beautifully fine Saturday, as she waited with a touch of impatience for the clock to reach five minutes to three, she remembered her tears as she spoke softly to Paddy. He had always laughed at her flat Yorkshire accent, but his Irish brogue had covered her in love for many years, until cancer had taken him. She told him that day that Liam was going to be a famous footballer and Patrick would be just as proud of him as he had been when he died.

The sun was making the green turf look greener, and the spectacular Hillsborough pitch promised a good match, no matter the score at the end. It was ten to three, and she felt her foot begin to tap in time to Hi-Ho, Sheffield Wednesday, as it buzzed around her brain. Throughout Sheffield it was sung at weddings, christenings, funerals – it was the anthem for the blue part of the city.

Eight minutes to three. It was going so slowly. And then the Supertram shaped tunnel was pulled out to its full length and almost as far as the pitch itself. It was almost time. Liam, in his role as a forward, always wore the number eight, and was so proud of it. She could see the referee and his linesman standing at the front of the tunnel, waiting to be given the signal to lead the two teams out.

And it began.

The individual names were called, each one followed by clapping and whistles, and once both teams were on the pitch the whole stadium erupted into hi ho, Sheffield Wednesday, everywhere you go I see your sun is shining, and I won’t make a fuss, cos it’s obvious. Evie sang along to it, feeling the tears of pride prickle her eyes; every home match she was the same, a wreck until the game got going.

She saw Liam turn towards where he knew her seat was, and he blew a kiss, then turned to join in a brief kick about while the referee sorted the two captains out. And then she realised who the captain was – Liam. His first time as team captain, and he had said nothing to her because he knew she loved surprises. She wanted to turn around and announce to the whole kop that the captain for this week, and possibly the future, was her Liam. Liam Dalton. Captain. With the captain’s armband.

At the end of the first half it was still goalless, and Evie poured herself a coffee, wondering what the team talk would be, and would it make any difference to the two perfectly matched sides. She hoped there would be no trouble at the end of the game, but there were hundreds of police officers, so she guessed it would be managed.

The little boy in the seat next to her was bouncing up and down with the excitement of it all, and his dad handed him a tube of Smarties. It briefly occurred to her that she bet his mummy didn’t know daddy was feeding him e numbers by the score, and Evie smiled.

He was still bouncing when the teams came back out and the second half started. Once again Liam acknowledged Evie, and it seemed Wednesday had come to life. The first and only goal came five minutes after the second half kick-off. Joe Chambers crossed a perfect ball to land at Liam’s feet and he didn’t hesitate. The goalie didn’t stand a chance. It barrelled over his head and into the back of the net.

Hillsborough erupted, and once again Evie missed the goal. But she didn’t care. She heard the name Liam Dalton over the loudspeaker and it was enough. She could see it later on the football show.

She flung her arms around the little boy and the man, both now standing in front of the neighbouring seat. ‘That’s my son,’ she shouted. ‘Liam Dalton is my son.’

The man shivered, but made no response and she stared at him. Didn’t he understand. She tried again as the noise quietened. ‘It’s my son who scored the goal,’ she said. He once more ignored her and, slightly bewildered, she turned to look at the pitch.

Liam had approached the kop and she knew he was coming to acknowledge her. He lifted his blue and white shirt to reveal a white vest underneath.

It said in big bold black letters RIP MUM, EVIE DALTON THAT WAS FOR YOU.

Moonbeams and Shooting Stars

I’ve often wondered what it would feel like, what sort of kick I’d get from putting my hands round his scrawny neck and squeezing.  Hard. I’d like to see his eyes bulge from their sockets, see his face go purple… my God, I’m not like that in the real world, just his damn world.

We’ve never got on, me and that old bugger next door and although we’ve lived as close as that to one another for the past forty years or so I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than a dozen words in all that time.

Happen I should explain because really it all started with Annie Briggs forty-five years ago.

She was lovely, was Annie.  I’d been taking her out for about six months and was seriously thinking about asking her to marry me. Then he turned up, all uniform and shiny boots.  She fell for his smarmy ways straight away and he ended up marrying her.  I copped for Mabel Wainwright.

Mabel was all right but she wasn’t Annie.  I’d have given Annie anything, but she settled for him, Jack Bloody Burns.  Sometimes I feel so damn mad about it that it’s almost a physical pain.  So now you understand why I want to strangle him.

Annie’s been dead some twenty years now and my Mabel went soon after but when we first got married we lived in t’old Park district.  Remember t’Park?  Lovely place.  We lived on Park Hill Lane in a smashing little stone-built house.  No bathroom and we had a bit of fun on bath nights in a tin bath in front of the fire.  Wasn’t too good if you needed the outside toilet in the middle of the night but we loved that little house.  My Annie lived with him on Manor Oaks Road.  We were happy there – well, I wasn’t too far from my Annie, was I?

Then it all changed.  They decided to knock everybody’s homes down, did the Council, and put us in posher houses.  Slum clearance they called it but we wouldn’t have called ours a slum.  We didn’t want to go but what choice did we have?  We ended up with a nice house, three bedrooms, bathroom, a million miles or so away from t’city centre; guess who moved in next door.

Got it in one.  My Annie and Jack Bloody Burns.  We shared a path and our side doors faced each other so we couldn’t have been any closer if we’d planned it.  I didn’t know if I could stand it, not with loving Annie like I did, but of course Mabel never knew.  At least, I don’t think she did but every time I went out of our door she made sure she was right behind me just in case Annie came out of theirs.

I spent years trying to bump into Annie on the path and she always gave me that soft smile of hers whenever I managed it but those times were very few and far between.  I grew to accept the situation and Mabel and I chugged along happily especially after Margaret, our beautiful daughter, was born.  The years passed but I still wanted to strangle him.

And then Annie died.  I couldn’t even grieve, daren’t let anything show especially as Mabel had started being ill round about the same time.  It was a heart attack with Annie one of the other neighbours told me – he never said a word, never asked for help, just pretended we didn’t exist.

With Mabel it was cancer.  She lived just eight months after Annie and then we were on our own, Jack and me.  That was really when things began to change, when the competition between us began to hot up.  Okay, so he’d won the first round by taking Annie, but he seemed determined to win everything after she died.

It didn’t matter what I did or what I had, he’d go one better.  I bought a nearly new car, a tidy little Escort, so he bought a brand-new Cavalier.  I laughed though when he limped home in it one day with a big bump in the side.

Then I bought a little garden hut because when our Margaret called she said it reeked of beer in my kitchen and I ought to do my brewing out in the garden so that’s what I did.  I had quite a little brewery going, I can tell you.  He didn’t know what I did in it of course but he went one better and bought a little summer house.  Bit daft really; we’ve only got pocket handkerchief sized gardens and it filled most of his.  But there you are, that’s Jack Bloody Burns for you.

Then something happened that gave me a lease on life and, in an indirect way, gave Jack Burns an equally new interest but only because he’d never let me get one over on him.

Our Margaret gave me a Virginia Creeper and a gardening book.  ‘Here you are, dad,’ she’d said, ‘I thought this would look lovely growing up your wall.’

Now up to this point I’d tended to let the dandelions and daisies find their own levels in life and funnily enough, so had Jack.  Anyway, I looked this Virginia Creeper up in the book and there was a picture of one.  Eh, I tell you, it was a real beauty.  Lovely deep red leaves covering a house and it said it couldn’t do any damage to brickwork.  I didn’t know whether to believe that or not but I thought what the hell, it’s not my house, let the council worry about whether the bricks crumble or not.

Next day I bought some tools and I came home and dug a little trench.  Then I put a bit of string round some nails because it said it needed a bit of support at first, got out my brand-new watering can and watered it.  That’s when Jack walked down the path.

‘Charlie,’ he said and nodded his head.  This had been virtually the extent of our acknowledging each other’s existence for the last eighteen or so years so I felt a bit wary when he carried on standing there. 

‘Doing a spot of gardening?’ he asked.

‘Aye.’

‘Back and front?’

‘Aye.’

‘Mmmm,’ he said and disappeared through his door.  I felt a bit worried I can tell you.  I’ve two gardens, both about the same size; not over large but big enough when they’ve not seen a lawnmower or anything else for quite a few years.  All I’d intended doing was clearing a bit of an area around this Virginia Creeper, shoving a couple of rose trees in and that was it.  It seemed I’d now committed myself to landscape gardening on a pretty hefty scale.

When I went to bed that night I took a notebook and the gardening book with me.  I didn’t go to sleep till after midnight but I’d got a sort of plan worked out that unfortunately involved digging and planting and suchlike but I figured it was time I did something with the jungle.

Next day I bought a hover mower.  It took three days to complete both gardens, just cutting the grass and weeds down.  I think really I’d have been better with a scythe.  Anyway, Wednesday night I crawled to bed and stood for a while looking out of the bedroom window.

It was a sight for sore eyes.  When I’d finally finished mowing it showed that what I’d got was two gardens, both pretty flat and both lawned.  Nothing else, unless you count the Virginia Creeper and the hut but a good working start and I was glad that I didn’t have to mess about making lawns.  Once again I couldn’t sleep, too tired, so I planned out what I was going to do the following day, what shape I wanted the lawn and then I distinctly remember promising myself a lay-in before tackling anything else.  My old bones needed a rest.  Even my dream centred on gardening and at three o’clock I got up and made myself a cup of tea.  Around four thirty I finally closed my eyes and drifted into another dream where Mabel was telling me not to get married again because she wanted me to be single.  It was a strange, restless night.

Seven o’clock next morning he started.  He’d gone one better of course and bought a hover mower with a box to collect the grass cuttings but I suppose really I should have expected that.  It took him the same length of time as it took me and I hoped he ached as much as I did.  He didn’t plant a Virginia Creeper, he planted Ivy.

I built myself a rose arch but grew a Clematis and a Honeysuckle on it because I didn’t want young Kelly and Mark to scratch themselves on any thorns.  I’d scored over him there – him and Annie never had kids so he’s got no grandchildren to brighten up his life.  He did have my Annie though.

I didn’t cut my lawn square; I sort of wiggled it a bit around the edges and planted lots of perennials.  It’s funny really – six months earlier I wouldn’t have even known what a perennial was let alone got on my knees planting the things.  My favourites were the wild flowers; red Campion, cornflower, harebell and I even dug up some bluebells out of the woods.  He did as well.  And he wiggled his lawn.

Old Mrs. Jenkins over the other side of me laughed at us.  Silly old buggers, she used to say, you’re like two bloody daft kids – but what could I do?  Short of erecting a twenty foot high fence so that he couldn’t see my garden, I was powerless to stop him following my lead.  I couldn’t decide if he did it just to annoy me or if he genuinely had no imagination whatsoever.

One memorable day I decided that the roses looked lovely, the shrubs didn’t need anything doing to them and the annuals could keep their heads, dead or not – I was just going to sit out on my little patio with a good Dick Francis.  I took out a pot of coffee and my Sheffield Wednesday mug that the kids had bought me, put up my feet and began to read.  It was warm with a nice cooling breeze and I was on the point of nodding off when I heard his window open.  I lifted one eyelid and then both of them because I saw something snaking through the window.  It turned out to be an electric cable, so I assumed he was going to mow the lawn which seemed a bit funny because he never did his without I did mine first.

He didn’t mow the lawn; he plugged in an electric coffee maker, brought out a Sheffield United mug and sat and read his paper.  I let the other half of my coffee in the pot go cold.  I lost my appetite for it.

I’m telling you, he copied everything, every damn thing I did.  And we exchanged one or two words, reasonably pleasant ones, the closest we’d come to a conversation since he walked away with Annie all those years ago.  He borrowed my wheelbarrow; I borrowed his lawnmower when my blade snapped in the middle of doing the back lawn – two blokes, close on eighty years old finally having something in common other than Annie.

I suppose because I keep harping on about Annie you’ll be thinking I didn’t love my Mabel.  Well, I don’t suppose I did really.  We sort of grew together but I always hankered after Annie, never gave Mabel a real chance.  We grew close, sure, and we never went to bed without saying love you, but my ‘love you’ never felt truly genuine.  If I could have said I care for you instead of love you it would have been more honest.  I regret that in a way, but that’s life, always some regrets.

But I’m wandering from the point.  That old codger next door made his garden nearly a carbon copy of mine. It seemed as though he couldn’t make any decisions on his own, didn’t know when it was the right time to do something; he just sat back and waited for me to do a job and then he knew he had to do the same job in his own garden. Everything I tackled he had a go at – hanging baskets, patio tubs on what I call my patio but what’s really a few paving slabs laid on a bed of sand, and even to the ultimate copy – a privet hedge each that neither of us wanted to tackle.

I have to state quite categorically that I hate privet hedges.  I didn’t know I hated them when we moved into the brand-new house back in 1953; we did what everybody else did, laid lawns and planted privet hedges.  That’s why the lawns were there after my mammoth mowing session at the start of my new gardening career and I was grateful for that initial inspiration on our part.  But the privet hedge!  That was definitely not inspirational.  The whole estate is covered with privet hedges.  Most people keep them nicely trimmed; time for me to join the ‘most people’.

As I said, we share a path and the privet hedge borders either side of it.  His side is about a foot taller than mine and mine is a good ten or eleven feet.  I’ve made a couple of half-hearted attempts over the years at taming it but it really needed sorting out once and for all – either digging up and putting fencing in or cutting it down to a manageable height and keeping it that way.

I sat in the front garden one afternoon enjoying a bit of sunshine and looking at the hedge.  I’d had to move my chair a couple of times following the sun and it dawned on me that without that high hedge I wouldn’t have to chase the warmth.  Got to be cut, I thought and closed my eyes for a snooze just in case my thoughts turned into action.

Well of course, they did.  I went and found the shears and after a couple of cuts got into the Escort and went to buy some electric hedge cutters.  I cut the entire middle bit and left about four feet at either end because I’d got an idea that I reckoned Jack Bloody Burns would never match.  I shaped that damn privet into two big ducks.  I took me five hours and I felt as though my arms were dropping off when I’d done.

Just as I was finishing I saw his car coming down the road.  I heard his car door close and then felt him standing behind me.  He stared with a look of bewilderment as I was sweeping up the last of the privet and looked at my creation.

‘What’s them?’ he said.

‘Ducks,’ I said.

‘Ducks?’ he said.  ‘Well I suppose I’d better lop this lot off then, can’t have people thinking I don’t care, can I?  I’ll tidy my hedge up,’ and he tried to wipe the sick look off his face.  I got the impression that the last thing he wanted to do was sort out the privet hedge and I tried so hard not to laugh out loud.

I grinned and handed him my new hedge cutters.

 ‘Want to borrow these?’ I said. 

He took them without a word, stared at the wording on the handle for a few moments and walked down the path to his own door.  I saw nothing else of him that night but next day he started. The hedge cutters sprang into noisy action around eight o’clock and he paused briefly to let me get past him to go to my car.  I chuckled all the way over to Margaret’s where I spent all day with Kelly and Mark, enjoying being fed by Margaret and entertained by the kids.  I had no idea what he was doing until I returned home just after six o’clock.

The hedge was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.  ‘What the…?’ I said and he had a big daft bloody grin all over his whiskery old face.

‘It’s for my Annie,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ I asked, wanting to hit him.  She was my Annie.

He pointed to the first bit.  ‘That’s a moon and some moonbeams cos she loved to go for a walk in the moonlight and that’s a shooting star cos she always said she’d come back to me as a shooting star.  She didn’t want to leave me, tha’ knows,’ he said with a know-it-all smirk on his face.  ‘I’ve done all this for my Annie, so she’ll always seem as though she’s still with me.’

I said nothing then but that night I knew what I had to do.  I didn’t use the electric cutters, too noisy; I used the garden shears and I cut off his sodding moonbeams and shooting stars.  It seemed full of significance somehow because the moon was so bright I needed no artificial light to work by and it was right that I was demolishing moonbeams under a full moon.  It took me quite a long time because I wanted his hedge to be completely level, even smart looking – it had to be so plain he’d never think about moonbeams and shooting stars again.

Then I started work on my own hedge transforming them daft ducks into two fingers, two big fat upright ones at either end.  Follow that, Jack Bloody Burns, follow that.

Burn Out

He’d seen them out together a few times, his mum and that carrot-headed Andy Smethurst. What she saw in him, he’d no idea. His dad was much better-looking. Okay, he’d knocked his mum about a bit, but she’d never had to go to hospital, not once. Well, maybe once.

Marty had seen them tonight, Mum and Andy, coming out of the Travellers Rest. Luckily they hadn’t seen him, and at first he didn’t spot them. He’d just handed over three packets to Wrighty, doing a bit of car park business, when Wrighty said, ‘Ain’t that your ma, Marts?’

He denied it to Wrighty of course, didn’t want the whole feckin’ world knowing she was playing away, but he knew he’d have to do something about the damn situation. If his dad found out, he’d kill her.

So he’d packed up for the night, rode home, picked up some equipment and headed out again. He’d just have to hope his dad had put Rosie and Laura to bed for the night before he got out his beer.

And now here he was, hiding behind a privet hedge, waiting for Smethurst to come home… to Mrs Smethurst.

Marty took out his phone to check his messages, and a couple of customers wanted some stuff – maybe he could sort that, after. He couldn’t send any texts with his fingers in gloves. He’d just do what he’d come here to do, then scarper.

He heard a car driving up the road and pulled himself into an even smaller ball behind the hedge. His skinny frame was helpful in many ways. The car slowed, then almost stopped as it manoeuvred the tight turn to get onto the driveway.

Peeking briefly around the hedge, Marty recognised the car. Smethurst’s. Shrinking back into the hedge, he listened. It was safer than watching. He heard the click of the car door closing, twice. He grinned. Paranoid about the car being locked properly… well, that would be the least of his worries in a bit.

He heard a house key being put into the front door lock, then waited for the sound of the door closing. He moved slightly so that he could see the front of the house, and calculated Smethurst’s journey to sleep. Initially the kitchen light glowed around the side of the house, then that went off and the lounge light came on.

Marty shrank back under cover as Smethurst moved to close the curtains, and just for a brief moment he hoped that meant that Mrs Smethurst wasn’t at home to have closed the curtains herself. The lounge light was extinguished, and then the bedroom light came on briefly, before that too was switched off.

Marty waited. He took out his phone, checked the time and decided to give it another fifteen minutes.

It seemed to last for ever, that quarter of an hour.

He stood, listened carefully for any movements from anywhere in the surrounding area, and then picked up the Tesco carrier bag that had concealed the petrol can as he rode the four streets that separated the Smethurst home from his own home. He hoped his bike was safe; he’d left it in a back garden, an overgrown derelict one, unlocked for the quick getaway he anticipated.

He unscrewed the cap, which wasn’t easy with gloves on, and slowly opened the letterbox. He inserted a funnel – he remembered the last time him and Sammy Johnson had tried to burn down a house, and they couldn’t get the petrol to go through the letterbox, most of it went down the outside of the door – then began to slowly pour the liquid through, and onto what he assumed was the hall floor.

Marty didn’t rush although every instinct was screaming at him to get the hell out of there. He had to get this right, to keep his mum safely at home, looking after his sisters.

He poured in almost the entire can, and then put the tatty piece of rag he had brought from the old shed at home onto the floor. He drained the last of the petrol onto the cloth then quietly pushed it through the letterbox until only a couple of inches were showing. Marty took out his lighter and flicked it.

At the same time as he lifted the letterbox flap, he held the flame to the cloth. The rag fell through immediately and the resultant massive whoosh as the petrol ignited was music to Marty’s ears.

He ran. It took him a minute to reach his bike, and he jumped on it to ride it back home as fast as he could. In another six months he’d be old enough to drive a car, and he couldn’t feckin’ wait. Still, it was easier riding home, he didn’t have a carrier bag with a petrol can in it, hanging from the handlebars and banging his knee all the time.

The petrol can. The container he’d chosen to leave at the scene, the one he’d taken from his dad’s shed, the one his dad used for fetching petrol for the lawnmower, the one covered in his dad’s fingerprints.

He stowed his bike in the shed and quietly let himself into the house. The wood burner was still glowing slightly, and he opened the fire doors and threw in the gloves.

His dad was asleep on the settee and he hoped that had been the case when his mum arrived home. She’d said she was going out with Karen to bingo, but Marty had blown her excuse for the night out to smithereens by seeing her with Randy Andy.

And just maybe, when the police came calling as they surely would, he might have to tell them of the affair his dad had discovered.

Randy Andy and Dad, both disposed of in the same evening.

Marty went into the bedroom to kiss his mum goodnight. He could hear the clamour of fire engines out on the streets.

The bed was empty.

I’ve Gone

It came as something of a surprise when she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen to find a note from Kevin, propped up by a mug.

I’ve gone.

No kisses, no protestations of his love, nothing. Gone? Her recently asleep brain did a quick chug to life. Did he mean gone to the shops for milk? Gone for the day? Gone for eternity?

After three years of blissful marriage anyone would think she would know what the rather cryptic note meant. She didn’t.

She picked up the offending mug and carried it across to the ever barren kettle. It needed water in it. Didn’t it always need water in it? She filled it, switched it on and moved to the fridge. That’s when she really hoped he had gone for some milk because they were right out of it.

I’ve gone. She leaned across the sink unit and peered out of the window. It was pouring with rain and she looked to see if she could spot him, bottle of milk clutched in hand, dodging the puddles. There was no sign of him and she resigned herself to a cup of black coffee.

She rang his mobile phone because she really didn’t want black coffee but it went straight to voicemail.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Hope you’ve gone to milk a cow or something. Love you.’

She expected him to ring, but for the rest of that Saturday she heard nothing. They had actually planned to go to the antiques quarter to look for a desk so by the time late afternoon came around she was feeling pretty uptight about the situation. No Kevin, no milk and no desk.

Feeling increasingly fretful, she rang him twice more during the course of the day but her own phone remained silent.

By midnight she started to feel sick. I’ve gone was starting to take on a whole new meaning. It meant I’ve gone.

She didn’t sleep much that first night; instead she watched the crude red lights on her alarm clock blink past each hour and when she got up Sunday morning she felt angry as well as puzzled. That’s when she saw the second note propped up against the same mug, the one with elephants on it.

Don’t try to contact me, it said. She screwed it up and threw it at the wall.

‘Chance would be a fine bloody thing’ she yelled, then sat down with a thud as tears overwhelmed her.

And now she really was puzzled. Why had he gone to the trouble of sneaking back in the house to leave this second note – why not just push it through the letterbox?

Shaking as she did so, she picked up the now crumpled note and spread it open, trying to smooth it back into a reasonable piece of paper. It told her nothing; no clues, no ideas. She phoned him once more and was surprised to receive an automated message saying the number was no longer in use. With a new crippling fear deep in her chest she realised he must have cancelled his service.

She spent the next couple of hours ringing round their friends, all to no avail. Inexplicably he’d literally disappeared.

And then, to add insult to injury, she had to fetch some milk. She couldn’t stomach any more black coffee. She picked up some other essentials while she was there; the Garibaldi biscuits that Kevin loved and which were always an automatic purchase she put back on the shelf with a mumbled ‘Get your own bloody biscuits.’

She paused before going back into the house, and looked around her. She felt as though – oh, she didn’t know. Something felt not quite right. She inserted the key and pushed open the door. There was a further note on the hall stand.

Stop worrying, this one said. He’d been in the house again. She went back outside and scanned around but couldn’t see anything strange, nothing out of the ordinary. And still something felt out of kilter.

Her head was buzzing and her stomach growled. She couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond making a coffee with milk in it. Normally Sundays they spent doing the odd bit of housework and generally just chilling out with a pizza or something; their plans for this particular Sunday had been to set up the small box room as an office for her and by now she should have been polishing her new desk. But she wasn’t. And as it was 7pm on a Sunday evening there was no chance of getting a desk now.

Instead she was sitting like a wimp on the settee wondering what to do next. Go to the police? She can’t. They’ll laugh at her. He’s actually been in touch, albeit by notes, so he’s hardly a missing person; he’s just missing.

And then she knew what was out of kilter. His car. His beloved Ford Capri, a gleaming white monstrosity of a car that he washes and shines every weekend without fail was still sitting at the kerb, newly polished for its trip to the antiques quarter.

He adores that car and sometimes, most times, she thinks she takes second place to it. And that’s why it’s out of kilter; it’s sitting outside their home when he isn’t inside their home.

She went to get the spare car keys and opened the front door. Seriously spooked, she peered outside. She looked up and down the road before stepping out. Crossing to the car took a monumental effort. She peered inside. Nothing. She opened the door – with the key, no fancy locking system on a Capri – and slid behind the steering wheel. She reached across into the glove compartment and pulled out the couple of items he kept in there. Insurance document and the owner’s manual – nothing new.

She swivelled round and looked in the back seat but there was nothing. The car was in its usual immaculate condition; the only worrying thing was that it was actually here and Kevin wasn’t.

She climbed out of the low slung vehicle, locked it and headed back to her door. It was open.

She stood for a moment trying to remember if she had closed it when she went down to the car and couldn’t for the life of her decide. She tentatively pushed it and it swung wider. One step inside. Two steps. She shivered. The air around her was freezing cold. She reached out a hand to touch the radiator. It was hot.

Moving carefully through the hallway she stopped at the kitchen door. It was closed and she couldn’t remember closing it. She rarely closed it because sometimes the handle stuck and it needed screwdriver activity to repair it. She reached out to touch the handle and very carefully pressed the lever. Slowly she opened the door.

‘Kevin!’

He smiled at her and remained seated at the table. ‘Hello, you.’

She couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say. So she cried.

The tears rolled down her cheeks and she sobbed. She pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, resting her head on her arms and allowing her hair to spread across the table top.

‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry.’

The tears stopped instantly and the anger flared. ‘Don’t cry? Don’t fucking cry? Where the fucking hell have you been? And why all these ridiculous notes?’

‘I don’t like to hear you swear.’ His tone was mildly reproachful.

‘And I don’t like to get notes that say I’ve gone with no bloody explanation,’ she screamed. ‘I was scared, Kevin. What’s going on? Are you back for good? ’Cos there are no Garibaldi biscuits, I can assure you.’

She realised how ridiculous she sounded and the tears started again. Once more her head dropped to the table and he let her cry. She eventually stood and moved towards the kitchen worktop. Tearing off three sheets of kitchen roll she mopped her tears and blew her nose. He sat and stared at her waiting for her to calm down.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Start talking.’

‘I’ve come back to you,’ he said. ‘Did you get your desk?’

‘No, I bloody well didn’t get my desk!’ she yelled, aware she was starting to sound like a Billingsgate fishwife.

‘You’re swearing again,’ he said.

‘And are you back for good?’ she demanded. ‘Or am I going to get a note tomorrow morning that says Fooled you?’

He smiled the slow sexy smile she had fallen for when she first met him. ‘I’ll always be with you,’ he said. ‘Never doubt that. I love you, with or without Garibaldi biscuits. You’re mine and always will be.’

She stared at him. His answers were good, she granted him that, but they weren’t telling her anything.

‘So where have you been?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Too right, it bloody matters. Have you been with another woman who’s now decided she doesn’t want you? Hmmm? Is that it? And I want the truth, Kevin. No bullshit.’

‘No bullshit, my love. No, I haven’t been with another woman, I wouldn’t do that. I got into some trouble. There’s a man called Pete Danvers. You don’t know him, so just listen. He’s not a good man, Laura, and I owed him some money. That’s where I’ve been, with him. Remember that name, Laura; remember Pete Danvers. He’s evil.’

‘How much did you owe him? And have you paid him?’ She looked troubled. ‘We’ve about £5,000 in the savings account…’

He smiled. Once again her heart flipped. She loved his smile.

‘It was about £20,000 but the account has been settled. That’s why I’ve not been here. I’ve been sorting it, but I didn’t want you dragging into it.’

She stood and began to move towards him. He held up a hand. ‘No, don’t touch me yet, Laura. I’m not worthy. We have to rebuild a relationship. I let you down by doing what I did and before we can be close again I have to recover from the guilt I feel.’

She hesitated, not quite understanding the situation. She still wanted to hold him in her arms but she also still wanted to shout at him, to punish him for putting her through the two days of misery that she had suffered.

She sat back down and once more he smiled.

‘Do you want a drink? Something to eat?’ she asked, aware that he looked a little grey.

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. But you go ahead; you look like you need something. And I am sorry, sweetheart. I’m here now and I wish I’d never had to leave. I love you.’

‘When did you leave?’ she demanded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going if you love me so much?’

‘I left Friday night. I had a text just after you went upstairs to bed. It wasn’t a good text so I took the problem far away from you. I thought it was for the best.’

‘And you left that stupid note saying I’ve gone.’

He didn’t answer, just smiled at her.

‘I could hit you,’ she said, her voice quite cold and matter of fact. ‘Hit you really hard. I’ve even been out to the car, just to check that you weren’t dead, sitting behind the steering wheel.’

Once again the smile.

She felt, for a moment, that he really wasn’t taking her seriously and the tears started to prick her eyes once more. Couldn’t he see how worried she had been? Didn’t he realise it was the first time they had been apart for three years? She reached for some more kitchen roll and dabbed at her eyes.

‘I think I hate you,’ she said.

‘No, you don’t. And these two days of my absence have meant that you’ll now have a life free from fear. I’ve sorted it, so it’s all been worth it.’

She switched on the kettle and waved a mug at him. ‘You sure you don’t want a drink?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m good, thanks. It wouldn’t help –’

‘What do you mean?’

For the first time he looked uncomfortable. ‘I mean, I’m thinking clearly and so I don’t need to calm down with a cup of tea.’ He knew he was waffling and she could see he knew it.

‘Okay.’ She looked at him carefully. ‘Are you still lying to me?’

‘I have never lied to you.’

Her expression was inscrutable. ‘Isn’t omission lying?’

‘I’ve told you now,’ he said simply.

‘So the debt is definitely paid?’

‘Definitely.’

‘How?’

‘I took a gamble.’

She felt sick. Not only drugs or whatever had caused the massive £20,000 debt, but gambling as well. ‘Kevin…’

‘Laura, it’s over. Look, make yourself a cup of tea and come and sit back down at the table. If you have more questions I’ll answer them but I just need you to remember the name of Pete Danvers. You’ll do that for me?’

‘Of course I will, but why? Is he likely to turn up here?’

Kevin shook his head. ‘No, he isn’t. But one day you may need to tell somebody that name, so just remember it. It’s a “just in case” kind of memory.’

She picked up her phone, went to notes and typed in the name. ‘I won’t forget it now.’ She smiled at him for the first time.

She was starting to feel not quite so angry with him and shelved any more questions until another time. She noticed he still wasn’t looking too good and placed some biscuits on the table. Not Garibaldis.

He didn’t take any, just sat and watched as she dunked the ginger nut in her tea.

‘So, what now?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to court you, make it up to you for what has happened over the last couple of days. I’m not presuming anything, Laura, and I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. We’ll start afresh tomorrow. I need space, need to get my head around things. I can’t do that with you in the same bed as me. Is that okay?’

‘I’ve managed without you for the last two nights,’ she said coolly, ‘so I guess another night won’t matter. And I’ll sleep better knowing you’re back, anyway. As you can imagine, I didn’t sleep too well last night.’

Inside she seethed. She felt cast aside. Why didn’t he want to sleep with her? His reasons didn’t ring true. She would give him tonight in the spare room, but tomorrow night he would either be in her bed or in the Capri.

At nine o’clock she stood and wished him good night. They had remained at the kitchen table, occasionally chatting and occasionally having quiet moments. He repeated several times how much he loved her, but she couldn’t say it to him, not yet. He had killed something between them. She prayed it would come back because if it didn’t…

She showered and put on her oldest and most comforting pyjamas, listening for him climbing the stairs. She heard nothing and presumed he was giving her time to settle before going to bed in the adjoining room.

Mentally exhausted, she read for a short time before switching off her light and falling asleep very quickly. Her last thoughts were that she would deal with any further issues after a good night’s rest.

Her sleep lasted until 5am. The banging on the door was loud and she reached out to the other side of the bed to tell Kevin someone was at the door.

She felt emptiness and then she remembered he was in the other room. She put on her slippers and dressing gown and walked out on to the landing, calling for Kevin as she did so. Once down in the hallway her brain finally kicked into gear and she approached the front door with caution.

A glance through the spy hole showed her an ID card being held up to it.

‘Yes?’ she said, aware her voice was squeaking. ‘What do you want?’              

And where the hell was Kevin? Why hadn’t he heard the loud banging too? It must have woken half the street up.

‘South Yorkshire Police. Are you Mrs Greystone? Mrs Laura Greystone?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I asked you, what do you want?’

‘Can you open the door, please, Mrs Greystone? We need to speak to you.’

She unlocked the door, leaving the chain fastened. Opening it as far as it would, she peered out. What the fuck had Kevin done that would bring police officers to their home at this ungodly hour?

‘Thank you, Mrs Greystone. Can you take the chain off, please?’ A female officer was standing behind the man and holding out her ID. ‘PC Carter, Mrs Greystone. Can we come in, please?’

She took off the chain and looked backwards towards the stairs. She hoped she would see Kevin coming down them, but she didn’t.

She stepped aside as the two police officers came through the front door. They looked at her enquiringly and she pointed to the kitchen door, thankful that it was open. No screwdriver needed this time.

They waited for her to follow them and DI Sutherland – she could vaguely remember the name on the ID – waved her to a chair.

‘Sue?’ he said to the PC who had accompanied him. She nodded and moved towards the kettle.

‘Mrs Greystone, Laura,’ he began, ‘is your husband Kevin Greystone?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Her anger was threatening to overwhelm her. She knew he had been keeping something back. The police arriving at 5am proved there was more to his story than he had told her.

‘I’m sorry, Laura, but I have to tell you that his body has been recovered from an old warehouse down near the canal wharf. He has been shot.’

She stared at him. ‘Impossible!’

‘We believe it happened in the early hours of Saturday morning.’

She smiled. ‘It can’t be him. He’s upstairs in bed. We were chatting till about nine last night and then I went to bed. He slept in the spare room so he didn’t disturb me.’ They didn’t need to know the real reason.

Sutherland looked across at PC Carter, who was pouring milk into the drinks.

‘Can you go and get him, Laura?’

She nodded. ‘Of course. I’m surprised you didn’t wake him, all that noise you made.’

She stood and moved towards the hall. Sue Carter left the drinks and followed her. They went up the stairs together, Laura feeling quite put out that she had to be accompanied. What if Kevin was naked?

She opened the door of the spare room and switched on the light. The bed was empty, the covers as smooth as she had left them when she made up the bed two weeks earlier.

‘He must be on the sofa,’ she said and turned to go along the landing.

Sue followed her back downstairs and into the lounge. The curtains were still open – Laura hadn’t even thought about closing them when she went to bed. She looked around and the room was exactly as it had been before Kevin’s arrival.

‘But…’

‘Laura, come back into the kitchen.’

Sue gently led her back to Sutherland. She looked at her boss and shook her head.

‘Laura, we need you to come with us to identify your husband’s body. Here,’ he said and handed her a mug of tea. ‘Did you know where your husband was? Does he do this a lot? Go missing for a couple of days?’

‘He wasn’t missing,’ she whispered. ‘He was here for two hours last night. We talked…’

‘Is there someone we can call for you, Laura?’ Sue asked gently.

‘You think I’m making it up, don’t you? We sat at this table, had biscuits and a drink and talked.’ Sutherland looked towards the draining board. There was one mug.

‘Sue will go with you while you get dressed, Laura, and then we’d like you to come with us. We just need you to identify Kevin and then we can get on with the job of finding his killer.’

She shook her head bewildered. ‘But you’re not listening. He was here with me last night.’

Sue led her towards the stairs once more and waited patiently while Laura found some jeans and a top.

‘This is silly,’ Laura said as they headed back down the stairs, ‘but I’ll go along with it just to prove it isn’t Kevin. If the body that you have was killed in the early hours of Saturday morning, and Kevin was here last night, it kinda proves it can’t be him.’

‘So where is Kevin?’

‘I have no idea. But he was definitely here yesterday.’

Half an hour later they were at the morgue. She stared through the window at the sheet-covered corpse, completely unafraid. She knew what she knew and it couldn’t be Kevin. She heard Sutherland say ‘we’re ready’ into a microphone and the lab assistant slowly rolled the sheet away from the head.

As if in slow motion Laura fell to the floor and a doctor was summoned. She came out of the faint and began to cry.

‘But how? How can that be Kevin? If it is him – and I’ll give you that it looks like him – how could he have been killed when you say he was, and yet have been with me yesterday?’

A box of tissues was handed to her and she dabbed at her eyes.

‘Trust me, he couldn’t have been with you yesterday, Laura,’ Sutherland said gently. ‘Could you have maybe dreamt it?’

Could she? She had had no sleep the previous night – could she have fallen asleep and dreamt it?

She needed to get out of there. She shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe I did dream it. I don’t know. Can I go home now, please? I need to grieve for my husband.’

Sue took her home and followed her into the house but Laura asked her to leave, saying she would be okay. She needed to think. She didn’t agree that it had been a dream. It had been real; Kevin had been in that kitchen with her.

As Sue walked back to the police car, Laura locked the door and leaned against it. She waited a couple of minutes and then opened up the notes in her mobile phone. Pete Danvers. That had been no dream. That had been Kevin telling her the name of his killer.

She headed upstairs. She wanted to wash the stench of the morgue from her so she switched on the shower before going into the bedroom.

On her pillow was a note. I’ve gone.

But this time he had added three kisses.