short Story # 8

Carpets

By Katie Jarvis

As soon as Henry spoke, I knew I would hate him.

He lay there, wrapped in that roll of carpet – a sort of Paisley pattern, it was.

“Smelly,” said Maureen, wrinkling up her nose. Still, she could talk. She claimed she’d lived entirely off ginger biscuits for the last seven and-a-half years, but I doubted it myself. For one thing, I’d never seen her buy a single packet. And for another, when Vera – the one with the overlarge cat flap – had offered her ginger tea, I’d distinctly heard her say she didn’t care for the flavour.

“Pass me false teeth,” Henry said. No please about it.

“I’ve tried cleaning them with Duraglit, but they’re no better,” Maureen confided quietly to me as she handed them over.

Vera had tried to tempt Henry out of the carpet many a time with home-baked fruit scones, lemon cake, and even a Viennese whorl one Sunday when the World Cup was on, but he was too canny. He refused to come out, even that time when the vicar came round to complain about the cribbage peg wedged in the pulpit. He’d been so angry, the pimples on his chin stood out bright red, and Vera had claimed they’d formed an image of the Virgin Mary, weeping. She’d tried to get the local paper interested, but they were already covering a crop circle that had appeared in the shape of one of Des O’Connor’s sweaters. It was the best proof of alien existence I’d ever seen.

We’d tried ignoring Henry, but Maureen had said to stop doing that at once because it was exactly what he wanted. Some people do things for attention, but Henry did them to be ignored, and it was playing into his hands. Not that anyone had seen his hands for years, of course.

Maureen had even come back with a very nice off-cut in 80 percent polypropylene, which could have saved him in a fire. But Henry would have none of it. He never was safety-conscious by nature. Like the time he’d sat on a live chicken. He said it was an accident, but I’d wondered even then.

Vera said we should shock him out of it. But how do you shock a man like Henry? He hadn’t even blinked over that incident with Flo and the pitchfork, and it couldn’t have happened more than two inches from his nose. And Flo’s never been the same since – she can’t pass a farm-assured beef sign without breaking out into that strange yapping sound she does that goes right through you.

Poor Maureen was nearly driven mad by the situation. It was embarrassing she said – I thought quite reasonably – to have a husband permanently wrapped in a carpet roll. It was pushing her over the edge, and this is a woman who’d been teetering pretty near it in the first place. For a start, she’d been keen on self-euthanasia for as long as I’d known her, and was saving up to visit a Swiss clinic she’d read about. I’m sure the Henry-thing simply exacerbated that. I mean, she was quite well, actually, except for a touch of asthma that caught her bang in the chest whenever she bought capsicum peppers. But that came from years of inhaling self-raising flour.

I suppose it all came to a head when we went on that holiday to Malaga. By “we” I’m talking about the members of the Spotted Cuscus Possum Owners Society. To be honest, I’ve never really believed Henry and Maureen owned a possum, never mind a spotted cuscus – they’d always been very evasive on the subject. But that was their loss.

Easyjet was very good about it, though they were adamant Henry would have to go as baggage. If he’d gone as hand luggage, they said, he could have fallen out of the overhead locker and killed someone, which I thought was a fair point. They refused to put a ‘fragile’ label on him though, which worried Maureen. But on the whole, she was quite happy because it gave her a break for two or three hours; the on-flight food was hopeless for Henry. The peanuts played havoc with his warp and weft.

To be fair to Henry, he must have known he was being a bit of a nuisance because he tried his best to strike up a conversation with the handlers as he was swept down the luggage belt. “Do you know any ventriloquists?” I heard him casually ask, as he disappeared into the x-ray machine, but no-one bothered replying. For one thing they were busy – they’d probably spotted that stapler he’d once swallowed in a fit of pique - and for another, it wasn’t the best conversation opener I’d ever heard. Ventriloquists are largely out of fashion now, though Henry wouldn’t know that.

I’m not xenophobic, but I thought the Spanish authorities could have shown a modicum of understanding when we arrived. You’d think they’d never seen anyone wrapped in a roll of carpet before – and, after all, we all need holidays. They were happy to let the carpet go – it was nothing special, though quite hard-wearing – but they were insistent they wanted to charge duty on Henry.

Maureen was very upset – she’s never coped well with stress since that tragedy with the puff pastry – and Geoff told her to think carefully before she paid, because sometimes it was worth just letting them confiscate the goods and shrugging your shoulders. But she couldn’t bear to think of Henry stored in some god-forsaken carpet warehouse, waiting to see if he matched someone’s three-piece, and she paid up in the end, even though it meant using the money for the optional trip to the surgical appliance factory.

One of the other members of our party originally came from Axminster, and Maureen’s relief was palpable when he agreed to try a bit of counselling.

He was a big man, and he didn’t believe in pussy-footing around, he said. He got Henry upright in the roll – Maureen wept to see it because Henry had been horizontal for years – and asked him absolutely directly, “Why do you want to spend your time rolled up in a carpet then, Henry?”

It was an approach that paid off, and I think it clarified the situation for a lot of us. After all, it’s true that with a rug the tassels would get right up your nose. But, without being ungrateful, it didn’t really alter the situation, as such.

Henry was laughing on the other side of his face by the end of the holiday, though – not that he’s got much of a sense of humour – because he was the only one who didn’t have severe sunburn over 80 percent of bodily surfaces, though he was unduly upset about the extensive fading on the north face of his carpet. We had to stop Madge trying to persuade him to have a pair of curtains fitted to minimise sun damage.

Anyhow, I’m pretty sure it was that holiday that began to plant a seed of doubt in his mind.

We came back to the hottest summer Durdle Door has ever known. I realised how hot it was going to be when I saw Doreen’s thermals hung out on the line. She only has one set because she will insist they’re in camouflage colours, though heaven knows why. She always says she kicks herself for not buying a second pair when she saw them.

Well, the sun continued to pound down, and you could see Henry was getting more and more uncomfortable, though he was too proud to show it. He deliberately whistled Elgar’s Enigma Variations backwards every morning, just to demonstrate how relaxed he was. But it was a ruse – we could all see that.

Then one morning, when we were all meeting up for our annual deck chair absorbancy check, Henry just stood up in the middle of the room, cool as a cucumber, and unravelled himself as if nothing had happened.

Maureen gave this little sort of scream, and fainted right away. Vera had to wave a Hairdresser’s Monthly over her for 15 minutes before she came round. It was such a shock.

As for Henry, he was a bit dusty, which is only to be expected, but none the worse for wear.

Of course, the carpet was ruined – I certainly wouldn’t have had it in my lounge after all it had been through – but it was never a pattern I’d particularly admired.

I lost touch with them in the end, which was sad as they were always good for a game of Twister of a dark night – right through Henry’s carpet days which, I suppose, was sporting of him.

But even in his deep pile moments, I never developed what you could call a fondness for him, not after all he put Maureen through.

I sometimes wonder where they are now, and how they’re doing, and whether they ever got round to building the cochineal store that Maureen always dreamed of.

It’s sad, but some people are born to lead humdrum sorts of existences.

Recent News

Dear Micks,

First of all I want to say how terribly sorry I was to hear of the death of guardsman, Christopher Davies last week. I would also like to send my best wishes to Ciaran O'Sullivan and other injured soldiers from 1st Battalion. I pray for their speedy recovery.

I recently received a telephone call from an officer in 1st Battalion (in Helmand) who said that the short stories and blog were entertaining you all and helping you through. I do hope that is the case. I am endeavouring to find new writers so I can upload content every week. Have you finished any of your stories, yet? A soldier I know, who recently came back from Sangin, told me that life for you boys is 90% boredom, 10% panic. I should have scores of stories from you, if that's the case! But maybe you're all busy writing your diaries and memoires so you can be the next Andy McNab upon your return. Why not post some of your diary entries on this 'ere page when you're back from the tour? Maybe I could edit them and we could turn them into a book? It's a thought. Remember you are all part of history in the making.

Have you received the 'pin-up' calendar, yet? Here's November's picture just in case you haven't. Seeing as this month is nearly out, I'm not going to spoil the 'great' surprise!

My mother's so proud!

Hopefully your tour will whizz by. The last months seem to have gone very quickly for me... 'So what have you been up to?' I hear you cry! Well, I've turned into Vera Lynn and have been baby-sitting a Royal Marine (known in The Field as High Tower) since he returned to Blighty in October. He is very worried about the competition from the Micks and it keeps him on his toes (which is just as well as he's not very tall!) I think it's always good to have back-up, don't you?!!

Recently, I have been working a little bit but I have also been partying, shooting and partying some more. Yesterday, I interviewed Sir Stirling Moss (I'll see if he'll send you all a message). He was lovely and a very impressive man. He really is one of life's high achievers. He was telling me how hunting and show-jumping as a boy helped him become a great racing driver - I think it's an exclusive! I doubt very much other journalists have taken this angle on Mr. Motor Racing before. I then drank loads of bubbly in Mayfair with the ambassador of a champagne brand who (fingers crossed) is considering lending his support to this blog and might help us throw a party for your return (probably over the summer). I am enjoying myself entirely for YOUR benefit, OK.

I am off to Argentina on Monday for three weeks but I will update you about my travels a couple of times a week. I will also try and upload some pictures.

With love, hugs and best wishes,

Charlie xxx

Short Story # 7

Twenty-One Green Bottles

By

Della Galton

It is dark and rank and we are so far below ground I can feel the whole weight of the hill bearing down upon our heads. Only the drip, drip of water and the scrape of Bob’s boots on the rock ahead of me breaks the echoing silence.

I’m no longer sure I like potholing. It had been fun when we set out. I was as captivated as he was by the yawning beauty of the first cavern we came across and the perfection of the stalactites that poked down from its ceiling like crystalline daggers.

Now I just feel cold and fed up and if I’m honest a little afraid, which isn’t like me. I’ve never been the nervous type. My sister, Natasha, is a girly girl who loves dressing up and cooking and having friends round for dinner parties. I’ve always preferred the dirt and dust of the great outdoors, but right now I’ve had enough of it – or at least I’ve had enough of the great under-the-ground, which has always been Bob’s domain.

“Will we be heading back soon?” I call towards his torch, which is a thin beam of light picking out moisture-darkened rock and the odd bat.

“Yeah.” He slows. “There’s a bit of a ledge up here. Let’s have a breather.” I see the dark shape of him move upwards and I realise he is sitting on a jutting out piece of rock. He reaches out a hand and pulls me up to join him.

The whites of his eyes flash in the gloom. “Sorry, pet, have you had enough? I should have asked you before.”

“I should have said.” I snuggle into his warm bulk and immediately feel better. Bob has been potholing for years. He’s as much at home tunnelling through these dark warrens as he is ambling down the cobbled streets of our Northumberland village.

His great, great grandfather, like mine, was a miner. Bob reckons poking about underground is in his blood. I’ve told him many a time that no one went down a mine because they liked it. They did it because there was no other way to make a living.

But the upshot is that Bob loves caves – and because I love Bob, I decided to come with him today when the mate who’d promised dropped out.

I’ve been on other expeditions, but none as long or as tricky as this one.

“So, does the tunnel get much narrower than this?”

Bob hesitates. “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure where this tunnel goes.”

A shiver touches the base of my spine, but I try to keep my voice light. “I thought you knew these caves back to front and inside out.”

“So did I.” He nuzzles my hair. “We must have taken a wrong turning. Don’t worry, pet. I know roughly where we are. We’re in a section near the old mine. It’s a bit further east that I’d planned, but not completely uncharted territory.”

“Well that’s something I suppose.”

“You really have had enough, haven’t you?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Although I’ve seen enough bats and slimy walls to last me a while.”

He laughs. And that’s when we hear the sound of distant voices.

* * *

The noise was the first thing Thomas heard. An ear splitting crack like the roof of the world was coming down on his head. A heartbeat later he realised it was. A whole crush of timber and stones rained onto the floor around him. He curled right back against the wall of the shaft, covering his head and face until the worst was over.

When he’d opened his eyes and had checked he was still in one piece, the first person he saw through the choking dust was his Uncle George. They’d been working alongside each other, but Uncle George hadn’t been so lucky. Blood oozed from a gash on his head and he half lay, half sat a few feet away.

Scared there might be another rock fall Thomas crawled on his hands and knees towards him.

“You all right, Uncle George?”

“Aye, Thomas. You all right?”

“I think so. Is it a rock fall?”

“More than a rock fall, lad. I’d say the shaft’s gone. That was the cracking sound we heard. We’ll be stuck here ‘til they get us out.”

For the first time Thomas realised the entrance was blocked by a mountain of rubble. When he looked closer he saw the toe of a man’s boot sticking out beneath it, and the bloodied fabric of his trousers. He swallowed hard and tried not look again. All around, other men were stirring and moaning.

His stomach churning, he turned back to his uncle. “They will get us out, won’t they?”

“Course they will, lad.” He heard his uncle’s deep chuckle in the gloom. They’ll be getting the rescue party together as we speak.”

* * *

“I guess we’re not the only ones doing a spot of potholing,” I say, and Bob nods.

“At least we can ask for directions if we get lost,” I quip.

“We’re not lost.” He sounds pretty confident but I’m not so sure. And when we start moving again we are going towards the voices. They’re quite loud so we must be close.

We reach a junction in the tunnel. The left side looks too narrow so we take the right. Almost immediately the voices grow fainter and we don’t get far before we reach a dead end.

Bob turns back. For the first time he looks worried. “I’m sorry. I think we should have taken the left hand fork.”

* * *

“How about a song, eh Thomas? There’s nothing like a song to keep your spirits up.”

“And the rescue party will be able to hear us, won’t they, if we’re singing.”

“Aye Thomas, they will.”

They sang ten green bottles to kick off, their voices rising in a crescendo of defiance to the dark. Then they found ten wasn’t really enough and after some discussion they sang twenty-one green bottles.

“Why twenty-one, Uncle George?”

“Because, there are twenty-one of us, stuck in here, lad. A bottle each. I tell you, I could do with a bottle right now.”

“A bottle of beer, Uncle George?”

“Aye, Thomas, a nice cold bottle of beer.”

* * *

Perhaps my imagination is on overtime, but the voices are beginning to spook me. They are men’s voices. They rise and fall and they dip up and down in volume, sometimes so faint they’re almost gone and other times so loud I’m sure we will come across them at the next junction. But we never do.

Bob is stubbornly optimistic. “We’re not lost, just misplaced,” he says, as we take another breather. In the torchlight I see sweat and grime streaking his forehead.

“What if we can’t find our way out?” I try to make it sound like a throwaway line.

“Of course we’ll find our way out.”

* * *

“It’s been more than a day now, Uncle George, hasn’t it. And they’re not here yet.”

“No, lad, they’re not.”

The last light had gone out a while back and to Thomas’s super sensitive ears his uncle’s voice sounded weaker, although just as stubbornly cheerful. But Thomas was worried. He’d heard him retching earlier. A lot of the men had been sick, and although he was trying to look on the bright side as much as anyone, he knew it had been a lot more than a day.

Three bloody days for all he knew, or maybe even four. It was impossible to tell in the endless dark. They had no way of counting time. Day and night rolled into each other in a dizzying blur.

At least they had supplies. Uncle George and Robert, the butty, had rationed out food and water at the beginning – it was one of the first things they’d done. He’d heard them talking in low voices.

“Enough for more than a week if we’re careful. Rescue party should be here by then.”

Thomas was sore from lying on rock, his head felt muzzy and the tiny cuts that hadn’t bothered him at first now throbbed to the beat of his heart. As he lay in the pitch dark of their prison, he longed for his mam, even though she’d died two years hence. Sometimes he had to stuff his hand in his mouth to stop the tears. At eleven and a half he was too old to cry.

* * *

After a while it strikes me that the voices are singing. It sounds like Ten Green Bottles, although I could swear the last verse was twenty-one green bottles. I’m getting used to them now. We both are. They sound comforting, not spooky.

“I know this is going to sound mad.” Bob takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “But I think they’re leading us out. Every time we take a wrong turn they get quieter and when we’re back on track they’re loud again.”

“It doesn’t sound mad,” I say. He’s right. I’m beginning to think the voices aren’t even underground, but above our heads on the hillside like some sort of marching choir. Once or twice think I hear the soprano of a child amongst the deep baritones of the men.

And then we both see it at the same time: a circle of light up ahead, brighter than an angel’s halo.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, choking between laughter and tears.

“I told you we weren’t lost,” Bob says.

* * *

There were a few moments when Thomas thought they might not get rescued.

The first was the moment Uncle George started to scrape something into the rocky wall behind them.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m writing a message to your cousin.”

“Why are you writing her a message?”

Uncle George didn’t answer and Thomas wondered if he should write a message. Only he didn’t know who to write to. He’d lived with Uncle George and Janet since his mam had passed over.

Then there was the moment when Uncle George tried to rouse Robert and he wouldn’t be roused. Their prison grew more silent as time passed.

Then there was the moment when Uncle George himself couldn’t be roused. And Thomas crawled along the floor and one by one he felt the cold faces of the men. When he got to number twenty and he knew he was the last one alive he crawled back to Uncle George and lay down next to him, but he still hoped they’d be rescued. As he closed his eyes he fancied he could hear the tap tapping of rescuers getting closer.

* * *

Ensconced within the beer-scented warmth of The Goodfellow’s Arms that night, the fear and darkness seem a long way away. Although I know nothing on earth will get me in a cave again.

Bob is talking to an old guy at the bar. When he comes back, he looks a bit shaken.

I touch his arm. “What’s up?”

“I was just telling Albert about our adventures. He did a lot of potholing when he was younger. He knows the area better than anyone.”

I glance at the old man and he raises his glass in my direction.

“Did you tell him about the voices?”

Bob’s eyes darken. “Yeah, I did. I half expected him to laugh.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No. He told me about a disaster that happened back in 1860. In those days it was legal for mines to have only one shaft so if there was a problem, say a rock fall that blocked the shaft, they’d have no way of getting out.”

“Christ.”

“It wasn’t a big disaster in terms of numbers – there were twenty-three fatalities. Two were buried under rubble, but the other twenty-one weren’t so lucky. One of them was an eleven-year-old lad.” Bob’s eyes filled with tears. “They lasted about a week before they either suffocated or got poisoned by noxious gases. When they were finally dug out the rescuers found the bodies lined up in a row beneath messages they’d scratched in the rock to their loved ones.”

I swallow hard.

“Under the little lad’s body were the words, ‘from the dark, let my spirit bring light.’ Albert thinks it’s a reference to the bible.”

I can’t speak, and Bob’s voice is husky as he goes on: “Apparently, we’re not the first lost potholers who’ve been guided out of the darkness to the tune of twenty-one green bottles.”

Short Story # 6

The Beauty of Statistics

By

Della Galton

“It says here that only six percent of divers can get themselves out of trouble at forty metres,” Garry announced to the boat in general, holding up the magazine he was reading. “What do you reckon, guys?”

“The beauty of statistics is that they can be manipulated to prove or disprove whatever you like,” someone said.

That was true, I thought, glancing at Garry.

“I bet it isn’t far out.” He grinned and put down the magazine. “The deeper you go the more risks there are.”

“Pack it in,” said Steve, who was our dive leader for this trip and my buddy. “It’s lack of experience that gets divers into trouble. And there’s no-one on this boat who isn’t up to doing this dive. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t capable.”

I stared out of the cabin window at the calm, grey sea and wondered if he was including me in that. I was the least experienced diver on board. I’d only started last season, just before Dad had been diagnosed with bowel cancer.

It was Dad who’d persuaded me to sign up for lessons. He’d been in the merchant navy when he was younger and had always fancied learning to dive himself, but had never got round to it.

“It’ll give us something interesting to talk about,” he’d said. “And it’ll stop you hassling me every five minutes.” He grinned as he spoke. We both knew that he liked my visits, but he was worried that I was putting my life on hold for him.

Mum wasn’t around any more so it was just the two of us. Not that I lived with Dad, but we’d always been close, and I popped in several times a week.

In the end I’d agreed to sign up for a course just to shut him up. The lessons were on a Monday evening at the local swimming pool and I’d call at Dad’s on the way home and regale him with the latest things I’d learned. I qualified just before Dad’s first operation and he said my tales of the deep, as he called them, stopped him worrying about it.

I was glad I’d started too. There was something addictive about being an observer in an alien world. Since I’d been let loose in the sea I’d seen all sorts of things I’d only ever seen on television before. Conger eels, free-swimming in the water; lobsters battling over territorial rights; cuttlefish at night, looking like something prehistoric with their strange lit up bodies. I’d fed wrasse with sea urchins and once I’d seen a dog fish gliding through the water, grey and sleek, and looking every inch a part of the shark family that it was. Contrary to popular belief, there was a lot to see beneath the English Channel and it wasn’t too cold if you had the right kind of gear.

“Right, you lot, time to start getting kitted up. We’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Steve voice broke into my thoughts and he came across to me. “We’ll go in last, Maggie, and then we can go down nice and gently. How are you feeling?”

“A bit nervous,” I admitted.

“Well that’s only natural. I’d be worried if you weren’t. But we’ll be fine. It’s a lovely calm day. The visibility’s excellent. I reckon we should have at least ten metres down there.”

We were diving a shipwreck called The Aparima, which several of the guys had done before. It stood upright and was fairly intact, which meant that you couldn’t go inside much of it. Not that I had any desire to go inside. I’d heard too many horror stories, about losing your way and getting trapped. I was quite happy to view this one from a distance.

There was an air of expectation on the boat as everyone got ready. Pulling on dry suits, fastening weight belts, connecting up and testing air supplies. Steve and I didn’t rush. There was no point if we were going in last. And I had no desire to sit around in the heavy kit for a second longer than necessary. Although it was only just ten, the sun was already warming the July sky.

Just before we went in Steve went through our dive plan one more time. We wouldn’t be staying down long. The deeper you went, the less time you could stay there for safety reasons.

“Just time for a quick scout about. And let me know if you start feeling odd at all.”

I nodded. He was talking about the effects of nitrogen narcosis, which I knew about, but had never actually experienced, as it only tended to happen at depth. It affected divers differently. Some never felt it all; others reported it as being a bit like being drunk.

“Right let’s get going then.”

Moments later we were slipping below the water, our air bubbles heading in trails back up to the surface. The visibility was wonderful. When we were ten metres down we could see the dark hulk of the shipwreck below us and the lights of a dozen torches moving around and across it.

It was like something out of the film, The Abyss. I stared in fascination, before dragging my gaze back to the dive computer on my wrist. Soon we were at thirty three metres and dropping. I’d never been so far beneath the ocean and a mixture of excitement and nervousness churned within me.

Close to the seabed Steve gave me the OK sign and then we set off around the perimeter of the wreck. Many of the portholes still had glass in them, glinting blackly off our torchlight like long dead eyes. I made a mental note to tell Dad about them. He’d have loved the chance to do this.

Once we were out of range of the other divers’ torches it was pitch black but it wasn’t scary. It felt as though we were supposed to be there, swimming in this water world amongst the fish. I half expected to see a mermaid fin by.

And then Steve was tapping my arm. I stared at him and was amazed when he gave me the signal to go up.

I raised my eyebrows in query and he pointed to his dive computer. I could hardly believe our time was up, but he was right. He prepared to send up the line that we would use to ascend. It was up to me to make sure his reel was free of obstruction. If it jammed, he could be dragged up with it, which at best might give him a bend and at worst could kill him.

“All clear?” he signalled.

I nodded, even though I was aware that something wasn’t quite right. But it was as though my brain was working in slow motion. I watched as the line began to unravel, faster and faster, and then, too late, my brain caught up with what I’d seen and not properly registered. The line snagged, the reel jammed, and Steve was dragged up with it towards the surface.

For a few seconds I was too shocked to move. That had been my fault. Why had I given him the all clear? The answer filtered slowly through to my brain. Nitrogen narcosis. So this was what it felt like. Not like being drunk, as someone had described, but like thinking in slow motion. I thought about Steve. He’d been diving for twenty years and I was sure he’d react quickly enough to detach himself – but I’d still put his life at risk.

And my own, I thought belatedly. Stupidly, I hadn’t bought my reel with me; you only needed one to get up. Garry’s words echoed disturbingly around my head and for a moment I tried to remember what percentage of divers could get themselves out of trouble at forty metres. Had he said four or six? I couldn’t remember, but neither sounded very promising. Less than ten percent – such a small figure, with all the odds stacked against me, like the mass of dark water pressing down on my head.

I was surprised that I wasn’t more scared, but perhaps that was an effect of the narcosis too. I gazed up into the blackness. Getting up safely, alone and without a reel, was tricky, but not impossible. I inflated my jacket cautiously. Speed was critical and hard to control with no line to hold. I looked at my computer to check my rate of ascent and wished my brain would work properly. None of the numbers made sense. I couldn’t tell whether I was going up or down. And then my feet touched solid ground again and I realised that I was back where I’d started. And I felt the first dull thump of fear.

* * *

Every season one or two divers died. It was something that we all knew. We’d talked about it on the boat sometimes. It happened because of equipment failures or lack of experience, or sometimes just plain bad luck. It had never happened to anyone in our club, although now and again it had happened to the friend of a friend. Death had crept a little closer, touched the outer edges of our world. I looked at my air gauge and wondered idly what it would be like to drown.

Then I thought about Dad and wondered how many times he must have considered dying. The odds had been stacked against him from the minute he was diagnosed, but it didn’t stop him fighting. I began to kick up towards the surface again, my brain still sluggish and slow.

And then suddenly, miraculously, I became aware that my head was clearing and suddenly the numbers on my computer made sense again. Twenty nine metres and rising, the effects of the narcosis losing its grip, my mind coming sharply back into focus. The relief was dizzying, but it wasn’t until I was back in the brightness of sunlight, back on the boat, crowded with anxious faces, with Steve administering oxygen to lessen the effects of any damage, that I realised how close a call I’d had.

* * *

I didn’t tell Dad what had happened. Partly because I hadn’t made up my mind whether I wanted to dive again and partly because he had another hospital appointment looming and I didn’t want to worry him.

Dad wouldn’t let me see the consultant with him. “I prefer to hear bad news alone,” he muttered.

“Who said it’s going to be bad?”

But when he came back out to the car where he’d insisted I wait, I could see that it was. His face was too controlled. Only a pulse beating in his forehead gave the game away.

I drove us to a café where we often went on the way back from his appointments, ordered cappuccinos and waited for him to tell me.

“They want me to have another operation,” he said at last. “Quite a major one. They want to remove another load of my insides. Can’t be much left in there now.” His voice was light, but the pain of it showed dully in his eyes.

“When do they want to do it?”

“As soon as possible. My latest scan showed up another tumour. To be honest, Maggie, I’m thinking of saying no.”

“Because you can’t face another operation,” I asked, when I was sure my voice would be steady enough to speak. We’d discussed this before. He’d always said that this time might come. And I’d always promised that I wouldn’t try to talk him out of it.

“Partly. But mostly because the odds of getting rid of the cancer are very low.” He put his hand across mine. “The success rate is less than ten percent, so we’re talking ninety percent failure rate – now I’m not a betting man, love, but I don’t go much on those odds.”

“But someone has to be in that ten percent. It could just as easily be you as anyone else.” I could hear now that my voice was giving me away. Husky with my tears and my love for him.

“Maggie, love, look me in the eyes and tell me that you’d carry on fighting something with those sorts of odds.”

“I would,” I said, and then I told him why.

* * *

Dad had the operation and it was a success. Three years on he is still clear of cancer. I still go diving, too, although I rarely go below thirty metres. I don’t want to push my luck. Steve, who’s still my diving buddy, is quite relieved about this, although he’s long since forgiven me for trying to “kill” him. In fact, he forgave me enough to ask me to marry him last night.

One in four marriages ends in divorce, you know. But Steve and I aren’t going to waste time worrying about that – because statistically we shouldn’t be here anyway. Neither should Dad. We’ve just been discussing it with him over a bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement and we’ve all come to the same conclusion. The only thing you can say for certain about statistics – the beauty of them, if you like - is that they don’t prove a thing.

Short Story # 5

Dear Micks,

Here is another short story by novelist and professional short story writer, Della Galton. To find out more about the author, visit: www.dellagalton.co.uk

Della's latest book, The Dog with Nine Lives, is on sale on 26 October, 2010

Map Reading and Murder

By

Della Galton

Jack was beginning to get seriously irritated with Marion. This holiday in the Purbecks was supposed to be a chance to wind down, relax and take in the scenery, but she’d been bending his ear ever since they set out. Being screeched at, because she didn’t like the route he was taking, was very wearing.

“I have been here before,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the road ahead. “I know it might not be on the map, but it’s a shortcut, I remember it. So please quit griping and let me concentrate.”

To his intense relief, she shut up. Bliss. And for the next few miles, she was silent. Sulking probably. He hoped he was right about the shortcut. It was true he had been here before, but not for at least thirty years. For all he knew they might have changed the road layout and he had to hand it to Marion – she was efficient. Unlike, Connie, his ex-wife, who’d never had an up to date map.

He’d been twenty-two the last time he’d been to the Purbecks. Young, free and single and looking forward to getting married and having children. He hadn’t had a clue, he thought wryly.

Not that he didn’t love his kids, they were great kids. They took after him and not their mother, fortunately. But the marriage bit – well to be honest he wished he hadn’t bothered. He and Connie had never really had much in common.

She’d thought she was an expert map- reader, too, he remembered ruefully. That in itself wouldn’t have been so bad, but she’d been so smug with it. She’d delighted in telling him he was stupid as often as possible.

Jack remembered one nightmare journey when they’d been trying to find a B&B in Devon. She’d spent the entire three hours barking out instructions and telling him what an idiot he was when they came too late for him to act on them.

He’d snapped eventually and veered onto a grass verge, which had wiped the smug look off her face temporarily.

“Look,” he’d yelled. “It’s no good you telling me it’s the third exit when I’ve already taken the fourth. What am I supposed to be, a mind reader or something?”

To make matters worse he’d discovered belatedly that the grass verge was soft and when he’d tried to pull back onto the road he realised they were stuck. He’d had to flag down a passing truck and beg a tow. And all the time Connie had bent his ear from the passenger seat, not lifting a finger to help. Then, once they were going again she’d spent the rest of the journey telling him that if he’d listened to her in the first place they wouldn’t be in this mess.

She’d sulked for the rest of the week too, which hadn’t done much for the relaxing break he’d planned for them. Things had come to a head soon afterwards – it was a shame for the kids’ sake that it had ended like it had. But they were grown up, they’d coped – Jack had a feeling they’d secretly admired him for standing up to their mother, once and for all. But all Jack had felt was blessed relief that he’d never have to hear her grating voice again.

He couldn’t believe he’d landed up in a near identical situation with Marion. She’d started wittering again, that they’d taken the wrong turning, but he was doing his best to ignore her.

A lesser man would have snapped completely by now, he thought, wondering how many murders had been committed over map reading arguments.

A few minutes later, he indicated right, ignoring her snide remarks that they were going the wrong way and pulled over into a viewpoint that overlooked the whole of the Purbecks.

No-one could fail to be impressed by this view, he thought, gazing out at the purple heather-clad hills and taking a deep breath. Not that Marion had anything to say about it. Perhaps she’d given up. Jack had to admit she’d been right about the earlier directions. His shortcut had taken them down a road that had got narrower and narrower and finally turned into a farm track with grass growing down the centre of the road. He’d turned round and they were now going in the opposite direction, but they were still hopelessly lost.

“OK, you win,” he said eventually to break the stifling silence. “We’ll do it your way. And this time I’ll listen to you. How’s that?”

There was no answer; he hadn’t expected one. But she soon started up, once they were back on track. “Turn left at the next junction.” Her voice wasn’t as grating as Connie’s had been, which was something, he supposed. And at least she gave him plenty of notice.

Maybe he was being oversensitive he thought, when they finally pulled up at their destination. A grey stone cottage that was every bit as lovely as it had looked on the brochure. And they were only an hour and a half late. Not bad for a man who’d once taken eight hours to do a three-hour journey.

“Got there in the end, my darling,” he murmured, grinning and getting out to stretch his legs and get the bags out of the boot.

And they wouldn’t have to drive anywhere now they were here. He’d spotted a country pub a mile or so back. It would be better to walk up there than risk his licence. Then he had a week of peace to look forward to. He breathed in a huge lung full of fresh, country air.

Marion wasn’t all bad, he decided, crossing to the front door and sliding the key into the lock. Nothing like Connie if he thought about it. He thought of his ex wife’s shrewish face and shuddered.

No, Marion was actually quite an asset for a man who couldn’t find his way around. And if he didn’t want to, then he wouldn’t have to hear her voice again until they drove back home.

If she wound him up too much he could always implement the final solution and do what he’d threatened to do earlier. Silence her permanently and find his own way home.

That was the beauty of satellite navigation.

In the Hairdressers

Dear Micks,

I am currently in the hairdressers having my hair blonded and cut. Unfortunately, it's a bit of a repair job after I had my attacked in Taunton by untrained Levellers armed with industrial dye and sheep-shears. Boys, never have your hair done in Somerset. If there's only one piece of advice in life you heed please let it be this.

I am SO happy to hear from Charlie G that you are reading and enjoying the blog. Phew! You'll be pleased to know the naughty calendars are on their way to you as I type this 'ere installment. I have sent two parcels addressed to the Two Company commander. Please can you make sure they are distributed throughout the companies as I understand they need cheering up, too. The calendar is laughable in itself but what I'm sure the other companies will fund utterly hilarious is that you organised such a minger as the pin-up. I mean I'm hardly on the level of Nuts or FHM, am I?! Having said that Pirelli have been in touch and want me to be June for their 2012 calendar but I said, 'NO! Bugger off Pirelli - I don't take my clothes off for tyre companies, I only take my kit off for soldiers, OK?!'

So, what news in my life? I have been acting abhorrently, drinking too much as usual and am off to interview the British Olympic Women's volleyball hopefuls next week for The Field. Pretty normal stuff. I will post pictures, naturally :-) Last month I did a gig at the Groucho Club which wasn't my best. I did a last minute double-act with Rich Fulcher from the Mighty Boosh. We basically just did a few willy jokes and held up pictures of penii that looked like famous people. It was cutting-edge satire. I'm so proud of myself. Tomorrow evening I am opening a shooting lodge (check how I roll). I will do 10 minutes of stand-up as my alter-ego Henrietta Arden-Bibby - I hope the audience aren't appalled at the blue material. I'm known on the circuit at the Posh Roy Chubby Brown of comedy. It's important to scale cerebral heights with art, don't you think?

Did I tell you I met the Wurzels the other day? I was invited back stage with my pen-friend, the Royal Marine, High Tower. They then dedicated a song to us in front of thousand of people. It was epic! I don't think life will ever be the same again. The Wurzels said they'd be delighted to be part of a gala entertainment night for when you return from Afghanistan. Please let me know a date over the summer so we can arrange this.

What else? I made cider the other weekend in Somerset with a Colonel in the Marines. The only people I seem to mix with are in the military nowadays. Who'd have thought my little column in The Field could lead to this?! I have picked a few pounds of sloes so gin making is my next alcoholic assignment.

My main bit of news, aside from being a new presenter on www.fieldsportschannel.tv - ooh, get me - is that I am off to Argentina for three weeks. I promise to send you some postcards! I will be back in time for Christmas to show off my tan and generally get up everyone's noses. When is winter in Afghanistan? Will you come back bronzed or frost bitten in April? I know the winters are brutal over there. Recently, the Marine did a talk for the Watchet Sea-Cubs which I attended (yes, life is a roller-coaster). Anyway, I learnt a lot from his power point presentation which was very engaging until he put up the infant mortality graphs and figures. Although they were shocking statistics that woke everyone up to the terrible poverty in Afghanistan - a graph always has a rather soporific effect on teenager and adult alike. Anyway, I feel I know a lot more about the problems you face, the Afghan people and the environment. Not in that I can be remotely helpful to you in anyway - sorry about that.

Today is Armistice Day. May I wish you all well. I thought of you all during the two minutes silence. On Saturday I am attending the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance at the Albert Hall. I will tell you all about it next week.

Take care and stay safe - that's an order!

Right, just off to have my foils taken off and have a toner put on. I sound like a photocopier!

Lots of love,

Charlie xxx

Short Story # 4

DAFFODILS

By Peter Green

Last lesson on a Friday! Mrs Pelmore has promised us a revision session on Wordsworth’s famous poem. Oh joy! Fifty-five minutes of her blustering on about metaphors and similes and rhyme schemes and the way……. If he’d written one about dandelions, he’d have no chance of fame and therefore I’m sure I wouldn’t have to suffer this barrage. I think I’ll count the number of times she breathes while she’s going on.

____________________

“So you have your essay title for homework. I expect it in Monday morning, second lesson. Have a good weekend…..when you’ve finished your essay.” Mrs Pelmore picked up her books and papers and in full stride left the room.

____________________

What was that all about? They were just words bouncing round the classroom.

____________________

“Have you finished your homework, Jon?” His mother’s shouted question interrupted his wandering thoughts. Before him on the page lay the neatly written essay title. This was followed by: ’The figurative language and diction used elucidates the poet’s response to nature by’ and then nothing.

“Nearly!” replied Jon, using a similar tone of voice.

“No television …….or Facebook until you’ve finished.”

This conversation was a regular routine and was usually the push needed to complete the necessary. This time though there was no immediate response. Jon just stared at the poem in front of him, uninspired.

After a while he pulled out his rough book and started writing down individual words from the poem, piecing together two or three words into recognisable phrases. These phrases were then rearranged into a short poem. Jon sat back in his chair with a gentle smile of satisfaction.

“Finished!” he bellowed downstairs.

____________________

This is supposed to be a great poem so the words that he used must be great. Therefore if I use the same words shuffled into a poem, that poem must be …..great. I have a literary masterpiece.

___________________

“Where is your homework?” Mrs Pelmore’s oppressive voice boomed over his left shoulder.

“I wasn’t able to…” Jon started to mutter his excuse but was interrupted by Mrs Pelmore’s realisation that no homework would be forthcoming.

“Show me your rough book. I want to see what notes you have made.” The rough book fell open at his poem. She spent a few moments to read it, then strode to the front of the class and said, “I am pleased to see that the poetry work we have done this term is having effect. This is a short poem that Jon has written:

Pensive waves wander along the never-ending bay,

Their dancing heads lie couched.

No fluttering breeze.

Solitude.

Allowing an inward glance.

This possesses calm repose, an appreciation of the inner soul. I am in the process of collecting local poets’ work for an anthology to be published in a few months’ time. This will be part of the anthology. What are you calling your poem, Jon?”

Jon thought for a moment and then with the edge of a smile said, “Daffodils.”

This brought about the renowned Pelmore frown followed by, “We will decide later.”

____________________

My future is now set. I have the formula for writing successful poetry. I will be a famous poet.

Procrastination

Dear Micks,

I should be attacking a mountain of work but instead I have been proofing your tour calendar and revising this 'ere blog. Ah, the wonderful art of procrastination. The calendar should be with you some time next week. It's quite saucy but tasteful. I am now gluing my clothes back on and hanging my suspenders up. Being photographed naked is a younger, thinner bird's game!

I hope you are all well and am looking forward to receiving emails and letters. I am posting two letters tomorrow. Remember my email address is: charlottereather@gmail.com Email me whenever.

Right then, back to writing articles about labradors... But maybe just a quick cuppa and a cigarette before I settle down to it.

Lots of love,

Charlie x

Short Story # 3

Dear Micks,

Here is a story from the multi-talented Maurice Gran, co-creator of Birds of a Feather, Goodnight Sweeetheart & The New Statesman. He is also the co-writer of the hit West End musical, Dreamboats and Petticoats.

ROOM SERVICE

A short story by Maurice Gran

Greg Houndsditch was a bit of a shit, and he knew he was. If he hadn’t known he was a bit of a shit he’d have been a hell of a shit. He knew this too, which is why he was only a bit of a shit.

It wasn’t that he was a bad person, he told himself. He just needed more excitement from life than he’d been getting lately. He knew he ought to look on the bright side; after all, he was on good money while the country was going to the dogs. But he was so bored!

It wasn’t his fault, either. In just nine years he had barged a route from junior reporter on the Northampton Echo, all the way to Fleet Street and the Sunday Times crime desk. He was barely thirty, and he was pulling in fifteen grand a year plus expenses, plus petrol, plus easy access to “petty cash” whenever an informant needed encouragement. And when there was no informant to encourage there was still easy access to petty cash. Everyone dipped in, the management knew, it was no big deal.

But then the printers went on strike, the greedy bastards. They had it cushy - why did they have to rock the boat? Most of them earned more in a weekend than Greg did for a seventy hour week! It was anarchy in the printworks; men long dead were still on the payroll and “drawing wages”, which their living comrades divvied up. The management knew about that too, but as long as the paper was raking in big profits, they turned a blind eye.

When the national economy started to nosedive, and newspaper profits with it, the bosses decided they had no choice but to confront the chaos. Inevitably the printers walked out, and so did the delivery drivers, the packers, and all other “allied trades” who in Greg’s opinion leeched off his journalistic endeavours.

Now it was December 1978, and every bugger seemed to be going on strike - council workers, teachers, even firemen. In every high street in Britain the Christmas Lights were reflected back off shiny black rubbish bags piled high on street corners. Britain was witnessing the last mad lemming surge of mindless militants, over the cliffs of trades unionism and into the raging torrent of incipient Thatcherism. At least that’s how Greg would have put it if he’d been a leader writer rather than a crime reporter – and if the printers hadn’t closed the paper down.

But Greg was locked out, like his fellow journalists. Happily the bosses continued to pay the journalists their full wages. Happy? Greg’s colleagues were ecstatic - full pay for no work - what could be better? At last this was the chance to write that book, or build that house, or take that round the world trip.

None of those options appealed to Greg. He might have been a bit of a shit but he was a hard working one. He loved his life of crime. He loved the tip-offs, the scoops, the secretive meetings with bent coppers and honest crooks. So the thought of tamely sitting at home drawing his salary, week in week out, filled him with gloom.

On top of everything there was the small matter of Daniel. Small but getting bigger every day. It wasn’t that Greg hadn’t wanted kids. He’d always expected to become a dad in due course. He’d enjoyed doing things with his old man – flying kites, making trucks out of meccano, going to the football. So when Denise fell pregnant he hadn’t been all that anti. Which was just as well, with her coming from a staunch Irish Catholic family.

Only now Daniel was six months old, and the little sod still hadn’t slept through the night, and Denise had only shed about two of the five stone she’d put on during pregnancy, and she kept bursting into tears because she was knackered and her nipples were cracked, and it was eight months since their last bout of marital sex, which had been crap.

All this had been bearable before the strike. Greg could go off bright and early, come home after the kid was in his cot, invent evening meetings and weekend conferences, and generally keep himself out of the domestic firing line. But now he was at home most days, and there was no way Denise was going to let him off the hook when it came to feeding, changing and entertaining the little sod.

So lately he’d started going up to Fleet Street once or twice a week to hang out with old pals in El Vino’s and other watering holes, where nobody ever drank water except with whisky. He didn’t tell Denise he was hanging out, of course. He told her he was mining his contacts to find a new job, because there was a rumour going round that if the printers’ strike wasn’t broken soon, the paper would close down and he’d be out of a job. He wasn’t really lying either. There was such a rumour; he’d started it himself, to relieve the boredom.

That was how come he’d been downing the vodkas with Reg from the Mirror and Harry from the Express the night Lucy came into El Vino’s. The journalists and lawyers who made up 99 per cent of the clientele looked up when the pretty brunette made her shy entrance into the drab and smoky interior. Of course if she were to try to actually get served at the bar, she would be at best ignored, at worse ostracised, because women weren’t allowed to buy their own drinks at El Vino’s. Everybody knew that.

Lucy knew that too, but it had started to rain and she didn’t have an umbrella, so she came in and hovered near the door, looking for a friendly face. Greg spotted her before she noticed him. He’d always liked Lucy. She’d been one of the newsroom secretaries, but had left a month before the strike started; a shame, because she was an attractive, good natured girl; long hair, nice tits, bright but not too bright sort of thing. She wasn’t exactly gorgeous, but definitely the kind of girl you wouldn’t boot out of bed.

“Lucy, what brings you into this den of iniquity?”

It took her a moment to recognise Greg, but she made up for the delay with 100 watt smile.

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone…”

“The swine stood you up did he? Incredible!” And Greg meant it. Who would stand up a girl like that? He was mystified.

Reg and Harry made a bit of room for her at their table, while Greg went to the bar for a glass of white wine. Lucy smiled sweetly while Reg and Harry flirted beerily and breathed tobacco fumes over her.

Waiting to be served, Greg checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Not to bad, he decided. His long fair hair was looking a bit lank and greasy, he wished he’d washed it that morning, but otherwise he thought he looked presentable. Denise always said he looked like Robert Redford, and who was Greg to argue?

Greg returned to the table with Lucy’s wine. She sipped delicately while Harry filled Greg in on Lucy’s predicament.

“She’s supposed to be having dinner with some tosser from the Daily Telegraph, pardon my French, love.”

“A journalist?” Greg asked, appalled that a fellow scribbler would ever stand up a prime bit of skirt.

“A lawyer,” said Lucy.

“Oh, a lawyer,” the others chorused. That explained it. What could you expect?

“So now what?” Harry asked.

Lucy shrugged. “Wait ‘til it stops raining and go home I suppose.”

“Or you could come and have something to eat with me?” Greg suggested, glad he’d never worn a wedding ring. “I can’t take you to the sort of place lawyers go, but there’s a nice little Italian a couple of doors down?”

Harry and Reg jeered in unison.

“You want to watch yourself with him love,” Reg warned her, “he’s ambidextrous you know.”

Lucy just smiled her smile.

She studied Greg while he studied the wine list, looking for something he recognised for no more than five pounds. The evening could have turned out a lot worse, she decided - which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to give that supercilious prick Giles a piece of her mind tomorrow.

But she’d always quite liked Greg. He wasn’t as much of an animal as most of the crime desk crew. He was bright, but not too bright, and he looked a tiny bit like Robert Redford, which was no bad thing. She knew he was married, but this was an impromptu dinner in a cheap Italian, so it hardly counted as adultery.

At last Greg pointed to the third cheapest Chianti on the list, and hoped it wouldn’t come in a wicker wrapped bottle.

After the waiter went, Greg said “So how you finding the Telegraph, putting aside the getting stood up part of it?”

“It’s okay I suppose. But they said there’d be a chance to progress, and I think they were lying.”

“Progress?”

“You know, do some feature writing.”

Greg considered this and thought – why not? Women were quite good at feature writing – cooking, kids, travel, that sort of thing.

“What sort of feature writing?”

“You know, financial. I did Economics at university and, well, I thought…” She tailed off so as not to seem too pushy.

Nevertheless the news was a bit of a shock to Greg, who didn’t know all that many men who’d been to university, let alone women. Most of the chaps on the crime desk had joined local papers straight from school and worked their way up, like Greg.

Lucy could see Greg was feeling uncomfortable - men and their fragile egos. Fortunately the wine waiter returned with a bottle wrapped in a sort of wicker basket. Greg tasted, swirled and nodded, like he’d once see his editor do.

The wine waiter poured some for Lucy. She sipped it daintily. Cheap and acidic.

“Oh, it’s lovely Greg. You’re so clever. I don’t know anything about ordering wine.”

She feared she’d overdone it, but Greg smiled and relaxed, so she presumed she’d stroked him just the right amount.

Then the food arrived. Greg had ordered spaghetti bolognaise, which he tried and failed to eat tidily. Lucy had ordered mushroom ravioli, which she ate neatly, taking little rabbity bites.

As the evening ticked on, Lucy grew quite impressed with Greg’s conversational skills. He seemed really interested in her - where she lived, what her family was like, what sort of films and music and TV programmes she preferred. She knew, of course, that he was asking all those questions to avoid her interrogating him. She knew he’d find it hard to lie outright about being a husband and father, even if he was a bit of a shit.

For Greg’s part, the most promising piece of information he learned through his skilful interviewing was that Lucy lived in Reading. As he lived in Twyford, they both had to catch their trains at Paddington Station. So after two tiramisus, two brandies and two coffees it was natural to share a taxi to the station.

And in the back of the taxi it was natural for Greg to put his tongue in Lucy’s mouth and for her to give it a bit of a suck and a little nibble. They both knew the rules and both enjoyed the ritual. Greg really wanted to slip his hand up her skirt too, but having reached the age of thirty, he had come to realise it wasn’t the thing to do before the first date.

In Twyford Greg opened and closed the front door as quietly as he could, and tiptoed upstairs without turning on the hall light. But there was a glimmer from beneath the bedroom door, so he knew Denise would still be awake. He set his face in a loving smile and entered his bedroom, where his exhausted wife lay propped up on her pillows, with an unconscious baby at her breast.

“He’s only just gone off,” she whispered.

Greg nodded understandingly.

“Do you want anything? Cup of cocoa?”

“Just take Daniel and let me sleep.”

Greg was happy to put Daniel into his cot, relieved he didn’t wake. Denise was asleep and snoring by the time Greg had cleaned his teeth, and he climbed into bed alongside his wife’s bulk, thinking about what it would feel like when he did slide his hand up Lucy’s skirt.

Daniel’s cries woke Greg at 5am, as usual. Instead of pretending to be asleep, as usual, Greg forced himself out of bed, and banked a fistful of Brownie points by feeding his son with milk Denise had expressed the day before.

He didn’t like watching Denise using the breast pump. It felt weird. He used to like big tits, the bigger the better. If there was one area where Denise, pre-Daniel, had been a disappointment it had been in the tit department. But now they had swollen to triple their normal size, with huge dark protuberant nipples the size of saucers, and frankly Greg couldn’t imagine ever wanting anything to do with Denise’s bosom ever again.

Over breakfast Denise wanted to know all about his meeting the previous night. He fibbed fluently. He always found it easier to lie twelve hours after the event. Somehow it felt more like re-writing a story to make it more interesting, rather than just misleading the wife. So he told Denise how Harry from the Express said there might be an opening on his paper, and was going to talk to the news editor about it. Denise was delighted. She worried about Greg.

The rest of the morning unfolded quite pleasantly. Denise’s mother came over around ten thirty, and Greg and Denise were able to make a rare excursion out of the house. They went to Mothercare to buy at a car seat for Daniel, now he was almost old enough to sit up unaided. Then Greg fancied a pub lunch, somewhere near enough to home that it wouldn’t be too far to drive after a couple of pints. They settled on the Greyhound, a nice old pub on the edge of town, where you could see open country side from the window, and which sold real ale and decent grub.

Greg ordered a beer, a slimline tonic, and a couple of Ploughmans, then returned to sit opposite Denise, who had made an effort with her hair and make up, and looked more like the pretty girl he’d got off with at Reading’s premier disco back in 1975. They clinked glasses. Then a dark stain started to spread on Denise’s blouse.

“Shit! Sorry. It’s the milk. We’ve got to go!”

Which was one of the reasons why, three days later, Greg was on the train to London again. It had taken a bit of arranging. He’d had to phone Lucy at home, and book the hotel, from a public call box. He couldn’t use a call box near home, in case someone he knew wandered past. So he’d had to pretend he’d decided to take up jogging again, in order to run, well, amble, until he’d found an un-vandalised telephone in a street where nobody knew him.

He knew it would be worth it.

Denise didn’t want him to go to London. She said she felt nervous. The previous Sunday the IRA had planted bombs in five provincial cities. London could be next. But Greg re-assured her; his contacts in the police had told him they had London locked down tight, the IRA wouldn’t dare try anything in the capital.

Greg’s train arrived around 4pm, which gave him plenty of time to do what he had to. He caught the tube to Oxford Circus and bought the essentials - some y-fronts, some socks, a shirt, a few basic toiletries. He was going to buy a cheap overnight bag to put them in, but when he took a short cut through Selfridges to avoid the Christmas shoppers, he saw they were giving away free holdalls if you bought two Aramis products. He’d always liked Aramis, so he treated himself.

Then he had to find the Excelsior Hotel. He knew it was in Sussex Gardens, near Paddington Station, but he hadn’t realised how many identical hotels there were in that long nondescript street. When he finally located the hotel and they showed him the room, Greg felt he could have done a lot worse. The room wasn’t exactly large, but it was clean, the bedding looked new, and the shower room was en suite. And there was an electric kettle and tea making things, which might be nice come the morning.

To pass the time, and because he wanted to be really clean, Greg used the shower, which was more of a trickle really. He cracked open his Aramis products – the body wash and the cologne – and by 5pm he smelt like a movie star. Then he went to meet Lucy.

She told him she’d be outside the Telegraph building in Fleet Street at six o’clock. Now it was six thirty, and a bitter wind blew sleet off the river and into Greg’s face, and his coat wasn’t warm enough and he never wore gloves but today he really wished he had some.

He was feeling stupid and pissed off when Lucy hurried down the office steps, swathed in a red maxi coat. He bucked up immediately when she planted a warm kiss on his cold cheek, doing that thing when a girl flips one leg up behind her in an apparently involuntary and very cute gesture.

“Sorry, I had to fight off Giles…”

“Who?”

“You know? That lawyer? He came into my office with a bottle of champagne and said he had to stand me up the other night because of a big libel row, and I had to have at least one glass with him.”

Greg felt himself flush. It was crazy but he felt jealous. “I hope you told him to fuck off!”

Lucy raised neat eyebrows in mock shock. “Greg!” Then she laughed. “Of course I did.”

They walked arm in arm down Fleet Street, past the bin bags and the litter filled gutters. The wind was cutting as they crossed Waterloo Bridge, but London was looking so lovely and romantic neither of them cared. Greg felt great. A little bit like being in love. But he knew the essence of the good feeling was the belief, almost the certainty, that he was going to sleep with this girl tonight.

The restaurant was in Covent Garden. The fruit market was long gone, and the area seemed full of shuttered and derelict warehouses. But Greg had done his research, and he’d discovered that one of London’s best bistros was in a little side street across from Bow Street Police Station.

As soon as they entered Greg knew it was going to be very expensive, but he was prepared - he’d drawn twenty pounds out of the secret building society account he’d built up from his frequent dips into the petty cash fund. The other diners looked well heeled and smug, as if they knew the knackered Labour government was nearing the graveyard, and they, the Tories would soon take charge, lower taxes, tame the unions, and rule the roost.

The food was indeed excellent, and so was the wine – Greg had asked the sommelier to suggest which bottle to order. Lucy hadn’t realised journalists were so well paid.

“That was gorgeous” she said, as waiter cleared away the remains of her Chicken Kiev and his Tournedos Rossini. Greg took her hand and they intertwined fingers on top of the crisp white table cloth as if they’d been going out for years. Lucy wondered whether she should ask him outright if he was married, but decided not to. She didn’t want to make him lie, and besides, it didn’t matter. Not yet. Perhaps if things went further…

Greg untwined his fingers. “Won’t be long,” he said, pointing at the “toilet” sign.

He hurried into the corridor, past the gents, past the ladies, and out of the staff entrance. He’d seen the call box across the street, and had banked on it being unvandalised, as it was so close to the police station. In the phone box Greg tried to ignore the stench of urine as he dialled the BBC newsroom. Like all journalists he knew the number by heart. A very BBC woman answered. For an instant Greg wondered whether the Irish accent was a good idea, but he’d spent enough time listening to his in-laws to be fairly confident he could sound like a Dubliner.

“This is the Provisional IRA. There’s an explosive device at Paddington Station, due to go off at 10.30 tonight.” And then he gave the code word. At least it had been the code word when the crime desk had last worked on an IRA story, and even if they’d changed the code since, the police wouldn’t dare take the chance the warning was a fake.

He hung up and went back to the restaurant to eat his dessert. He had a raging erection and it wasn’t because he was thinking of sex with Lucy.

Over coffee Greg told Lucy about the fictitious interview he was due to have the next day. He had to be at the Evening Standard by 9am, an ironically early start for an evening paper - which is why he was staying in London overnight. He didn’t want to be stranded in Reading if the train drivers decided to down tools for some trivial reason or other.

“They’re looking for a senior crime reporter. Won’t pay as much as the Sunday Times, but it’s a first step on the executive ladder. And besides, it’s so dull not being allowed to work.”

Greg called for the bill and Lucy waited for him to ask her if she wanted to come back to her hotel room. She wasn’t sure how she’d react, but she was pretty sure she’d say no. She wasn’t averse to shagging Greg, but he ought to be made to wait a little while, and besides, she didn’t even have a toothbrush.

Instead Greg hailed a taxi, and told the driver, “Paddington Station.”

This struck Lucy as surprisingly classy, so when, while sticking his stuck his tongue in her mouth, he also squeezed one of her breasts, she didn’t move his hand away.

A quarter of a mile from Paddington Station the taxi slowed in mounting traffic. Greg looked at his watch. 10.30.

“What time’s your last train?”

“Five to eleven.” Lucy wasn’t anxious. Yet.

Then the taxi driver slid back the glass partition. “Paddington’s closed.”

“What?!” Said Greg. “Why?”

“Nothing on the radio, but the word is the police have had a bomb threat, and they’ve cleared the area.”

“Christ!” Said Greg, hearing the tremble of excitement in his voice, and wondering if Lucy had noticed it.

As they walked hand in hand towards Greg’s hotel, he had the sudden awful thought – suppose the Excelsior was within the police evacuation zone?

Thankfully it wasn’t. There was a middle aged Spaniard manning the reception. “Sorry, no vacancies, the station is closed and…”

“I’m already checked in. room 27.”

Lucy used the telephone from the room. “They’ve closed Paddington Station mum, but it’s okay, I’m staying with a friend from work.”

She hung up and smiled. “Must be fate,” she said.

He pulled her towards him and this time when he kissed her he risked rubbing his hand against her pelvis - outside her skirt for now. She reciprocated by running her palm along the ridge of his flies. Greg’s heart sang a little Hallelujah Chorus.

“Can I use your toothbrush?” She smiled again. Such lovely teeth.

The sex was every bit as good as Greg had hoped – just a lot briefer. “Sorry, but I fancy you so much I couldn’t help myself. Give me half an hour and then…”

“It’s all right Greg, it’s not an exam,” Lucy lied.

True to his word, thirty minutes later Greg felt the blood stirring in his loins again. He took Lucy’s hand and placed it on his groin. She nodded approvingly. Greg was wondering if he knew her well enough to push her head down under the covers, when there was a knock on the door.

“Room service.”

Greg hadn’t ordered any room service.

“I think you’ve got the wrong room…” he called out.

“Champagne for Room 27 it says here.”

“I definitely didn’t order champagne.”

“I know sir. It’s complimentary. You’re the thousandth guest to stay in the hotel since it was refurbished last summer.”

Greg looked around the room. It didn’t seem refurbished, but free champagne was free champagne. “Just a sec.”

He got out of bed, sucking in his stomach, and slipped on his discarded y-fronts. He crossed to the door – two whole paces – and opened it enough to put his hand out for the free fizz. Luckily for Lucy she was never able to identify whoever it was yanked Greg out through the door. She just shrieked.

In the speeding car Greg shivered uncontrollably. It might have been because he was naked, apart from his pants, and the hood over his head. Or it might have been because of the Dublin accent of the man who sat next to him and said “You can’t go around compromising our codeword Greg, not even for the sake of a shag.”

Greg tried to say something but his throat was clogged with fear and phlegm. Sightless, he was so taken aback by the punch in the face it was seconds before he felt the pain. The punch - a small hard fist - had come from the direction of the front passenger seat. But it was the voice that belonged to the fist that filled him with such terror that he could feel his bowels dilate.

A woman’s voice, soft, with just a trace of Irish. “You’re such a fucking idiot Greg. What are we going to do with you now?”

Denise’s voice.