A Cold Shoulder

“One of the greatest regrets in life is being what others would want you to be, rather than being yourself.”
― Shannon L. Alder

The mortars whistled down. It was 3am, still dark but for the random glow of explosions and flares, shining their dull orange beacons through the thick, stifling smoke. The barrage lasted only minutes, which seemed like hours. Then there was the familiar silence, broken only by the screams, as members of my platoon crawled through the wet mud, limbs parted, blood pulsing, draining their lives in the most grotesque conceivable manner.
Joe Sheridan was shaking uncontrollably. He was the only one with me in the small, muddy hollow. Even in this hellhole he managed to show some decency by pretending not to notice that I had crapped myself, the stench only adding to the horror.
“I can’t take any more”, he screamed at me. “Just shoot me Ray. Please. Just put me out of my misery. I don’t want to go in agony, like the others. Make it clean. Do it, Ray.”
I looked at him, not knowing what to say. He was losing his mind, and any sense of reasoning. I knew, because I was near the same point. To die quickly seemed like a good way out of this horror.
“We are going to die anyway, Ray”, Joe tried to convince me.
Then he put the muzzle of his rifle under his own chin. “Sorry, Ray. I shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t right. Goodbye Ray.”
“Noooooo”, I roared. As I yelled, his face changed. I immediately knew what he was thinking. In a flash I realised that he was thinking about me, being left here all alone with the headless corpse of my closest friend. Of course, he couldn’t do that to his best friend. I began to relax, and squeezed my eyes against the tears that were now forcing their way out. As I opened them, I saw the watery blur of Joe, now pointing his rifle directly at me. In an instant I knew he would kill me. His reasoning was to put me out of my misery so that he could do the same for himself. I knew that this was the end. The end of all sanity. The end of me.
The following few minutes were to haunt me for the rest of my life. As the loud crack of a Lee Enfield rang above the silence of the early dawn, my life was about to change forever.
******
They looked so proud. I had picked my family out in the crowd long before it was my turn to step forward. It was a long ceremony, especially for me, being the last to be awarded my medal. There was only one Victoria Cross recipient, and I stood firmly to attention as Brigadier Richard Blaithewaite gave a small speech, describing my heroic act, before I would move forward to have my medal presented by Bertie himself. I was lost in my own fame and sense of importance.
I was the hero of our small town. Was it really only three months since I was in Germany? My wounds were now barely visible, especially as my beret covered the main one. A slight limp from where the shrapnel had cut into my kneecap was hardly discernible, even though the pain was still severe. In any case, what are a few scratches and bruises to a war hero who is being awarded The Victoria Cross?
Back in our local pub the following day, I didn’t need to put my hand into my pocket. Nor would I ever need to again, it seemed.
“Come on Ray. Tell us again. Tell us about how Ray Bothwell took on Gerry single handed and showed them what the British Bulldog can do.”
Two local lads hoisted me up onto the bar and I looked down at thirty or forty eager faces, waiting to hear all about my exploits. I had told the story many times, each one sucking out more tension and of course, building me up as the greatest war hero of our time.
But today I could see my mother and Aunt Phil sitting at the back of the snug. They had heard it so many times. I decided that now was not the time to go into the full length version.
“Well, it was early in the morning, the first glimmer of dawn. We had just had another barrage of mortars arrive into our position. Our numbers were dwindling by each one. I knew that something had to be done, and quick. I was trying to figure out how to reach the Gerry machine gun post when Joe, that was my mate, took a bullet straight through the heart.”
At this point I let my lip quiver slightly and looked down. The room became quiet. I wanted to create the greatest effect, and it worked every time. I continued.
“I knew that time was running out. Joe was dead. I jumped up out of the hollow we were in, dodging bullets flying everywhere, thinking not with Ray Bothwell you don’t. I’m going to save my comrades if it’s the last thing I do.”
Another cheer ran out.
“I zigzagged between trees and mounds of earth, until I was within 50 yards of their position. Now it was open ground. I took out two grenades and threw them in quick succession. In all of the noise and smoke, I was able to reach the gunner. I put a bullet into him and slashed my bayonet across the face of another. While he was screaming I fired at the third, but my rifle jammed. He was trying to raise his rifle, when I lunged forward and got him full in the chest with my bayonet. He must have fired at me because something hit me in the knee and I went down. As he dropped from my bayonet thrust, he swung his rifle round like a club as he groped for survival. It hit me on the side of my head. The next thing I knew was waking up in the hospital.”
There were cries of appreciation from the crowd, roars of “Bravo”, “Our own hero”, even “Ray Bothwell for PM”. These came above the murmur of people chatting, comparing notes and making sure that they hadn’t missed something important. By the time a few more beers had gone down, there were stories being passed around of a dozen German soldiers being slayed by the indefatigable Ray. I was loving every minute of it. After a lifetime of being a nobody, I was finally someone to be respected, held in awe. I was one of the few holders of the Victoria Cross.
Still standing on the pub bar, soaking up all of the adoration and signing beermats for the locals, I looked up to see my mother and Aunt Phil. They had their heads down in deep discussion. Mum didn’t look happy. She looked worried and almost nervous. She looked up and our eyes met for a fleeting second. She then looked away quickly. They had obviously been talking about me. I realised that something was not quite right, but surely they couldn’t know, could they? I dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.
******
The following weeks turned into months and finally VE day arrived. After Germany had surrendered and it was announced that the war in Europe was over, contrary to my expectations, my fame grew enormously. By the end of 1945, as soldiers began returning in large numbers back to their homeland, I was constantly being asked to appear at working men’s clubs, veteran gatherings, hospitals and clinics, where I could motivate the wounded.
One bright Monday morning in the autumn of 1946 my mother handed me a letter with an official looking postmark. I opened it carefully. It was an invitation to speak at a major reunion event, being held by the Royal Hospital in Chelsea, the home of the Chelsea Pensioners. There would be two other VC holders present and I was required to prepare a 30 minute talk, covering the action that resulted in my award. All of my expenses would, of course, be reimbursed, as well as a remuneration of 80 pounds, to cover my time. The event was planned for October 23rd. I looked up at the calendar on my bedroom wall. It was on a Wednesday, two weeks from now.
I had only ever been to London once before, to collect my VC from Buckingham Palace. It had all happened so quickly and, due to injuries at that time, I wasn’t able to enjoy the trip as much as I had hoped. This time would be different. My leg had fully recovered and the scar on my scalp had virtually disappeared. I had time to plan a full day in the capital, before heading off to the Royal hospital for the evening event. I was being put up in the Draycott Hotel in Kensington for two nights. As the time grew near I became increasingly excited. My mother seemed dismayed at my invitation.
“What’s wrong Mum? Are you not pleased for me? Does a war hero not deserve to be well appreciated?”
“Just tell it how it was, Ray. Nothing more, nothing less”, she replied in a low sombre tone.
I threw my jacket over my shoulders and stormed out for the pub. “I’m going down to the Nag’s Head. At least there are people who appreciate me down there, always ready to buy me a drink.”
It was as if Mum had known what happened in Germany on that fateful night, but how could she. Apart from a few dead Germans there was only Joe and me, and I was the only person left alive.
******
The evening of the 23rd finally arrived. I had travelled down on the train the day before. On the 22nd I met up with the other two VC recipients, who were staying in the same hotel. It was a strained meeting. Captain Harald Andrews was extremely respectful of my VC, but we were hardly from the same mould. Me, a miner’s son, leaving school at fourteen and him, a banker’s son with private schooling. The other, Philip Gardner, who asked us to call him ‘Pip’ was also a Captain from the Tank Regiment and just returned to the UK after a long stretch as a prisoner of war in Libya. He had far more in common with Captain Andrews, ‘common’ being the operative word to best describe me. Out of courtesy they invited me to join them tomorrow for a sight-seeing tour round London, but I declined, by lying that I was meeting old friends for the day.
We agreed to meet back up in the hotel reception and travel together in a cab to the Chelsea Hospital.
The reception was awesome. We were seated on a huge stage, to the cheers of over a thousand war veterans. I thought the noise would never stop. Our host tried numerous times to quieten the crowd, to no avail. They banged the floor with their heels, whooped and whistled. It was a full fifteen minutes before, finally, we could hear the voice of our host above the diminishing murmur of the audience. The three of us were grinning like Cheshire cats. We were momentarily of equal status, three heroes of war, and all nervousness of speaking before such a crowd forgotten.
The two captains went before me. They were both very articulate and clearly well educated. My nerves slowly began to return. How would I sound after them? This was very different to speaking in my local pub. I began –
“I think you will now see that I am far better at fighting Germans than speaking on a stage”
The roar was unbelievable. I had begun well, and could feel my confidence growing.
“Well, it was early in the morning, the first glimmer of dawn. We had just had another barrage of mortars arrive into our position. Our numbers were dwindling by each one. I knew that something had to be done, and quick. I was trying to figure out how to reach the Gerry machine gun post when Joe, that was my mate, took a bullet straight through the heart.”
I looked at the floor, gulped and quivered my lip, just like always. The room became predictably quiet.
“You’re a bloody liar”, came an angry voice out of the crowd. “You shot your best mate and left him for dead. You bloody liar.”
I couldn’t initially see where the voice was coming from, but I then noticed the faces of the audience looking towards someone, with shouts of “shut it”, “be quiet you fool”.
I peered into the face of the culprit. He was a poor sight, one sleeve empty and a short stubbly beard, which only half covered the horrendous burn on the side of his face.
“He’s just a stinking liar”, came the voice again, this time quieter and more distraught, through sobs of sorrow.
Then I saw his eyes.
“Joe. Is it you?” I had subconsciously stepped down from the stage and was walking towards the pathetic figure. Instantly I knew that it was all over. No more bravery. No more hero. No more lies.
I took Joe by the arm and lifted him to his feet. The room became silent. Two old comrades had been to hell and back, each assuming that the other was dead. Now, in this room full of the nation’s heroes, I knew there was only one thing I could do.
I helped Joe up onto the stage and asked him to sit in my chair. I faced the audience, took a deep breath and began again.
“This is Joe Sheridan”, I announced. I told the story of how terrified we had been, how the screams of our comrades night after night had sent us almost to the point of madness. I told of Joe’s fear of being maimed and left dying in the mud. I told of the way he aimed his rifle at me, to kill me, before he would then kill himself. I was choking on the words, but they flowed. There was nothing left to do but say it how it was. Mum had known, as only a Mum can.
I continued.
“I closed my eyes and fired my rifle at point blank range at Joe, before he could end my misery. I was so afraid and yet I was prepared to kill my closest friend rather than see him left alone in that chaos.”
Joe and I stared at each other for long seconds, finally understanding that neither of us had wanted to leave the other alone.
“I staggered from our hole, not seeing whether Joe was dead or alive. I had shot him and could not bear it. I stumbled through the bushes, not knowing where I was or what I was doing. I had killed my best friend. I was insane and my heart was breaking. I found myself in a derelict building and decided to end it. I took two grenades from my pouch, released the pins and waited for oblivion. The last thing I remember was three German soldiers appearing in the doorway. I closed my eyes and let the grenades go. That was the last thing I knew until I woke up three days later in a field hospital. I’m so sorry Joe.”
The room was deadly silent. I slowly unpinned my Victoria Cross, an award that I had never deserved, and laid it down on the table.
“Let me take you home Joe”, I pleaded.
He took my hand, came to his feet and we shuffled together down the centre aisle, through the rows of expectant veterans. I felt the shame of it all, the deceit, the cowardice, but most of all the disappointment of those thousands of war veterans, who needed heroes to worship. They were desperate for glorious stories of bravery and honour, to help them forget the horror, the stench, the death that they had survived. I had let them all down and would carry that guilt with me forever.
******
Nowadays, Joe and I often sit and talk together. We reminisce of the good times. We remember our schooldays together, the fights and the girls. There were never any more fights or girls after we came home from London. Only Joe and I could ever understand what really happened on that day. We have never discussed it since, everything else but not that day.
Joe had been captured, his arm hanging only by sinew and flesh. He was taken to the German field hospital, the arm was amputated and he spent the rest of the war as a POW. The burns on his face came from the close range of my rifle. As I had fired in blind madness I had given him the one thing he had dreaded the most, to be left dying and screaming in agony.
The last forty years have been spent trying to repair the damage that I did, in the knowledge that the only brave thing I ever did in my life was to do what my dear old mother had told me to. Tell the truth. Say it how it was.
The End

Reconnection

This story begins on Day 16 NWO 310 or January 28th 2525 if converted to pre NWO dateline. It was 3am in the morning and I was tired, my watery eyes were barely able to see the screen. I knew that I must soon call it a day and turn in for the rest of the night. I was working on my thesis, and wishing at that moment that I had never started the bloody thing. What use is a masters in history these days anyway?

I was trying to locate the origin of bitcoin as part of my thesis on “The Emergence Of Digital Currency In The 21st Century”. My research had taken me from the well-known originator, Satoshi Nakamoto, to the far less known and controversial Brandon Silk. Silk had worked under cover, rarely ever being photographed and certainly working under many aliases. The book that I was trying to locate was never published in the true sense, but had been used in Dark Web circles as a guide to the new cryptocurrency, that is what I surmised from many spurious references that I had come across.

I was just about to give up for the night, when bingo, I found it. “A Guide To The Silk Road”, written by Paul Weaver. Silk had typically used a pseudonym, but I had no doubts that he had been the true author. I tried to download the book but was immediately met by a block. “Source no longer available”, was the only response I could achieve. I looked at my watch. It was 3.15am. I knew that it would take me at least an hour to go deep through the Dark Web archives to find the original, something I didn’t like doing too often for security reasons. I hesitated and then thought, “What the hell?” and told my computer to enter the sub proxy constellation, and get me into the archive.

It was just breaking daylight as “A Guide To The Silk Road” hit my screen. This was enough for tonight I decided. I could look at the book tomorrow. Then I remembered just one more thing before I left the Dark Web. Maybe I could find a picture of Brandon Silk, something that I felt would be impossible on the front web. Soon I had found a picture taken with Satoshi Nakamoto and six other men. Using the facial recognition system I could easily identify five of them, but one face remained unknown.

I clipped the unknown face into my rendering program and fired the full screen view onto my wall monitor. I stared for what seemed like hours, tiredness completely forgotten as I looked deep into the eyes of the metre sized face on my wall. I don’t know why I knew, but I knew, as certain as I was of anything, that I was staring at the hard, ruthless face of Brandon Silk. My hands began to shake, adrenalin racing through my whole body as I tried to take in the fact that this was my own face that was staring back at me. I was Brandon Silk.

I was frantic to understand more. How could a pre NWO face be appearing in a post NWO world? It was as though I had existed five hundred years before, yet we all knew that mankind was kick-started again a couple of hundred years after the great plague. The COVID-23 world plague, which followed the earlier COVID-19 less deadly virus, had wiped out the whole of mankind over the following two hundred years, barely allowing the time to establish a solution for the re-emergence of a virus immune successor. Before the last humans died out artificial intelligence was established, along with banks of human eggs, which could be automatically fertilised once the COVID-23 virus had died out. These new embryos would form the basis of the future of mankind. This was who we are. This, I had been taught since primary school. Eventually the tiredness began to get the better of me and I had to crawl into my bed. My last thoughts before I fell asleep were that Brandon Silk just happened to be my Doppelganger, and it must all simply be a strange coincidence.

******

I slept until late afternoon, a fitful sleep hounded by strange visions of a world dying slowly, while the elite forces panicked to come up with a solution which might protect them from a certain death. I saw the Earth, no longer blue, but a dark dead object spinning through nothingness, with just me trying to hang on to it, desperately wanting to understand. Brandon Silk, or was it really me, was laughing hysterically at my dilemma. I jumped awake with a start, the bed soaked in sweat. As I came to my senses I decided to put Brandon Silk out of my mind and concentrate to my thesis. I would read “A Guide To The Silk Road”
My first attention was drawn to the dedication, which seemed very uncharacteristic of Silk.

It read:                                      To my dearest wife, Barbara
                                   Without whom life would have little meaning

I began to read, with the intention of a long session, but found after some minutes my mind was wandering and constantly coming back to the face. It was uncanny. I brought it back up on the large screen. I studied the ear lobes. Since childhood I had been made fun of by my school friends because one of my ear lobes was slightly out of shape. There it was. The same slight deformity. I tried to continue reading, but it was useless. I needed to find out more.
I had a good friend from university, who, although also studying history, was far more into computer technology, virus software to be more precise. Dean Batch2394 had been our saviour many times when we enlisted his help with computer problems, especially virus infected hard drives. He had often said that he could hack into anything.
I called him. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend Ryan Batch2394. How are you? Still swotting I suppose?”
“Well, actually yes. I’m fighting my way through a masters. Listen, you couldn’t meet me later could you? Say about 2.30 in the Laser Bar? I need to discuss something with you.”
“Sure”, he replied. “Is your computer playing up again?” he asked, with a tiresome sigh.
“No, not at all. This is far more interesting.”
“Ok, but you’re paying.”
He was there when I arrived. We ordered two Laser Specials and relaxed back, studying each other’s faces for the first signs of age. We both still looked young and unblemished.
I explained the situation. I showed him the picture of Brandon Silk, not explaining who he was or what he had been involved in, only that he had cropped up in my research and the incredible likeness. I told Dean that I wanted to trace back to his circumstances of death and especially what happened to his mother.
“Why his mother”, Dean asked.
“Well, can’t you see? If we are all originating from female human eggs, and I am so genetically similar to this guy, I probably have arrived here from his mother’s eggs.”
Dean looked worried. “I see, but do you understand what you are asking me? You expect me to hack into pre NWO government archives. This is incredibly difficult to do, way outside my knowledge and expertise.”
Then he looked suddenly very thoughtful, almost frightened.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, there is a guy. I have never met him, only heard the name. It is all very hush hush. Apparently he is trying to prove some conspiracy theory about the post NWO human regeneration planning. He doesn’t believe that we came from human eggs.”
He promptly became very business-like. “Look, I’ve said too much already. Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch if I can help.”
With that he downed his cocktail in one and left. I sat alone, sipping my drink, wandering what had just happened.
The following morning I came across a piece of paper pushed under my door.

                                This afternoon same time same place.
                                      Tell no-one. Burn this paper.
                                                         D

******

I spent the next few hours trying to make some sense of the note. All I had asked, what I thought at the time, was a bit of naughty hacking to try to find out if I was related to Brandon Silk. Why the intrigue?
There were two men sitting together when I arrived. Dean was sitting with his back to me. The other guy I didn’t know. He was scruffy, unshaven and looked more like a street bum than any friend of Dean’s.
I walked right up to them, shook Dean’s hand and then held out my hand to the new guy. He didn’t take up the offer. Instead he told me very abruptly to show him the picture. I did as I was told. He said, “Good, print it off and leave it in the rubbish bin at the end of your street at 6 o’clock tonight. On the back I want you to write everything you know about this guy, birth date, death date, mother, sister, anything you know.”
“I don’t know much, but I can send you the picture now if you give me your nu….”
He cut me off. “No number”. He stood up and walked out.
I looked aghast at Dean. “What the f…”
Again, I was cut off. “He has already had two assassination attempts against him that failed. He is frightened and careful.”
We sat quietly while we finished our drinks. I was beginning to wish I had never heard the name Brandon Silk.
Back in my flat I did exactly as I was told. I printed the picture and wrote the name and birth date, which I had managed to find out. His date of death was a mystery. I was just about to fold it into an envelope when another thought came to me. I added ‘Barbara, probably Barbara Silk, probably wife.’
I went out, casually throwing the envelope into the bin as directed, trying very hard not to feel like some ridiculous amateur spy.

******

After a week had gone by I had almost forgotten about the subject. It all seemed a bit childish to me, talking about conspiracies, rubbish bins and burning notes. I had pretty much decided that the whole thing was just a silly joke, when one morning another paper appeared under my door. It was a repeat of a week ago.

                                         This afternoon same time same place.
                                                   Tell no-one. Burn this paper.
                                                                        D

There was no-one there when I arrived in the Laser Bar. In fact the place was almost deserted. I ordered a drink and waited, not knowing who would come, Dean or the strange guy. After half an hour I was about to leave when the waitress came up to me. “Your friend sends his apologies and asked me to give you this. He said to open it at home.”
I left and went straight to my flat. The curiosity, which had slowly petered out during the last week, was back in full force. I couldn’t wait to see what the envelope contained.
Inside was another paper.
                                                You were right. Brandon Silk
                                                         Born 17.06.1978
                                                         Died 16.06.2023
                                                 Cause of death unknown
                                                      Wife Barbara Silk
                                                       Born 15.03.1976
                                                       Died 16.06.2023
                                                Cause of death unknown
                                        Enclosed are DNA records of both
                                                   Destroy this paper.

Along with the paper, which I immediately burned after digesting the information, was a chip the size of a grain of rice. I scanned it immediately, double encrypted the data and put the chip in the microwave until it exploded. There were two files, one for each person. It was their DNA sequence.
I did the check with my DNA database. It was exact. I was an identical match to Brandon Silk. I sat back, trying to take in what this meant. The only explanation could be that I am a clone, created from a sample of Silk’s DNA. This meant that everything we had been told was a lie. I was not from a stored female egg, frozen during the plague. I was created directly from stored DNA and cloned. Did that mean that the whole of humanity today is also cloned from stored DNA? Do we now all exist in a world of people who are identical to that of 500 years ago?
Any thoughts of my thesis were forgotten, as I realised the implications of this, not least being the danger I was in for carrying such knowledge.
For three days I didn’t sleep. It took that long for me to digest the idea. My conclusions, after much analysis of everything I had learned was that it didn’t really matter. Why should I care about how or why I was created? I can’t change it. I can only make the best of it.
The one piece of information that I couldn’t stop from nagging at me was whether Barbara Silk was also cloned. If she had been, I felt compelled to find her. The problem was that I only had access to my own DNA. Government controls didn’t allow investigation of others, without the necessary clearance. I would never get that, so I called Dean once more.
“Now you are asking me something I can do. The current databases are a piece of cake.” He proudly told me.
After passing him the DNA of Barbara Silk, he came back to me within the hour. “Ryan, you were right, exact match. She is Emily Batch2382, just 12 batches earlier than us, which would make her about three months older. I’m sure I can leave the rest up to you.”
It didn’t take me long to locate her. There is only be one Emily Batch 2382, because that was the way we were constructed in NWO. She was born exactly three months before me and is studying microbiology at Wington University.

******

Wington is a day’s drive from where I live, and so I had to wait a few days until I could plan the trip. I decided to drive through the night, arriving early the following day. Wington is the world’s top university, hosting only the finest scientists. I thought it typical that any wife of Brandon Silk would be associating at such esteemed levels.
I found the university and went immediately to the reception. On asking for the whereabouts of Emily Batch 2382, I expected to be asked why I was looking for her, but they seemed to be very relaxed about giving out such information. They probably assumed I was a friend or lover, as we are of similar age.
“Yes, you will find her in House B4 room 32, if she is not somewhere on campus.”
I spent the rest of the day around the university campus. I had no idea what Barbara Silk had looked like, so had no way of spotting Emily. I waited until early evening and made my way to House B4.
It was a beautiful sunny evening. May people were outside on the lawns, chatting or playing games. I broke into a group of four girls,” Excuse me. I am looking for Emily 2382. Does anyone know her?”
“Sure. There she is,” said one of them, pointing towards a large oak tree. “That’s her, sitting by that big tree.”
I walked across the lawn, suddenly becoming very nervous. Of all the things I had planned to say to her, my head was completely blocked. I started to turn away but she had already seen me. I was too close.
“Hello, can I help you?” she asked.
I turned back and looked her in the eyes. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I blurted out some story about coming to look for my friend but somehow stumbled into the wrong house. We talked and I asked her what she was reading.
She said it is called ‘1984’ a rather silly book written before the plague, but it passes the time.”
“Ah, George Orwell”, I replied. “A man before his time.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, I am studying history and old George was quite a famous author in his time.”
She invited me to sit down by her and we chatted for a while, until the moment was destroyed by one of the four girls from the group earlier.
“You found her then?” she asked as she waltzed past us.
“But you said you were looking for your friend”, Emily quizzed.
I was stunned and tongue-tied. “Er ..well”
She started laughing. “Well, I’ve had worse come-ons I suppose”.
We both laughed and ended up having dinner together.
On my way back home the next day, for the first time in my life, decided that I do believe in love at first sight, especially when aided by a genetic code.

******

Emily and I were to remain together and after our studies, we joined together to raise a family. Couples were no longer able to have children since NWO and children must be applied for from the next batch. The lucky parents would be awarded a new ready born baby of their own, however genetic resemblance was impossible. We decided to wait a few years.
One day in NWO318 Dean called me to say that his friend had been about to go public. He apparently had enough information and evidence regarding the way that the human race has been created that it would blow the government wide apart. A deal had been struck on the condition that he handed over all the evidence, the government would pass a new law, allowing couples to use their own DNA for production of any future offspring, and would be able to name them as they wished.
Two years later we collected our new baby twin boys, Ted and Arthur from the Reproduction clinic. We gave them the surname of Mileyrany, an anagram of our two names. Never again would our decedents be known by a batch number.
Thank you Brandon Silk.

The Ramblings Of A Conspiracy Theorist.

The purpose of writing this is to record my thoughts and concerns at a time while I am still healthy, and hopefully of sound mind. My readers will probably doubt the latter after reading this.

I am retired and living in Spain, just South of Tarragona, 800 metres from the sea, which I have not seen for over a week, and unlikely to any time soon. I am more-or-less confined to house, due to the COVID-19 virus pandemic. Life is not so bad. I have my lovely wife here with me and our cat, Marie, who I often wonder if she instinctively knows that something is afoot. We also have a garden, which is small enough to not cause too much maintenance but large enough for a few fruit trees and a relaxing area for sunbathing or paella parties with friends and neighbours. Of course, the parties are no longer allowed for the foreseeable future, as groups are prohibited.

The Spanish authorities put us in lockdown a week ago. This means that we are only allowed to go out into public areas for the purposes of food shopping, medical attention, work reasons (where homeworking is not possible) and to walk the dog. For each case, care must be taken not to become too close to any other person, in order to avoid cross contagion. The lockdown is initially planned for 15 days, but I suspect it will go into many weeks or even months.

After a week of confinement, we are adjusting rather well. Plans were made on how to occupy ourselves, some interior decorating until the paint runs out, a jogging circuit around the garden (100 laps is approximately 5km), finish the online Spanish course and to finally learn to Waltz properly. This, apart from much reading and blogging, is enough to keep us quiet for a few weeks.

Apart from all of these activities, there is also much time available to reflect. I began wondering how we know that this virus is so dangerous. Why do we think that it is necessary to destroy our economies, our way of life and award our governments draconian powers? Would we have taken these measures if China hadn’t shown the world a panic reaction to a previously unknown virus?

On researching the Spanish Flu, which killed up to 100 million people, I learned that the virus had nothing to do with Spain at all. In fact, the major powers at the time, of Germany, France, UK and USA censored the early reports about the disease, for the purposes of maintaining moral in the trenches during WW1. Spain was neutral at the time, with a relatively free press. They reported openly about the spread of the virus, and particularly the terrible illness of their King Alfonso XIII. This gave the impression to the world that Spain was particularly infected, which led to the name “Spanish Flu”.  This demonstrates two things, firstly how governments are quite prepared to lock down their media or give false information, if it is deemed to be for the benefit of the population and secondly how easily people around the world can be misled.

Now, armed with doubts about the new COVID-19 virus, and an instinctive feeling that we are taking measures which are disproportional to the threat, I have been researching where the information came from, which is causing this widespread panic.

Every year there are new viruses, which try to make us ill. This is what viruses do. If they didn’t change regularly, we would all build an immunity, which would protect us for the rest of our lives. There are about a hundred virus types and they are permanently changing. Up to now we didn’t really worry about it too much. There were good years and bad years for flu epidemics, but nothing was thought much about it. In the past we haven’t even bothered to test which virus caused which flu symptoms. From all of these different acute respiratory virus types, we know, thanks to much research carried out in Glasgow, that Corona viruses make up around 10% of the total.

Wuhan contains a large number of some of the best virologists in the world. It also contains 11 million inhabitants, providing many illnesses and opportunities to study such viruses and people needing to be ventilated. They did approximately only 50 tests from these patients and found a new virus. The virologist then put these findings into a huge database, which can be accessed worldwide. The virologist has no idea how dangerous, or contagious such a virus might be. That is not his job. He can only record and report his findings. Against normal practices, and partly because of the panic that was being raised by China, a test was released before it had gone through normal testing procedure.

Now, a virus can only be assessed for its mortality rate by observing people and calculating from the number of people tested positive, how many die. If one goes out into the wider population, naturally a larger number of people will test positive, that those for example, who are tested in their doctor’s surgery. Similarly, the number of people testing positive in their doctor’s surgery, will be far higher than those admitted to hospital for respiratory problems.

If we take the Italian example. They have a very high mortality rate, but if tests are mainly carried out in the hospitals, on people who are already seriously ill, it is rather obvious that the mortality rate (number of deaths as a proportion of people testing positive) will be disproportionately high.

So it seems that currently the virologists have created a storm of panic. They have convinced the Chinese government that this is serious. Measures have been taken in China, which has sent a panic around the world. In reality, we might be dealing with a perfectly normal flu virus. The virologists around the world have joined the band wagon, people have panicked. Political pressure has built, such that all around the world we are now in ever increasing lockdown, for something where the evidence is thin at best.

This has generated a network of opinions around the world amongst the scientific community. Thousands are trying to join the search for vaccine or other medical solutions etc. There is a rush for recognition or funding at a time when governments are pouring huge sums of money in, without boundaries. Consequently the politicians are referring to this scientific community more and more, in order to be seen to act.

As with the climate change debate, we have reached a point very quickly where critics are not allowed a voice. Anyone who questions this virus danger is quickly vilified, ridiculed as a denier.

Quoting from Dr. Wolfgang Wodarg, a German physician and politician, of whom some of this blog is taken, “It reminds me of the tale of the king with no clothes”.

Known in England as “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, the lesson is that the fear of consequences will often lead people to publicly agree to things they don’t believe in for a variety of reasons. Furthermore, the “emperor” will always proudly continue the lie despite his own knowledge of the truth and being publicly outed. It is easier and less painless to tell a few more lies and look foolish than to admit being foolish. We see ridiculous art like a picture of a soup can and hail it as genius because 4 snooty art critics said it was and we don’t want to seem uncultured. Evidence proves a politician innocent of something and yet the opposition continues to press the disproven narrative.

Of course, we have here a similar situation, where politicians and scientists, who have no real idea of what is happening with this virus, are afraid to say anything against for fear of ridicule.

Now, I am also one of those who has no idea. I can only fall back on my knowledge as an educated scientist (albeit not in a related field) from what I have read, my instincts and my common sense.

Do I believe that this virus is a deliberate attack on mankind? I don’t know, but I guess not.

Do I believe that governments around the world are using the virus as an excuse to take actions that otherwise would never be accepted? Yes I do.

Is this virus as dangerous as some people wish to paint it? I suspect not.

There are currently so many conspiracy theories written on the internet, which none of us ordinary mortals have a clue, whether they be right or wrong. There is one thing I am certain about, however. We will be surprised by the end result, when this is over.

The purpose of this blog, I guess is simply to try to get the message across that we must be sceptical and thoughtful, not believe everything we hear, whether it be from scientists or politicians, but to try to find our own opinions amongst the mass of information which is out there.

I wish everyone who is currently ill, whether it be from COVID-19 or any other of the hundreds of illnesses and viruses out there, a speedy recovery. Those of you who are locked down, stay strong, call your loved ones, take care as best as you can, and let’s see what the future holds for us all.

A Dirty Business

As I grew older my parents informed me that I was often out of bed at times when I shouldn’t be. I had awful nightmares from as early as I can remember. One of the scariest of them all was seeing many faces above me, all around my arc of vision, staring down at me, grinning. Oh, how those grinning faces, with bad breath and yellowing bucked teeth used to scare me.

As I grew into my teenage years, I gradually began to realise that these faces originated from my short time in the pram. My proud mother would wheel me through the estate on her way to the post office or the Coop, with every nosey mother and even some of the men, wanting to glare down at me, raising their voices a few octaves, poking me in the chest and talking utter nonsense such as, ‘cuchy cuchy coo, who is a pretty little boy then?’ Little did they realise that these acts of unthinking self-indulgence would stay with me for many years, especially during my slumber, which was anything but peaceful.

Sometimes I would simply wake up screaming, ‘Go away! Go away!’ Other times I would quietly climb out of bed, walk about the house, usually not waking before I was back in bed. My father would normally hear me. Mostly he would gently guide me back under the bedsheets, without waking me up, and sitting with me until he was sure that my nocturnal activities had subsided.

On rare occasions I would wake up. I would cling to him, shaking with fear until the faces disappeared. On these occasions, if it was a particularly bad bout of angst, he would hold me in one arm while making me a cup of cocoa with his free hand. I would then sit on his lap, sipping the warm milky mix and snuggling into his pyjamas. These were my most special moments and the only times when I had Dad all to myself. Normally he was far too busy with his work to spend time for such tenderness.

One of my other regular dreams, which only on rare occasions turned itself into a nightmare, was the imagination that I could fly. It was one of these such occurrences that I wish to tell you about today.
******
It was the Christmas of 1966. That year, Christmas Day was on a Sunday. I was eight years old. The day before was very cold, with a clear blue sky and hard frost in the morning. I was especially excited this year because I had a feeling that my letter to Father Christmas would be answered. Of course, I no longer believed in a real Santa Claus. I had overheard my Dad telling Mum to keep me from going into the shed, because my present was there. I had wanted my first bike and knew that a bike would need something like a shed to hide in, rather than a bedroom cupboard. I was convinced that this year was bike year.
As Dad was off work on Christmas Eve, being a Saturday, he took me and my sister, Jenny on a long walk, with our dog. Betsy was a corgi crossed with a cairn terrier, and loved to be out with us along the canal. Mum had loads of baking and housework to do, so I think she was glad that we all went out of her way.
We walked over the fields near our house, down to a little hump-backed bridge over the canal. It was ever so cold and I was glad to have my woolly mittens on that Mum made for me. We walked along the edge of the canal, careful not to slip in. Even though it was frozen over, we would have gone right through for sure.
Suddenly Dad called out, ‘look Jimmy’, and pointed into the bright blue sky. At first I could see nothing unusual. He was pointing near to the sun and it dazzled me. I squinted my eyes and there it was, a big bird, stationary in the sky. It wasn’t moving. It just stayed exactly still.
‘It is a buzzard’, said Dad.
‘Why doesn’t it fall down?’, I asked. ‘If I sat up in the sky like that, I would just go plop onto the floor.’
Dad explained that the bird is not as exactly still as he looks. He is fluttering his feathers and wings just a little, balancing his weight against the wind.
I saw his head twitch slightly as he spotted something on the ground. He dived towards it. I thought he was going to crash right into the mud, but just at the last second his wings came up and he stopped an inch above the ground. Then, in a split second he was off again, flapping his wings and souring away.
‘whooaahh’ , I blurted out. ‘Jenny, did you see that?’
But Jenny was too busy concentrating on some ice over a puddle, trying to break it through.
‘Dad, I wish I could fly like that’, I said. ‘Imagine, it would be great.’
Dad laughed and said, ‘come on kids. Let’s jog a little. I’m getting cold’
When we got home I told Mum all about the buzzard. We had our dinner and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I remember thinking that I would much rather have wings than a new bike.
After we had eaten Dad showed me some pictures of birds from his wildlife book, and I eventually fell asleep in the armchair with the book still open on my lap.
******
I woke up. It was the middle of the night. I was in the living room. It was dark and cold and I was all alone. I knew that I must have been dreaming again, because the house was so quiet and I was scared. I wanted my Dad to come and make some cocoa.
I started to sob, when I heard a grunting sound coming from the fireplace. “oh bother’, I heard someone say. ‘Why don’t they build chimneys like they used to?’
I edged closer, until I was almost looking up the chimney. I could see a big black boot. I wanted to run, but something deep inside of me said that the voice I heard was not dangerous. Somebody or something was coming down the chimney and I needed to see who or what it was, even if it was going to gobble me up. I had to see.
Then there were two big boots, then stumpy little fat legs and finally a fat old man with a white beard and red suit stepped right out of the chimney, onto the hearth. My mouth was open, but I couldn’t speak. This was Santa. He really did exist and came down the chimney, just like I had been told. I was overcome with guilt. Only yesterday I told Jenny that he didn’t really exist and she cried. She said I was a horrible brother for saying such lies. Now, I knew she was right.
Santa took one look at me and said, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! You shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed sleeping.’
‘I’m s..s..sorry Mr. Santa, but I must have been dreaming and must have started to sleepwalk around the house. My Dad said I do it a lot.’
‘Well, never mind I suppose. I will just have to give you a sniff of “forget everything” powder before I leave. What were you dreaming about?’
‘Oh, I was dreaming about being able to fly. I would love to learn to fly. Can you fly, Santa?’
Santa replied thoughtfully, ‘well, normally I leave that job to my eight reindeers, as that is their job, but in order to meet the modern health and safety regulations I also had to do the full course in flying training. So yes, I can fly. Anyone can as long as they are trained properly.’
I imagined myself flying through the rooftops, delivering presents just like Santa. ‘Wow, so that means I could fly if only I had someone to teach me?’
Santa went very quiet for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t really be doing this but you seem like a nice boy’, he said. ‘I tell you what, if you promise to have an extra-large sniff of “forget everything” powder, when we return, I will show you the basics. I also did the flying instructors course last summer.’
We climbed up the chimney together and there, hovering above the house roof were eight beautiful reindeer, harnessed to a huge sleigh, piled high with Christmas presents. I was quickly introduced to all of them. There was Dasher, who seemed like the leader and had the biggest smile. I can’t remember all of their names, only Donder and Blixen, the two at the back and smaller than the rest.
Santa explained that he must hurry up and deliver some more presents, and it would give me time to get used to zooming around in the sky, before I started learning to fly for myself. I was given a seatbelt to keep me safe.
******
We swooped into the sky, just like the buzzard yesterday. Woah! We were really flying. We came to a stop just above my friend Billy’s house. I recognised it because I saw his mum’s car and she sometimes picks me up from school.
‘That’s Billy’s house’, I shouted.
‘Is he a good boy’, asked Santa.
‘Yes’, I quickly replied. ‘One of my best friends.’
‘Good, then I shall give him something very special. A new bike. What do you think, Jimmy?’
‘I suppose so’, I muttered. I wanted Billy to have a new bike but what if it turned out to be better than mine. That would be awful.
The next stop was Gary Parker’s, the school bully’s house. I told Santa that this was a horrible boy and nobody liked him because he steals their sweets and is a big fat bully. Santa winked at me and said that he had just the right present for someone like that. He wouldn’t tell me what it was though.
Santa said that he really enjoyed having me along because I knew the children in the neighbourhood. This helped him a lot and I felt proud to be allowed to help him. It wasn’t long before I forgot all about wanting to fly. I was so happy watching the rooftops go by and reindeer grinning and singing Christmas songs as they went about their business.
It was then that I noticed my pyjamas. They were black from the soot, when we climbed the chimney.
‘Oh no, Santa’, I cried, ‘just look at my pyjamas. Mum and Dad will be furious’
Santa was clean though. I asked him why he was so clean and I am so dirty.
‘Ah’, he said,’I used to get filthy too, but since we have these new Velcracene suits, its better now. Velcracene doesn’t hold dirt. Never mind, it will wash off.’
After a while Santa asked Dasher to bring the sleigh to a halt above a big office building with a flat roof. It hovered about ten feet above the roof.
‘Now, time for your lesson’, said Santa. ‘Time to fly’.
‘What do I need to do?’
‘Do? You don’t need to do anything. You just need to think. Close your eyes and think about flying. Then just fly.’
This sounded daft, even for an eight year old boy, but I pressed my eyes tightly shut and thought about the buzzard. I imagined that I was souring through the sky, just like he did.
‘Careful! Not too far now.’ I heard the voice coming from below. I opened my eyes and there, a long way below me, was Santa. He was looking up and shouting at me to slow down. I was really flying. I could do it. I circled around the building and came up from the other side, to make a perfect landing back on my seat in the sleigh. It was so easy, far easier than I had imagined.
‘I think that I may have found my successor,’ Santa laughed. ‘You were born for the job’.
We delivered more presents and Santa let me do a few more solo flights before he said it was time to go back home, before someone missed me. Dasher brought the sleigh to a halt just above our chimney and I patted all of the reindeer, thanked them for the ride and gave Santa a big hug. ‘Thank you so much’, I almost cried as I turned to go.
‘Maybe we see you next year,’ he yelled, and with that the sleigh turned and shot off into the night sky.
******
The next day Santa was restless. He couldn’t sleep. He and the reindeer were so exhausted after the hardest working day of the year, but he was troubled by his lack of professionalism. He had forgotten to give me the sniff of “forget everything” powder, which would have erased all memory of the meeting from my brain. Worse than that, I would remember how to fly, which wasn’t allowed for mortals. He had broken one of the golden rules, made by the founding fathers of Christmas giving. He would be severely punished.

******
‘My God! Karen come here. What on Earth….’ The noise woke me up and startled I looked up at a very angry Dad, staring at my bed and pyjamas. Being startled, I couldn’t speak and as quickly as Dad became angry, he then softened. ‘Never mind, Jimmy. It’s not your fault. I suppose you have been sleepwalking again.’
While I was sitting in the bath, being scrubbed clean by my Mum, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night. I was so excited that I forgot that it was Christmas. My Dad looked so disappointed when he proudly wheeled out my new bike, and my mind was somewhere else.
‘Don’t you like it,’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, Dad. I love it. It is better that Billy’s new one that he has had for Christmas.’
‘How would you know that,’ queried Dad.
‘Er, Billy and I sneaked into his Dad’s shed and we saw it,’ I lied unconvincingly.
Mum and Dad looked at each other critically. They knew that something fishy was afoot, but had no idea what it could be. I was not about to tell them. I just wanted to get out on my own, to see if I could still fly. I knew that when I left Santa, he had forgotten about the powder, and I felt a bit guilty about not reminding him, after he was so good to me, but learning to fly was the best thing I ever did. I wasn’t going to give that up.
******
The following year I added a new item to my Christmas list, a pair of Velcracene pyjamas, but I never received any. Over the years I searched for some and googled for them, but there was no trace. The flying continued however, and still continues to this day. When I have time to be alone, I take myself out into the countryside and sour through the trees with the birds. They are not fearful of me, but accept me as one of their own.
After all, wouldn’t you?

Four Brothers

Although they were four brothers, with eight years between the youngest and oldest, they were all married in the same year. I always regretted not having a daughter, but after four attempts I became content with my beautiful, healthy and intelligent boys. What more could a mother ask for?

Roger and I brought them up, as far as we could tell, with the same values, the same discipline, the same encouragement, yet they all turned out to be so different. Not only did they look completely different to each other, they had very distinct characters. I remember, as they were growing up, thinking that suspicious neighbours might gossip that they had different fathers, a thought I would try to dismiss each time it arrived.

I grew up in a time where a marriage was for a lifetime. As I sit here, across from Roger dosing in his armchair, I feel the sadness of knowing that none of my boys will ever feel the security and warmth that I have now. After 66 years of marriage, we have had rows, days of not speaking and even physical fights. Yes, on two occasions during our long marriage, when we were young, Roger slapped me in a fit of anger. I knew he didn’t mean to, and I know how upset he was afterwards. It didn’t destroy our marriage. In those days we had more staying power. Oh, I know what you may be thinking, but no, I was not and am not the little obedient housewife. I have also had my moments, like the time when I threw a cup of hot tea into Roger’s face during a major rift. That was the occasion when I received my first slap. Then he cried, I cried, he kissed and caressed me and we made love with such passion. Oh, why can’t this new generation make up as easily as we used to?

As you can probably imagine it was a hectic year. Four marriages within ten months. 1976 was one of the happiest years of my life. To see all of my boys settling down was a very comforting sight, although I did have some reservations regarding Peter. At 18, he could have waited a little longer, but their baby certainly wouldn’t.
Now in 2019, at the age of 88, I am no longer comforted by these terrible marriages. 1976 is no longer remembered as the happiest year of my life. It was the year that, mainly due to their own doing, set the course for their ill-fated lives.
******
Peter was the first to marry. He came home one evening, extremely nervous, to let us know that pretty little Mary was pregnant. Mary was a lovely girl, petite and quiet, but intelligent. We knew her parents and the wedding was arranged quickly. They were to live with us until after the baby was born and Peter could finish his exams and start working. He was the brightest of my boys and I never doubted his ability to look after his new little family.

Jeremy’s marriage was already planned for May of that year. His wife, Susan, seemed a nice girl, and we were happy to see Jeremy settling down. He was the most timid of the four and tended to go into long sulking phases when he was angry or upset. Susan had just qualified as a science teacher and would be starting her first teaching job in September. Jeremy had always been a bit of a loner and shied away from any form of conflict. He would hide in his room for hours at the slightest hint of an argument. I had only hoped that Susan would bring Jeremy out of his shell a little. If any of my boys needed a strong synergy from their partner, it was Jeremy.

Then came Johnathon. He was the quiet studious one. After completing his PhD in chemistry and falling madly in love with Claire, a fellow student, they were married on a lovely July afternoon. This beautiful woman was very confident and I hoped, not too demanding socially. She loved to party and travel. Jonathon was besotted.

So, finally in this happy but most busy of years, Roger, the oldest and named after his father, had a very business-like registry office wedding. His journalist wife was “too busy” for long drawn out ceremonies or long honeymoons, and wanted to get married quickly and efficiently. Roger, now a young architect, just went along with it.
So, by mid-November of 1976, our large house was emptier but compensated by the sound of a new young baby, our first grandchild.
******
Peter was to have two more children. I had been right not to doubt his ability to do well and look after his family. He worked so hard in those early years, to provide a home, hold down a full time job and study on evenings and weekends. Mary was so young, never having the time to qualify for a profession, as she was so busy with the children. Consequently, as Peter developed due to advanced education and a number of promotions that enabled him to travel the world with his career, he grew further and further away from Mary, whose days consisted of children and house chores. Their separation twenty two years after they were married came as no surprise to any of us. Naturally Mary’s parents blamed Peter, and so did we initially, but after some time we came to realise that it was neither parties fault. They were simply so busy with their lives and succeeding at their respective goals, that they lost sight of each other until it was too late. They parted on good terms, but their relationship as husband and wife could never be rekindled.
After the parting, Peter threw even more energy into his career than before. We didn’t see much of him after that. He lived in various countries, had various relationships, none of which was to last. He explained to us during one of his rare visits that he no longer trusted his heart enough to settle down again. Only then did we understand how much his divorce had hurt him, even though he was the main protagonist.
******
Poor Jeremy never did settle down. Susan treated her home as she did her classroom. She spoke almost all of the time, was permanently smug in her knowledge of just about everything. In contrast to her lack of empathy in handling people or conversation with adults, she had a heart of gold. She never missed a birthday or when any of the family needed help, she was always the first to step up. Susan was one of those people that you couldn’t fault, but didn’t want to be around.
Jeremy had made a big mistake. He loved Susan, and probably still does, but their marriage could never have lasted. As time went on everything Jeremy tried to do wasn’t good enough. If he did some gardening the plants were in the wrong place, or not planted deep enough, or worse, Susan’s father would be asked to come around to replant them. Jeremy didn’t have it in him to put his foot down and therefore, over time, he spent more and more time in his little study, where he had his coin and stamp collection. While my boys were young, they used to have fun with Jeremy during times when he sulked and call him ‘Hermit’, which was to be his destiny.
At forty-seven Jeremy had his first heart attack. It was a terrible time. No-one had expected it. Apparently his arteries were quite closed, which needed stents. The operation was done quickly and he was up and about again within a few weeks. But he was a changed man.
Within weeks he was shouting a lot, angry with everybody. He certainly couldn’t bear the constant yap yap of Sunsan’s permanent advice and doctoring. Once Jeremy was fully back onto his feet he began to plan his future, a new future, a future which didn’t involve working and certainly didn’t involve Susan.
I remember the day as if it was yesterday. Susan arrived on our doorstep. Jeremy had secretly bought a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere, on the Scottish border, three hundred miles away. He had told Susan that she could move there with him if she wanted, but he was going there, either way. Jeremy knew that she would never leave her parents, who lived very close and were both ailing with health issues.
Now, 24 years later, Jeremy is still in his little cottage. He has become the hermit, which his brothers always had imagined he would be. If we are lucky we receive a phone call once a year at Christmas time. Jeremy and Susan are still married. Neither wanted a divorce and in a strange way I suspect that they still love each other. Their relationship, which began with two young beautiful people, quickly had degenerated due to incompatibilities, which neither had recognised nor understood when they came together.
******
Jonathon and Claire married in great style. Claire had insisted on top hat and tails, which had left poor Roger feeling awfully overstressed. We were a very modest family. Roger had been a labourer for most of his working life, maintaining the county’s water board locations. He was happy being his own man, travelling around the dozens of sewage stations, checking them, cutting the grass, cleaning out any blockages. He had loved the outdoor life, which gave him tight muscles and permanently bronzed skin. He was most comfortable in his overalls or a pair of old jeans. Oh, how funny he looked at Jonathon’s wedding. He spent most of the time holding onto his hat in case it fell off.
Claire never did like us very much. We were far too low down. Strangely though, Claire’s parents got on with us like a house on fire. They were warm and genuine, in stark contrast to their uppity daughter.
Within the first year we noticed Jonathon’s voice changing. His guttural Midland’s accent was becoming softer and a few tell-tale ‘glarss’ instead of ‘glass’, ‘mother’ instead of ‘Mam’ demonstrated to us the effort that he was putting in to raise himself to Claire’s standards. As the years rolled by, no children came, only promotions, careers and parties.
Roger and I became very concerned as we realised that Jonathon was becoming quite subservient. Claire blossomed into a beautiful middle aged woman, and treated Jonathon with ever decreasing respect. As Johnathon began to show some greying hair, Claire insisted that he dye it. Of course he obeyed, suddenly turning up at his next visit with a jet black flock of hair. He looked so strange. The following year they visited and Roger noticed his completely hairless arms and legs. I should mention that we are a hairy family. All of my boys, as their father, have a mass of hair on their chests and limbs. Roger spoke without thinking, “do you shave your legs my boy?”, he asked this quiet six feet two man. Claire quickly intervened with, “I don’t like body hair”.
We all knowingly shrugged. Jonathon said nothing but simply looked simply lost.
This dominance continued until Jonathon finally became ill. He had some sort of nervous complaint, which most of the family believed came from his ever deteriorating relationship with Claire. One day she announced that she was leaving him. They were 63 years old.
Poor Johnathon was broken. He had spent his whole adult life trying to come up to her standard, never realising that it would always be an impossible task.
On his 64th birthday, living in his little one bedroomed flat, Johnathon disappeared. After police hunts and public announcements there was no trace of him, until one day three months later, a local fisherman was taking a short cut through some scrub, when he spotted the remains of my dear boy.
It had all been too much for him. He had been so reduced in stature and confidence over many years that, together with the loss of the love of his life, he had decided to put an end to it. How does one recover from such a loss?
******
Roger, my eldest, was strong and serious. Qualifying as an architect and quickly marrying a career girl, they dismissed the idea of a honeymoon as “a waste of earnings”. Edith wanted a new house, a new car, anything that she perceived as an improvement to her image. Roger would not be the weak link in the partnership. He worked hard as a self-employed architect. I was surprised that they took the time out to create Emily, our youngest granddaughter. Nappies and baby food didn’t fit well into the busy life of Edith. Within six months the job of rearing Emily became mine.
I was happy for the task. After losing all of my boys in such a short time, Emily helped me over the menopause. She was a lively little thing and didn’t allow me to give thought to my own hormonal problems.
Roger and Edith took on a huge house. Their debts were unfathomable for simple people like us. When I mentioned my concerns Roger would say nothing, and Edith would comment that all of their friends were ‘bettering themselves’. I remember their father one time saying, “in my day paying off your debts was considered to be bettering yourselves, not increasing them’. They were not swayed, but just laughed at us silly older generation.
The years rolled by. The work ethic, if anything, became more strict. A second home in Tuscany was bought. Roger said he could fulfil his architectural dreams by renovating the twenty hectare plot. More debts were taken on.
When Roger was about fifty eight, with Emily away at college, his father asked him one day what retirement plans he had. His reply was deeply worrying. He shook his head and said, “what retirement? I will be working until I drop. With our debts, retirement is out of the question.”
We very tactfully asked the question, “why not sell one of you big homes? Surely you could both live well with the proceeds and retire early.”
“Not a chance. In any case Edith would never agree to ‘downsizing’. It wouldn’t look well.”
Two years later, at the graduation ceremony of Emily, for achieving her 2.1 in English Literature, Roger slid off his chair, never to regain consciousness. The hospital said that he had received a massive brain haemorrhage and that on arrival at the hospital his blood pressure was 280/180. We were also told that he had white spots on his brain scan, which indicated high alcohol abuse. We knew that Roger had liked his wine, but never imagined that he had a problem.
******
I cry often. These days I try not to think about my lost boys. We have six lovely grandchildren, all devoted to their old Grandma and Granddad. Sometimes I imagine that they want to try to help replace the loss.
Peter is back home with us. In the end he not only ran out of places to run to, but ran out of money also. Despite the children, who are now all grown up, he is a very lonely soul. He and Jeremy have almost no contact. Their relationship is also broken.
Roger and I often ask ourselves if it is all our fault. Did we make mistakes in expecting too much from our children? Or is it a result of growing up in the sixties, free love, flower power, permissiveness? It sometimes feels as though the post war generation have some missing gene, which destroys relationships, rather than building on them.
Perhaps, sometimes a cup of hot tea thrown in the face, or a good hard slap, is the best solution for establishing a lifelong marriage after all.

Who Needs Friends?

Sometimes, even though he was my older brother, I hated him.
Yet now, when I look at him, my heart bleeds. He is so pitiful, so alone, so broken.
For as long as I could remember Dave always seemed happy. He was full of life. Even our parents seemed to love him more than they did me. He made them laugh, made them proud, made them content in the knowledge that at least one of their children was bright and had a wonderful future ahead of him. I was the quiet one, below average at school, few friends, awful at sport and often coming home from school with ripped clothes or worse, where I had been bullied on the way. One time I entered the house reeking of piss, where three of the older boys had pinned me down in the outside toilets, while they took turns to soak me through.
In fact, this is probably the most revealing point for me to begin this story, the story of my transition from a sad childhood to a tranquil and contented adult life.
******
I was alone, leaving junior school, on a warm sunny afternoon in June. My head was in the clouds, dreaming of our yearly two week summer holiday in a caravan in Pakefield. As I grew older I would tire of these annual trips to the village where my father was born and grew up, until he was evacuated to the Midlands with my grandparents and their seven children. Dad always wanted to go back to Pakefield each year,showing us where he was born, having a drink in The Jolly Sailors, playing on the boats in Kensington Gardens and fishing nearby on the Norfolk Broads. Every year was the same and I grew to dread it.
However, at the age of just nine, I was still excited about our two week caravan holiday, our only holiday of the year. Minding my own business, just before I passed through the school gate, my satchel was yanked from my shoulder, spilling pencils and crayons all over the floor. I heard laughter and was promptly picked up by two older boys, dragged into the toilets. I started to cry, which only made them laugh all the more. There were three of them. They took turns, two holding me down while the other emptied their bladder all over me. Two of the boys I knew well. One of them was a friend of Dave, and had even been to our house.
I walked into the house, after a short walk home. One look at my mother and I burst out into tears again. As I began to explain what happened I saw Dave grinning behind Mum’s back.
“I don’t see what’s so Funny, Dave. One of them was a friend of yours. Remember Mum? That boy with the ginger hair who came round the other day?” I blurted out, shaking with anger.
“Yes, I do remember. David, I don’t want you having anything more to do with that horrible boy. Do you understand?” she demanded.
Dave just shrugged. “It’s no problem for me, Mum. I have lots of friends and can afford to drop one or two,” he replied, as he wandered of upstairs to his room.
“Well, I will be writing to the school about this. What are their names?”
At this, both Dave and I looked at the floor. We both knew better than to give their names. If we did, we would suffer far worse at the next opportunity.
******
This story was to be quite representative of my whole school life. I was regularly bullied, sometimes even by my own brother. He was two years older than me, much stronger and much cleverer. He sailed through his ‘O’ Levels, obtaining all ten, four of them with grade A.
We attended the same high school. I was always in awe of his popularity. By the time I was fourteen, I had begun to realise that he wasn’t such a nice person. He never looked out for me and I knew that he sometimes stole from Mum’s purse when she wasn’t around. I would often ask myself what it was that made him so popular. He had hundreds of friends, always going out with different girls, always the centre of attention.
I had only one person that I would call a ‘friend’. Her name was Emily. Well, she was more like a sister. I didn’t fancy her or anything, but she lived nearby and was also a bit of a loner, like me. We often walked to or from school together and more recently I had started to accompany her to take Senga, her Golden Retriever, for walks across the park. One day I asked her why the dog is called Senga, a strange name. She said that her mother had named her. Her mother’s name was Agnes, a name that she had always hated. She said that it was the ugliest name in existence, therefore if she spelt it backwards it must be the opposite of ugly. I immediately had the thought that if I ever had a dog, I would call it Evad, but kept that to myself.
We hadn’t had a dog since I was very small. The Jack Russel that we had, bit Dave when he tried to hit it with a stick and Dad got rid of it. He said, “I won’t have any nasty dogs in this house.” The real truth, of course, was that the dog was fine. It was my brother who was nasty, but Mum and Dad could see no wrong in him.
******
When I look back to my childhood, from the perspective of a mature 30 year old adult, I realise that it wasn’t so bad after all. My school time had been fairly lonely, and quite isolated from the main stream of other children, that my brother always seemed to be right in the middle of. Although, at the time, I often felt quite miserable, I now realise that it was mostly an illusion. I had permanently compared my quiet, sometimes boring existence, with my brother’s hectic life. He dashed from one party or football match to another. I was always the one left at home, with myself for company, except when Emily and I met up for a walk.
But the illusion was simply that I wanted to be more like my brother, more liked, more active, more interesting. Now, looking back, I realise that I was more comfortable leading my life than he was, leading his. He had an insatiable thirst for recognition. He could become depressed over the smallest critical comment. I realise now, that he was quite insecure. He needed all of those people. He needed their respect, their approval.
The first great change in our routine of school life came with an enormous row in the house. Dave had decided that he wanted to start earning money to finance his active lifestyle. He had also started to smoke and often came home with the smell of alcohol on his breath. My father, quite understandably, wanted Dave to stay on for his ‘A’ levels and go on to university. He was certainly intelligent enough. Dave wanted none of it. He said he wasn’t going to waste his best years studying to sit at a desk all his life. He wanted to start earning now. I thought that Dad was going to have a heart attack. I had never heard him so loud and angry. But Dave would not be turned. He left school immediately after completing his ‘O’ levels and started working on a building site as a labourer two weeks later.
“I’ll be the building site manager within three years,” he grinned, “just you wait and see.”
It was around this time that my school grades began to improve slightly. To this day, I am not sure if I was simply a late developer or whether my improvement was due to my quiet lifestyle and my one real friend. Emily and I were spending more and more time together, helping each other with homework and our long hours in the park. By now, we sat mostly on a bench and chatted, as poor old Senga was finding the long walks to be too tiring, and was happy to lie under the bench and snooze away the afternoon. Her days of chasing balls were over.
If it was possible, Dave’s life became ever busier. He worked ten hours a day, was out late every night with friends and often didn’t come home until the early hours, if at all. That suited me fine, as it meant I wouldn’t be woke up in the middle of the night.
One evening I called round to see Emily, to go for our usual walk. By this time Mrs. Roach, Emily’s mother, had become so used to my visits that she told me that I didn’t need to knock and wait for the door to be answered. I should just knock and enter, which on this occasion, I did.
“But I want her to be buried in the garden,” I heard Emily screeching loudly.
“Darling, I don’t think that is a good idea, and anyway, your father won’t be home until the weekend from his business trip. We can’t leave her here until then,” replied Mrs Roach.
Emily began to weep, just as I appeared on the scene. She took one look at me and ran upstairs to her room.
When Mrs. Roach turned towards me I said, “oh sorry, shall I come another time?”
“Senga passed away this morning. Emily wants her to be buried in the garden, but oh I don’t know, it just seems wrong and Jack is not here to take care of it for her.
“I could do it for her if she would like,” I said. “I mean, when I was little we buried our first dog in the garden. I would be happy to help Emily if she wanted.”
Mrs. Roach thought for a moment and said, “You know what Jimmy? I think she would like that very much. So would I. Why don’t you go up and talk with her?”
I had never been to Emily’s room. Somehow, we had never had that kind of close or intimate relationship. I felt quite nervous as I knocked gently on the door. She hadn’t expected me and opened the door with a start. “I want her buried in the…. Oh it’s you, Jimmy. What do you want?”
I went in and we sat on her bed. I explained to her that her Mom would happily let me help her to bury Senga in the garden.
“Oh, would you? Really?” she said, jumping up and hugging me hard. Nothing more was said. Nothing more was discussed, but that hug was the moment where I realised that Emily was more to me than a mere friend, and very different to a sister.
We spent the rest of the evening preparing the grave. We picked some wild flowers from the park, dug a deep hole between the two apple trees at the bottom of the garden and when we were ready we called Emily’s Mum to come down and join us for the burial.
Later, when it was done, I sat with Emily on the terrace while Mrs Roach did some house chores. We held hands for the first time and something passed between us, without any words, that would change our friendship forever.
******
“Come on, Jimmy. You can miss one day of revision. The break will do you good.” Dave was trying to convince me to go with him to Barmouth on his motorbike. He had bought a Triumph Bonneville and for some reason wanted to go to Barmouth the following Saturday. I had never been on his bike and felt a bit nervous travelling such a long way with him. In the end I agreed and we set off at 8am on a sunny June morning. My next GCE exam was on Tuesday, so Dave was probably right. A rest day would do me good.
By the time we reached Shrewsbury the weather had closed in. I felt cold and shivery. I wasn’t sure if that was due to the weather or the way Dave was handling the bike. He was a good driver, but took too many risks. Worst of all, he didn’t seem to anticipate potential dangers. He took the view that if he had right of way, the others must stop. Twice on the way to Barmouth he had to swerve dangerously when a car pulled out on us.
We spent a miserable few hours on the sea front. I never did learn why we went there. When I asked what was so special about Barmouth, all I could get from Dave was, “It’s just here.”
We were both happy to head back for home. I wanted to get back in time to see Emily before it was too late to call on her. The rain set in and the wind became very gusty.
The Triumph was a good machine. It handled well in such weather. However, a good bike wasn’t enough. It needed a careful driver in such weather. We dipped slightly to take a wide left-hand bend. I saw the Volkswagen Golf pull out from a side street. I saw it all, long before it happened. We would either have to tighten the bend and overtake the Golf or we would hit it. Dave banked the bike further to tighten the turn. The wheel slid, dropping the bike into a long skid into the side of the car. I watched in fear and braced for the impact, expecting a painful collision. There was no pain. There was no collision. There was only ….darkness.
******
“Do we have to go, Dad?” said Luke, my six year old boy.
“Yes, we do. It’s your uncle David’s birthday and I have never missed one since….., er well, since a long time.” I replied.
Emily helped little Louise to get her coat on and we all piled into the car. These three people are my whole life. After the accident it was a hard three years of rehab. Learning to walk again with the artificial leg was much harder than the doctors had implied. There were times when my frustration would get the better of me and I would curse, only to have my hand held and a soothing voice, gently urging me on, just as she had on that day when I regained consciousness in the hospital. She had been there almost every time I woke and had never left my side since. She had been my rock, my steadying force. Yes, she had been my best and only friend.
When I think back to the first time I was allowed to go and see Dave. He was whole, had lost no limbs as I had, but he was different. I realised immediately that something was wrong. Why hadn’t he come to see me? No-one had told me that he was paralysed from the waist down. As the Triumph hit the floor, my leg had been trapped under it and torn badly at the knee, requiring an amputation from the knee. Dave had not been trapped, but in the collision he had flown free from the bike and landed awkwardly on his back on the tarmac. He hadn’t been able to feel his legs afterwards.
The doctors were optimistic that he would walk again, but it would need further surgery and a lot of time and patience.
Except for our parents he’d had few visitors. Where were all of those great friends? The few that came had not stayed long, but only came to fulfil a duty.
As we pulled up onto his driveway, Dave came to the door. He smiled when he saw us. We gave each other a hug and Emily kissed him affectionately.
“Happy Birthday Uncle David”, shouted Louise and Luke in unison, and handed him two brightly wrapped presents.
We tried not to notice as he awkwardly limped into his small, one bedroomed maisonette.
We ate a lunch that he had prepared and then Emily took the children out to the playground at the end of the road, leaving Dave and I to chat about old times.
“You are walking better these day,” I said trying to put a positive slant on his situation. “You will soon be out and about again, living the high life, like you always used to.”
A wave of sadness drifted across his face.
“You know what Jimmy?” he replied. “For many years I thought that I was the bee’s knees. I had friends galore, girls on tap. I always wondered what was wrong with you. You were mostly alone, except for one little girl who lived a few streets away. She wasn’t even pretty. That’s how shallow I used to think. Then, in the hospital, I was aware that the little girl sat at your bedside every minute she could. She cried only when you were asleep. She perked up whenever you woke, with words of encouragement. I had no-one. Despite all my friends I didn’t have anyone to comfort me, except Mum and Dad. Initially I was angry, envious and yes, jealous. Then, over the weeks and months in that hospital I slowly became happy for you and realised that one true friend can bring more quality into your life than a thousand of the type of friends that I had, who just move on when the chips are down. I will get properly back on my feet. Every day my legs are improving, but I will never return to my old life. I want quality not quantity in my future relationships, the type of quality that I see in yours”
The End

Eavesdropping

I was sitting in the lounge reading about the only current news item of any remote interest. Yes, you have guessed right! Brexit.
Well, I suppose reading is a slight exaggeration. I was dozing and occasionally jerking awake as my arm slid off the chair for the umpteenth time. On each occasion I made a self-conscious glance around to see if anyone noticed, before continuing to read the next instalment of Brexit nonsense, only for my eyes to gradually slide shut again within seconds.
I had been awake for most of the night, worrying about waking on time to go to the airport. It wouldn’t be the first time that I lay awake all night, worrying about attending an early appointment, only to drop off fast asleep an hour before the time I should have woken, with the end result that, yes you guessed it again, I missed my plane, train or dentist appointment.
However, today I was on time, actually too early, trying to kill two hours at the airport before my flight was due to board. I was much too afraid of missing the flight, which would take me to the UK, to my mother’s funeral. Fear of missing her funeral and letting my Dad down again one more time, had kept me fully awake throughout the long night.
Now, as I sat dozing, mostly due to tiredness but also due to the absolute soul destroying boredom of airport departure lounges, I allowed my thoughts to freely wander aimlessly through alleyways and cul de sacs as they wished.
All of a sudden, during one lucid moment, I was aware of two people right behind me. It was one of those seating arrangements where we sat back to back, leaving our heads very close to each other, but without direct visibility. I could hear very clearly every word they said. Their conversation brought me wide awake and I was fully alert for the rest of my waiting time.

******

“I’m so afraid that they will find him though”, whispered a female voice.
It was the sinister reply that captured my attention at first, a throaty male reply that portrayed evil, not only due to the harsh words, but also by its directness, without feeling or compassion.
“No worries, Jane. I buried the old bastard deep, in the last place where anyone would think of finding him. He’ll be pushing up carrots in his old allotment in a few years’ time.”
“Oh Rob! I’m so frightened. If we are caught, we’ll be in prison for……”. She tailed off, without finishing her sentence.
I realised that I was trembling. What could I do? If I went to the police, all I could tell them was a conversation that I overheard. I didn’t know their names and hadn’t even seen their faces. I was concentrating hard, trying to judge their age, accent, anything that I could pass on to the police, when the man reached over to put his arm around his partner, to reassure and console her. In doing so, his elbow caught me slightly in the back and I reactively turned around. So did he. We looked straight into each other’s eyes. He was unshaven, about thirty. His hair was as short as his three day stubble. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. I stared, trying to act naturally but also trying to take a photograph with my mind. I needed to capture him perfectly, the close set eyes, the small wart on the left of his neck, the damaged ear. This guy had seen a few fights in his time.
“Sorry Pal,” he said.
“No problem”, I replied.
The couple then got up and slowly walked away. I never saw her face. All I saw was her shapely calves running down into a pair of maroon stiletto heels, her pink cotton dress and her long blonde hair. He was in denims and creased red t-shirt. As they walked away I sat watching, my mind racing. What should I do? Should I go to the police? I was in turmoil, wavering between forgetting about the whole thing, and running immediately to the police with my story.
I decided for the former. It was none of my business.

******

The rest of the time, waiting until boarding began, was spent thinking about my Dad. How would he manage without Mum? They had been together over 50 years. A pang of guilt ran through me as I realised that I had little grief for my mother. She had been frail for years and her final months had been raked with pain, as the cancer slowly did its job. No, my grief was for Dad. He was the one who must carry on alone. At least I wouldn’t miss my plane and add one more disappointment to a lifelong string of let-downs, where I hadn’t lived up to his expectations. I would stay in the UK for as long as he needed me, or at least until I was sure that he could cope. Maybe I could persuade him to return to New Zealand with me, but my hopes were barren of any reality. He had never been able to accept Roger, let alone come to live with us. My sexuality was as alien to him as his lack of understanding was to me.
I concluded my thoughts as the announcement for club class boarding came. I would avoid any of those difficult conversations. I was there just to support Dad, and to say farewell to my dear old mother.

******

Having been upgraded to Club class while checking in, at least it meant that my long flight would be more comfortable. I was soon in my seat, sipping a glass of champagne, waiting for the horde of economy class to settle into their seats.
All of a sudden a familiar voice quietly spoke to me from the next seat. I was in the aisle seat and had not been aware of anyone cutting across me to take their seat. As I turned my head to look at her, I knew that I must have fallen asleep. I must have been dreaming.
“It’s alright Tom. Don’t be frightened.”
She held my hand. It was warm and real. I stared at her face and gave a quiet sob as I realised that the frail old lady sitting next to me was my mother. I didn’t want to wake. I wanted to savour every second of the reunion. I didn’t want to let her go.
“But…but…it’s you. It can’t be. I mean….your …. “
“It’s me, Tom. It is the real me. Now you must listen to me. I don’t have very long.” My mother smiled reassuringly. I was so full of trust and love that I didn’t question it at all. She was here, next to me and that was all I cared.
She spoke quickly. “I met someone. His name is Gary Featherhead. It was his son and daughter-in-law that you sat listening to in the departure lounge. He died yesterday in his home, a few days after I gave up the fight. We met as we were in the same batch.”
“Batch?” I queried.
“Yes, deaths apparently come in batches. Gary and I were allocated to the same batch.”
I listened, riveted, as my mother told me the story of her passing and how she met a dear old man, saddened by the treachery of his son, a violent and aggressive brute. She explained how Gary had been murdered and his physical remains buried very deep in his own allotment, the same day. She told me that Gary had another, illegitimate son, a son conceived with the only person he had ever truly loved. His legal son, Robert, had found out about Gary’s other son and feared losing his inheritance, as he and his father hated each other. Robert suspected that his father may be planning to leave some of his money to the “bastard” son and had killed him, before he could make a will. I had been listening to Gary’s murderer, while waiting for my flight to board.

“But what can I do?” I asked.
“You must tell the police. Gary said that he has written a will. It is hidden under the floorboards in his bedroom. You must get off this plane and go to the police. Gary’s body is buried in his allotment, near the shed. His name is Gary Featherhead and he lived in Hamilton, Queen’s Close number 13. Have you got that?”
Now I wanted to wake up. This dream was no longer pleasant.
“I can’t get off the plane, Mum. I’ll miss your funeral.”
“Tom. Listen to me. Don’t worry about not being at my funeral. My funeral is not for me in any case. It’s for the others, so that they can feel better, feel that they paid their respects. I know that you loved me. You don’t need to be there. This is more important. You must help Gary get justice. He deserves that.”
An old man touched me on the shoulder, signalling with his finger that he needed to get by into the seat occupied by my mother. I was confused. How could I let him by, knowing that my mother was there? He was already easing past me and I sat flabbergasted as he sat down right on top of her. As he did so, her form faded until the last whisper of recognition showed her blowing a kiss to me, before she disappeared completely.
“Are you alright?” the old man asked, looking at me rather strangely.
“Er, yes thank you. Maybe I’ve had too many of these,” I said, looking at my wine glass.
She was gone.
I was sweating. Who would believe such a crazy story? If I did go to the police, how could I explain knowing the name and address of the murdered man? I imagined the ridicule when I said that I had been informed by my dead mother.
Boarding was almost complete. It was now or never. I thought about Dad and letting him down again. I thought about Mum. Was it just a dream? Mum, Dad, Mum, Dad. My mind was spinning. All of a sudden I rushed to my feet, grabbed my cabin bag and ran to the front of the plane, insisting that it was a life or death emergency and I must leave the plane to talk to the police.
The cabin crew were not happy. They even half-heartedly threatened me with legal action, to which I simply smiled. They could see that I wasn’t going back to my seat.
A security car was sent to the plane and five minutes later I stood watching a Boeing 747 taxiing down to the runway.
Sorry Dad.

******

“That is one hell of a tale,” said a burly police sergeant Dunk Richards.
I had told them everything about the murder except the meeting with my mother. I had left out the detailed address and said that I overheard the name Gary Featherhead and the town of Hamilton. I assumed that would be enough for them to trace him.
Sergeant Richards asked me if I could wait while they contacted the Hamilton police and checked out my story. Within the hour Mr. Featherhead’s home was cordoned off, as was his allotment. They had found evidence of a struggle immediately upon entering the premises.
There was a very strange piece of evidence. Today’s newspaper was open on the kitchen table in Mr Featherhead’s home, along with a half drunken cup of coffee, on which his fingerprints were found. The murderer, Robert Featherhead, had organised an accomplice to go to the house, leave the newspaper and coffee, which would give the impression that Gary Featherhead could not have been killed prior to today, if his body turned up sometime in the future. That provided Robert and Jane with an alibi, as they were already on the plane to the UK.
But their plan had failed completely, thanks to my Mum. Gary’s body was recovered immediately, time of death established at least two days ago. The testament was recovered and Robert and Jane would be going to prison for a very long time. Somewhere out there is a young man, the illegitimate son of Gary Featherhead, who would be very happy with his inheritance and the knowledge that his father had thought of him at the end.
I finished the day with mixed feelings of having brought some justice to the world, having let my father down once again, and having seen my mother for one last time. Was it real or was it only a dream?
When I left the airport, heading towards the bus terminal, I was thinking what I could tell my father. How could I explain? I decided that he has such a low opinion of me in any case, that I will just let him know that I missed my plane. I couldn’t afford another plane fare, even if there had been another plane to London in time to get to the funeral.
I could hear my father now, “Useless as always. You couldn’t even get to your own mother’s funeral.”
I couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm to call him that evening. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough. I went home, told Roger the whole story over a bottle of wine, and by late evening we were fast asleep in each other’s arms.

******

I woke in a blur. I had been dreaming about my mother. The telephone was ringing.
Slowly, I crawled out of bed, whispering to Roger that I would get the phone.
“Is that Tom?, said a familiar voice, “Sergeant Dunk Richards here.”
“Er, yes, Tom speaking. What’s up?”
“Listen, you ain’t gonna believe this. Our Prime Minister is flying to London in about three hours. A car is already on the way to you. It’ll be there in ten minutes. The PM has agreed, no, has requested that you be on that plane too. He said it’s the least we can do. According to my reckoning we can get you to your mother’s funeral on time.”

******

At 10am as people were gathering at my father’s house, ready for the funeral procession, which would take my mother down to St. Paul’s church, where she would be laid to rest, another black Jaguar limousine pulled up outside. Everyone looked as the chauffer stepped out, walked around to my side, and opened the door in full formal style. I stepped out to dozens of staring faces, but none looking more surprised than my father.
He hugged me warmly, this broken man, who had been cut in half by the loss of my mother. We stood, looking into each other’s eyes for a long moment, before he said, “I was hoping that you may have brought Roger with you.”

The end