He plodded through the snow, shivering in the unaccustomed cold. The man was a stranger here, and did not know which direction to take.

There was a sign up ahead; reluctantly, he withdrew a hand from the sanctuary of his jacket pocket, and brushed aside the flakes obscuring the letters beneath.

'Holmeworth', he read, lips forming the word as if it were sacred. His breath hung in the air, like a prayer frozen in the act of being uttered.

At long last. It felt as if he had been travelling forever, a latter-day pilgrim in search of - what? Absolution? A short bark which might have been a laugh broke the uncanny stillness. No. There was no such thing. Nate was gone, lost, and there was no power on earth that could take way the bitterness of that.

The stranger glanced at his watch before slipping his hands back into the relative warmth of his pockets. 6 A.M. : a bit early to come calling.

Inside his left hand pocket, the envelope rustled, accusing. Maybe, he thought, he ought to just tear it up, slink away. Then there would be no need to face the staring eyes, the condemnation which would surely glare out at him from their uncomprehending depths. It would be easy, and no-one would ever know. The bark came again. Nate certainly wasn't going to tell anyone.

Maybe he shouldn't have come. It all seemed so far away, so long ago. The stranger shook the white frosting from his straggly, rather dirty hair.

Maybe he should have come sooner, before time had had a chance to amplify his guilt.

Nate had been a good friend, though. Hell, he had been the best. If he hadn't leaped across, putting himself right into the firing line, then...Well, let's just say that there were debts that couldn't be paid, even if a person walked a million miles instead of merely hitch-hiking a few hundred.

The stranger's pinched face contorted into a strange grimace. He could almost smell the cold. Christ, would he ever feel warm again?

It had been hot, that day when Nate fell crumpled and broken, on the sands of some nameless (or unpronounceable) desert. 'Hot as Hell itself,' muttered the stranger, eyes misting over. He could almost feel the heat of it through his army boots, red hot coals searing their way through the soles. Odd, as the snow was swirling around his feet even as he was thinking about it.

The stranger - an old soldier, by his bearing - limped along the road, head bowed. Hours before, he'd hitched a lift on a farm truck, but that grace was a fading memory. Not very friendly round these parts, he mused. The old fellow had drawn him a few suspicious looks, then pulled over and turfed him out to walk.

'I ain't afeard o' the likes o' you.' the old fellow had blustered, terror shining of his eyes.

It should have been amusing, the way the old geezer had seemed so afraid of him, but somehow, it hadn't been.

'Maybe something to do with the fact that I had to get out and walk,' that strange half-bark rang out again. 'Not my fault that folks up here are so backwards,' and, he added, grudgingly,' I s'pose the old man had a right to decide against driving me any further.' Well, you heard about things happening to the unwary on lonely stretches of road, didn't you?

It was hard, though, and him being an ex-soldier and all. Fought for his country, hadn't he?

The guilt surged through him again. Sure, he'd served his country, but it had been Nate who had paid the price.

Nate, who had been his best mate, Nate who had had a pretty young wife and a new little daughter. Nate had been the one with everything to lose, while he - all he'd had to call his own was his own miserable life.

'Should've been me, Nate old buddy.'

Would've been too, if Nate hadn't played the hero and saved him. The stranger rubbed his leg again. How long had he been in the army hospital? A week, a month, a year? He couldn't be sure; time had sort of melted into itself while he had been recuperating.

And all he could really remember was the promise he had made to his mate, before the terrible day when everything had exploded around them.

'Got a kid,' Nate had said, holding up his letter from home. 'A little girl - called Petronella, after my Mum. Christ, to think she'll be weeks old already, and I've never even seen her, didn't even know until now that she'd been born!'

'Buddy, what if I never do get to see her?'

It had been hard to reassure Nate, in among the noise of screaming shells, that his fears were groundless.

'If you make it through,' he'd said - to half the company, it had seemed - you'll take a letter to my wife, won't you?'

It had been almost laughable, how Nate had scribbled letter after letter, giving one to any of the laughing lads he could persuade to accept one. Almost as if he had known that he wouldn't be going home with the rest of them. Maybe he'd had a premonition. Whatever the reason had been, events had proved Nate right, in the end.

The one-time soldier drew a weary hand across his eyes. Most of those laughing lads hadn't made it home either. But he had, and it was his bounden duty to deliver Nate's letter.

That proved difficult. Although he waited until the morning bustle indicated that the village was up and about its business, the stranger could not find the address written so hastily on the crumpled envelope.

And the folks were not much friendlier than the old farmer who had kicked him out of his truck. Most of them averted their eyes - well, he did look a bit unkempt, a bit like a scarecrow - and the rest simply ignored him. What a way to treat someone who was supposed to be a war hero! What the heck, he must look a sight; it was hard to blame them.

The stranger wandered around the village, seeking the street, but he couldn't find any trace of it or the house for which he was looking. What he needed, he admitted to himself, was a street map of the town.

In the end, he headed towards the church; surely the vicar would have to talk to him, if only out of Christian charity, and he would be bound to know where a Mrs Simonescu and her baby daughter Petronella could be found. Surely, there couldn't be many people in a small English country town going by the name 'Simonescu', he reasoned.

Dragging his game leg behind him - a sure sign that he was growing weary - the weary man made his way through the lych gate. From somewhere to his right, a dog yelped, and ran away, slithering comically over the deepening carpet of snow.

The stranger trudged through the graveyard - one of the type which is so often found in the grounds of the more venerable country churches - heading towards the building. He walked all around the church, trying doors and calling out, yet there was no reply. The vicar must still be in the Vicarage, probably at his breakfast.

The stranger became vaguely aware that it was some time since he himself had eaten. Well, that could wait until he had completed his errand.

With a slump to his shoulders, the man walked back across the cemetery, skirting the ancient stones. Some of them, he noted, dated back several hundred years. There was a lot of history in these small country towns. Then, his attention was caught. That name: surely there couldn't be two?

The stranger knelt beside a granite stone, rising from the white foam. He brushed away a skift of snow, the better to read the inscription.

Sadness filled him. Petronella Simonescu had died, aged two weeks, and , from the part of the inscription not obscured, her mother had died at the same time. Poor Nate; all the time he had been worrying about leaving his loved ones behind, and they had died before him. The stranger looked about, and saw several headstones inscribed with the same date; as he looked around, the former squaddie noticed a memorial stone, raised in the centre of the graveyard, which offered an explanation. Apparently, an explosion, followed by a fire, had swept through the street where they had all once lived. That, he thought, explained why he hadn't been able to find it. Odd that there had been no trace of such a devastating explosion, either. These country folk must be quick workers, to repair all that damage so soon.

That was that, then. Carefully, the stranger placed Nate's letter on the grave, and stood there, head bowed, while the snow flakes obliterated the writing on the headstone again. The date - 1916 - soon disappeared, and the names rapidly followed.

'Job done, pal,' the stranger said, finally, turning his inadequate collar against the blast. 'Sorry it ended up this way.'

As he walked slowly away, dragging his game leg a little, the falling snow gradually filled in his tracks. Soon, it was as if he had never been.

Graham had been driving cabs for the best part of twenty years, ever since he had lost his job in the early Eighties, with a little help from Maggie and her boys. At the age of forty-one and with little in the way of desirable skills he had fallen into driving private-hire in a fatalistic fit of desperation. OK, it didn't pay wonderfully and the hours were awful but at least it got him away from his wife, which in it's self, he recognised as a blessed relief.

That he should arrive home each evening, worn and depressed after a twelve-hour shift was inevitable, as inevitable as dog shit on the pavement. Why he shouldn't question the reason he still worked such long hours was understandable. In his road drained eyes his wife was nothing but a life sucking, moaning bitch. End of story. If you could get a word in edge ways.

The truth is that after thirty-five years of marriage they had both given up trying, trying to love each other that is. Whereas neither had given up trying to despise the other, a skill that they found hard to perfect due to the fact that they were forever refining and honing their hate. There they were, two fighting cockerels, driven by a need to revile that was now so deeply ingrained that it was indistinguishable from nature.

After so many years living the job, things were very much routine, well most of the time. The transfers of whores from the obvious facade of massage parlour to West End client and back again. Escorting escorts everywhere in the alliterated comfort of his red Ford Escort. Delivering parcels, no questions asked, while doubling up the fare with a septuagenarian line-dancer and her weekly shopping.

In twenty years of driving the streets of his city he thought he'd seen just about everything. He believed that nothing could surprise him. Funny how you can be so wrong. Not so funny when you realise just how wrong you can be.

It had been a grey day in late autumn. Bins and cars deposited rubbish into oily puddles in a deciduous downpour. The sun, low in the sky, played peek-a-boo with sullen pedestrians, heads bowed in disdaining reverence. Business had been slow, people preferring to stay in and hide from the impending threat of winter. The dispatch office had offered up a cash job and Graham had been surprised that he had been the only taker. He should have seen this as an omen, instead he thought amen.

The fare turned out to be a man of the cloth. Starched dog collar over black cotton, which on closer inspection was washed to charcoal and frayed at the cuffs. Unusually the priest was wearing a large ornate pectoral cross, blatantly displayed, a muggers prayer. In a time of spiritual understatement the priest looked out of place and a little out of time.

The priest, who gave no name but Father, asked to be taken to the East Side of the river. This sluggish ribbon of dilute sewerage divided the residential west bank from the industrial hinterland of the east. Graham could think of no church on the East Side, not even a disused one, swallowed as the industry encroached.

As they wove their way through the rush hour traffic Graham heard the priest start to mutter beneath his breadth. He was unable to tell what the Father was saying but it had rhythm and pace, Graham also knew, instinctively, that it had meaning. As he piloted his red Escort towards its destination Graham noted how the rush hour traffic so prevalent just a little earlier had dissolved away into the grey half-light of dusk. Soon they were alone on an enclosed road, a red pac-man between industrial cliffs.

Their destination turned out to be a nondescript industrial building, old enough to be frocked in redbrick and asbestos. The priest, still chanting, signalled that Graham should pull over and stop. He handed over two twenty-pound notes and exited the car without a word. In silence Graham sat and watched him enter the building by steel shuttered door. Strange place for a priest.

It was almost dark now. The buildings crowded in to stare at Graham as he lit a cigarette. The match flared and his eyes reflected red mimicking the shell of the car. As he turned to reverse out of his parking spot his eyes fell upon a briefcase on the rear parcel-shelf.

Damn, the priest must of left it.

He killed the engine and got out the car. A chill wind knifed him as he opened the hatchback to retrieve the case. With a shudder Graham turned to follow the priest.

On entering the building through the unlocked shutter Graham found himself in a small entrance hall off which two doors led. Behind the first was a small office area. It showed little in the way of occupation beyond a battered old sofa illuminated by a standard lamp, low wattage bulb deplete of shade. Upon the sofa lay an open copy of The Old Testament, but were was the priest?

Graham could have just left the brief case upon the sofa and gone, but his curiosity had been awoken. Retrospectively he should have remembered the cat.

He approached the second door. As he placed a hand upon the steel knob a shiver went through him, with a sense of expectation he opened the door. He crossed the threshold into a large dark space probably occupying the rest of the inner shell of the building. All was black but for the illuminated priest kneeling in the pale light of a fluorescent tube in the centre of the room. He was about twenty yards from Graham but the low intoning of his prayer could still be heard in the silence. He was not alone.

Just outside of the ellipse of light, cast by the tube, moved people. They were silent and vacantly moved from one foot to the next as if dancing to the rhythm of the priest's prayer. Graham was nervous. Should he call out to the Father or leave the case by the door and silently leave? As if hearing his thoughts the priest's congregation turned to look at Graham.

He screamed out loud in shock and horror.

Where faces should have been there was nothing but gaping voids filled with darkness that was so thick, kisses would of choked upon it. Disturbingly they wore perfect human form, but instead of being made solid by flesh and bone they were vessels of emptiness. They were animated black holes sucking the heat out of the air, so that the priest's breath solidified into clouds of steam. Graham could taste the despair. Both priest's and monster's.

Graham slammed the door and ran from the building dropping the case in his haste to leave. He scrambled into his car but before he could start the engine and escape the priest walked out of the building waving frantically for him to wait. Graham popped the passenger door lock and the priest got in, he looked even older than Graham had remembered. His starched dog collar seemed to be the only thing stopping his head collapsing forward; he was a broken man whose only sustenance came form his faith.

The priest was not followed. Graham didn't have to exit the area like an extra from some budget horror movie. In truth he wished he could of. He wished he could of left and forgotten everything, but the priest had a story to share and stories are hard to forget.

These people, as people they were, were not monsters but the sad casualties of an eternal war. As this odd couple sat in the darkness of the cab the priest recounted a tale. It was a tale that would have been unbelievable, had the evidence for it not been standing merely yards away.

The priest's tale was of the reality of the battle between good and evil. A battle as physical and real as any war that has scarred this earth. The Prince of Darkness, The Fallen Angel Satan was preparing himself for an assault upon heaven. The shells of the people residing in the empty shell of the building were the unliving proof of this war.

As far as the church could be sure, these remnants of people, were the waste products of hate being removed from the human form forcibly. Agents of the Devil seemed to be harvesting this hate to fuel his growth. Satan was on the move and his appetite was insatiable, but these days of increasing disillusionment offered a veritable finger buffet of choice.

The priest belonged to one of the old schools. His world was one in which good and evil still held sway. He was an anachronism in a modern world that preferred to place it's faith in unit trusts and fortified bran flakes. A world in which God or the Devil were nothing more than interesting advertising concepts.

The priest had been sent to tend to this most downcast and abject of flocks. Sent because he believed. There was little he could do, as their essence was gone. His was very much a waiting game. All he could do for this detritus of humanity was comfort it until nature took its course.

Graham had sat silently while the priest talked. In his voice he had recognised the tone of a man who believed whole-heartedly in what he said. This was not a preacher. Graham sort comfort in the succession of cigarettes that he smoked. He took another from the pack and lit it on the butt of the one in his mouth, a chain reaction to an unwanted stimulus.

The problem with stories is they are hard to forget and those with a sting in the tail are the hardest.

The priest turned to Graham and looked him full in the face. The moon had risen pallid in the clear night sky. Stars were scattered across the surface of heaven like the milky bloom on a jet damson. God hid upon high and fear filled his space.

" Of course this is the fate of all those that hate " said the priest in a clear measured voice.

Was he aware of Graham?

" We are all but food for the Devil, entrees before the final bloody reckoning ".

With these words he opened the car door and alighted the crimson cab. As he turned to close the door he leant in, face wan and lined in the moonlight, and said:

" I don't know who's going to win the war and on nights like this I'm scared it won't be us ".

The door slammed and Graham was alone in the cold.

The cab radio crackled and Graham started. It was late, perhaps later than he thought. He turned off the radio and headed for home, his internal autopilot took over and in a thought he was there. He would be careful, he knew the Devil was at large. He rummaged in the boot of his blood red car and retrieved his salvation.

He opened the front door of his house and found every light burning brimstone. He walked into the living room where his wife sat with her back to him on the sofa. Her voice came like a banshee, shouting that his dinner was in the bin, burnt by his own failure to arrive home on time. Still she didn't turn to face him, choosing the comfort of the television in preference.

Graham was sure what he must do.

He raised the wheel brace above his wife's head and rained down a hail of blows upon he fragile skull. She suspected nothing.

When he had finished he felt empty. Thirty-five years of caged hate was sluiced from him. A lifetime of resentment beat out in a macabre Morse code.

He was saved.

He had saved them both.

Redemption comes in many different guises.

The rest is on the record. Graham had phoned the police to report what he had done. They had arrived to find him sitting quietly beside his wife's battered body, he held the four pronged wheel brace to his chest, like a blooded cross.

I am the duty solicitor and I am at a loss as what to do. My client wants the above story recorded as his statement. He swears it is the truth and to his own sanity.

If it is the truth then we are all lost. If he claims sanity he is lost.

I know I must defer judgement to a higher power. I wish the psyche team would hurry up and arrive.

The end

Copyright © D J Manion 2003

`It`s an end job, Jim.` Jim listened but the boss was on his mobile phone in the middle of a noisy street; why he didn`t ring from his office was a mystery. He was spelling out a name and a place. Jim put in his notebook - Raggydoo lives Lanson.

` Lanson. Where`s that?`

But the reply was unhelpful. `Haven`t the foggiest.`

`Anything else?` A few more words filtered through the rumble of traffic and he scribbled them down. Jim asked, `what`s that name again?` He meant the name of the personage but the reply was, `get cracking Jim, no time to lose.` `O.K.,` he said, `I`ll keep you posted.` He shut his notebook. Nothing much to go on but that was the thrill of the hunt; the more vague the better. His quarry was probably a back-number big-wig needed to serve as the icing on the cake. This one might be shy of publicity but Jim would flush him out.

Jim Lamb had reached the rank of detective inspector in the police force and had retired with a jolly good pension. Plenty of jobs were made available to an ex-sleuth with a talent for problem solving and he had been given a chance to work in television and grabbed it. Up to then he had delved into the activities of notorious ne'er-do-wells but now he made enquiries about lives of a very different calibre.

He poured himself a generous whisky and ran through his options. Usually, his first line of attack was to go for the most likely positive. The most likely here was the location and the individual in this particular case was living at a place called Lanson. Get out the road atlas, look up L-a-n. Lanivet, Lanlivery, Lanner, Lanreath, Lansallos, Lanteglos. No Lanson. Each place was in the county of Cornwall. Could that be significant? Could be in Wales, but that was double-ell-a-n, wasn`t it? Go for Cornwall. Jim never hesitated when he thought he was on to something so he lost no time now.

Out on the forecourt of his suburban house his sleek car waited, tanked up with diesel and ready to go. It was a brand new dark green four-wheel-drive, chosen because personal comfort was essential. His first motor had been a blue convertible, bought with savings during first years as a constable. He wasn`t married then, just going out with Rosemary - his own age, at school together but never his childhood sweetheart. They hit it off at a dance when he was a still a greenhorn and their friends teased that Rosemary went well with Lamb. And it did. Eventually they were joined in holy matrimony in a year ending in a zero. That way you will always be able to remember the anniversary, Rosemary had laughed. He missed her tinkling laugh, the way she lent a hand (without realising it) in his investigations. She was a sounding-board and many a time had rescued him from being overwhelmed with clues.

Pack a bag, lock the house, set the security system, then climb in behind the steering wheel; Jim`s considerable bulk slid on the smooth leather agreeably. He was making for the River Tamar, the natural boundary between Devon and the County of Cornwall. On the way, he stopped at a motorway services and almost turned back. Was he on a wild goose chase? But he was too far from home to back down now so he continued on. He left the big road and followed the signs to Cornwall. At last he crossed the Tamar by way of a narrow grey stone bridge and a few miles farther along the country route lined with trees he noticed a signpost that announced LAUNCESTON. He stopped and asked a man hacking at a hedge. `Excuse me, but how do you pronounce that place? Lawn cess ton?`

`Zum say Lawnston, I say Lanson.`

`Eureka! Thank you.` Jim sounded so pleased he even surprised himself and the man`s mouth opened in astonishment. When he arrived in the small town square he booked in at the only hotel and telephoned the office. The producer`s secretary answered; she said: `Hello there, Jim! Where are you?` He told her.

`Good. Where are you staying?`

He told her and was going to ask her more but she said she had to go. `Best of luck,` she breezed and the line went dead. He still hadn`t identified the peculiar name of the personage. It was so unusual that he tried it out in the bar that evening.

`Raggydoo, does that ring a bell?`

`Is it a person or a musical instrument? Digereedoo?` Some joker asked. Another one added, `is he from Oz?`

`I think he, or she, might be a member of this community.`

The barman`s contribution was a lot more help. `It could have been Reggie Drew. You know, Mayor Drew but he died years ago.`

`I thought everybody would know everybody else in this delightful English country town.` He gazed at the array of laughing faces. `Did I say something funny?`

A chap in a well worn-in cap explained: `You`m not in England, you`m t`other side of Tamar. Cornish not English.`

`I see,` said Jim but he didn`t really.

`Home rule for Cornwall!` He was getting nowhere so he gave up his quest till next day when he planned to look up farms in the district. One of the clues was that his target figure kept animals. Farms and animals went together, perhaps he`d have better luck there. But in the morning, characteristic of moor-land districts, weather prevented him from travelling far. Dartmoor fog was famously thick and treacherous so Jim stayed in town. Being a stranger in the town he sought out the vicar first, that way he might be sure of confidentiality. `Good morning,` Jim said, `I`m a newcomer here. Could you spare me a little of your time, please?`

`Of course. I`m on my way to the church, would you like to come with me?`

`Yes, I think I will. I`ll let you into a secret, Reverend. I am researching for a television programme, the one where a lifetime is flashed before an unwary personage.`

`I know it. I like it. The first few minutes are really exciting, waiting to discover who the victim is to be!`

`I`m looking for a guest on the show but it is essential that we work surreptitiously so as not to spoil the surprise for the subject.`

They reached the place of worship and entered the vaulted interior. `Who is the victim?` The slightest sound reverberated alarmingly. Jim put a forefinger up to his lips and whispered, `can`t say.` They sat side by side on a highly polished pew whispering like conspirators. `This person might have been ill or injured recently.`

`Quite a number of my parishioners are ill but only one has been in an accident recently.

Go for the positive, thought Jim. `Does he live here? In town?`

`Yes, he does. He is about your age, shouldn`t go up ladders.`

`Where does he live?`

`I could have taken you there to introduce you but I have to visit a poor soul who has only a short time to live. She dying of cancer.`

Jim`s vision swam. Submerged memories of Rosemary surfaced and he desperately tried to control himself. Tears welled up and wet his cheeks yet he hadn`t shed a tear since she had died in his arms. His pent-up emotions spilled over. She had been so brave, so determined to live. He had stayed by her hospice bed for the doctors told him she was about to die. Now, he looked around the church but the clerical gentleman had gone and he was alone with his sorrow. Rosemary had a faith in God and some of it had rubbed off on Jim so he sent up a spontaneous prayer for the soul of his much loved wife. He followed it with an appeal for the sufferer the vicar was visiting.

Having to deal with so many harsh cases in the past had called for a thick skin but Jim really had a soft centre. He had supported cancer-care charity workers after Rosemary, when his anguish had abated. He lent them a hand whenever he could and had now become a foremost, voluntary fundraiser and campaigner.

Outside the morning sun had started to burn off the fog but, though it was still quite early, he could face no more that day. The visit to the man who fell off a ladder would have to wait. Was Jim Lamb, the super sleuth, a no-hope-winner? His confidence was waning. Before dinner that evening, the bar was empty but the same barman served him with a large whisky. `How are you getting on with your search?`

`Not very well. But thanks for asking.`

`My brother, he lives in Canada.`

`What part?`

`Vancouver Island.` Jim spluttered into his whisky glass. The barman was saying: `Up in the wild north of the island a bear came after him! So he sprinted through the trees till he got to the shore. Hundreds of huge bits of driftwood was lying about all over. He tripped over one. Broke his leg.`

`And where was the bear?`

`I dunno but it turned out a float-plane was sitting in the water within spitting distance. The pilot took him to hospital. My brother, he owes his life to the pilot of that float-plane.`

The barman went to serve someone else leaving Jim staring into space. What made him choke on his drink was that his very own son`s home was in Vancouver Island and now another coincidence, he was a float-plane pilot. The barman`s story occurred in the north and Jim had heard about bears roaming the woods. However, Gordon`s home was right down in the south. Jim had never seen his grandchildren, Mary aged two and Jamie aged two months. In actual fact, Gordon and his lovely wife often tried to get him to go and see them in Victoria with its busy harbour and stately buildings but Jim had declined because he didn`t fancy making the journey alone.

All through dinner that evening, for some unknown reason, Diana was in Jim`s thoughts. He doted on his daughter, so much like her mother to look at. She was his little girl and the light of his life these days. Later, he was sitting in the lounge having coffee when someone came to tell him there was a phone call for him. It was Diana, of all people.

`Daddy, I wish you had a mobile, I`ve only just managed to find you. You are needed here. Sir Robert has been held up; his plane is hopelessly delayed and they want you to take his place. Please come, for my sake. I promised them that you would. Drop everything and come.`

She hung up before he could protest. Because of his headlong mission, he had clean forgotten the date. He asked himself how could he take the place of the top man? Well, if the kingpin couldn`t make it then somebody else must do it. However, Diana had asked him and he couldn`t refuse her. Everything seemed to be at a standstill here; the trail had gone cold.

At six o`clock in the morning he rose from his bed, bleary-eyed, longing for more sleep but he had to be on the road early to get home in time for the evening event. He dressed and went downstairs but nobody was about. Foregoing breakfast, he left. It was not until he was driving fast along the motorway that he realised he had left the hotel without paying his bill. Reaching his house, he bathed and changed and grabbed something to eat. Diana was not there when he arrived at the hotel where the ceremony was to take place. It was not like her to be absent, especially after her entreaty. Jim played his part in handing over the huge cheque printed on a large piece of cardboard and made a little speech. He smiled for the camera and stepped back nearly knocking over a fellow carrying a large book. He recognised the book and saw that fellow was looking at him! And there was Diana, with her lovely young face wreathed in smiles. `It`s you, Dad.` He was the subject? Jim wavered. `I can refuse you know,` he said, smiling.

`But you won`t. Not after the trouble we all went to in order to get you out of the way for a few hours.`

`All that about the end job was just a lot of red herrings! And I fell for it!`

`It`s a fair cop. Dad!`

The stage was set in the television studio. Jim waited in the wings for the signal and then he walked into the limelight. When he reached the hot seat and settled into it there was the familiar piece of music. Diana was announced and came forward with her arms outstretched. He jumped up and greeted her and she took her place, the place where Rosemary should have been. Jim thanked God he had let go of his emotions in that Cornish church. Friends and acquaintances came from the past and the present to commend him. He stood up numerous times to greet all the different people; even Sir Robert arrived and Jim wagged a finger at him and laughed. Eventually a large television screen showed the Canadian city of Victoria. He saw the float-planes flying across the harbour and somebody was greeting him. But it wasn`t Gordon. `Mr. Lamb, you don`t know me but I`m the mother of the man your son saved. He owes his life to your son and I cannot thank Gordon enough.`

Her image faded and the music played and who should enter but the barman from Lanson. `Sorry, Jim,` he smiled, `I was a decoy. But the story is true. Gordon rescued me that day, not my brother.` A wave of gullibility surged over Jim; he saw that he had been set up; the whole Cornish scene had been a con. But before it could take him over he heard: `Flown in from Vancouver Island, your son Gordon and his wife Jill and your grandson and grand-daughter.`

James Lamb beamed at them through wet eyes but he quickly blinked the tears away. The little family advanced and he hugged them all in turn; then he turned to face the camera and said, `That was my life!`

Rosemary reined in her horse and looked down the steep slope.

There it was at last - Lower Brackam railway station. It had taken her three attempts to find it. She had heard about it but no one in the village really seemed to want to explain how to get there, and it was so well hidden in that overgrown valley.

She squinted through the misty drizzle at the deserted buildings. Moss had turned the old red brick to a spectral green, which seemed to shimmer in the damp air. Silence seeped through the broken windows. It certainly wasn't very inviting.

She hesitated, wondering whether it was worth going any closer. The way down looked a bit precarious and yet - wasn't that someone there on the platform? Surely not! It was only 6 am. Rosemary strained her eyes. She couldn't see very well that far away. It looked like a woman waiting for a train, but that was ludicrous in a station that had been closed for years.

She decided to battle her way down through the bare, snatching branches of the wintry trees and foliage. It would be nice to meet one of the locals. Apart from shopkeepers, she and Jim hadn't really spoken to many people yet. It was time they involved themselves more in local affairs.

She guided Murphy down the brambly path urging him, every so often, to pick up his feet so that they didn't get tangled in the undergrowth.

'Good morning,' she called out cheerfully to the woman standing on the edge of the platform, at the same time thinking that Jim was right - she ought to get her eyesight checked again. She couldn't define the woman's features clearly, even at this close range. She heaved herself off Murphy's back and left him free to graze - he wouldn't run away - then approached the stranger.

'I hope you're not waiting for a train,' she said jovially, feeling that the woman looked as if she could do with someone to cheer her up. She had a pensive, sad air about her and she regarded Rosemary with a far away look in her eyes.

'I am,' she stated calmly.

Rosemary's jocularity subsided. There was something about this woman which commanded gravity. She thought she'd better handle it gently.

'Uum... I believe the station's been closed for many years, my dear. I don't think any trains will be coming through.'

The woman regarded her slowly, then turned her head to stare down the track. Rosemary involuntarily followed her gaze, then felt prickles of apprehension as she heard the distinct sound of an approaching train.

It couldn't be. Yet, there it was. Not really a train - more the shimmer of a train. It stopped right in front of them - there but not there!

Her skin tingled uneasily.

'You're a ghost, aren't you?' she whispered at last, hiding her mouth with her gloved hand as soon as the words had left it. Awe, fear and a strong sense of curiosity mingled strangely in a tight feeling in her chest. She stared at the woman who had glided towards the open door of the train, and forced herself to speak, 'What are you doing here?'

'I am waiting for someone,' replied the ghost and she looked sadly at Rosemary as the train pulled silently away.

Rosemary shivered and gaped at the rusty track in front of her. They had disappeared, ghost and train. She shook her head. It couldn't really have happened. Surely, if there'd been a ghost, Murphy would have shied and shown the usual signs of fear that horses do when something unfamiliar is around? But he was grazing contentedly, oblivious of any presences supernatural or otherwise.

She led him to a low wall and remounted, rather shakily. As he began to amble contentedly towards home, she examined her fear. For some reason she felt much calmer than she would have imagined herself feeling in that sort of a situation. The woman had exuded such an air of serenity that, after her initial shock had worn off, Rosemary began to feel quite serene herself.

She wouldn't tell Jim. He would say that it was all in her imagination and just went to show what could happen when a woman of her age went out riding, alone. He'd tried to forbid her but she needed some excitement in her retirement and anyway, as she had pointed out numerous times, Murphy was such a mild horse, as placid and imperturbable as she was herself. He was completely trustworthy. Hadn't that little incident just proved it?

No, better not to say anything. She would go there again though, to see if the ghost really existed or if it had been some kind of daydream.

Nothing could have kept her away and there was no fear in her heart as she approached the station again the next day.

There she was. Unsubstantial in the misty rain, she seemed to float towards the waiting train. Rosemary was desperate to find out more - who was she waiting for? Why was she there? Was she some local character who had died on that spot?

'Wait,' she beseeched.

'I cannot. The train leaves now.'

'But, what about the person you are waiting for?'

Maybe a lover who had rejected her?

'She will come.' She looked through Rosemary with a whimsical smile playing on her elusive features. Then she was gone.

Rosemary sighed. She? Not a lover then. Maybe it was a child? A sister? Her mother? She would have to ask around the village to get information about this ghost. She just had to know. Surely other people must have seen her too. There must be stories about her. Ah yes, her char-lady would know. Pity she wasn't due for another week but she would ask her, if she could get a moment alone with her!

For the next few days the weather was too bad for riding and Rosemary had to content herself with staying at home and catching up on her correspondence. She tidied out cupboards and generally spent the time putting her house in order - but she couldn't stop thinking about the ghost.

So, when the fourth day dawned cold but sunny, she set off eagerly at for the railway station. Murphy was glad to be out too, after three days of mooching in his stall. He pricked his ears up high and swished his tail showing an unusual friskiness.

They reached the hill, overlooking the station, just in time to hear the sound of the phantom train screeching down the track.

'Quick Murphy,' urged Rosemary, digging her heels into his flanks, 'I don't want to miss her this time. I must speak to her.' She squinted unsuccessfully against the early morning sun, trying to discern if the transparent lady was on the platform.

Murphy trotted down the hill. Suddenly, stones loosened by the recent rain, shifted under his feet and his front hoof caught in a muddle of brambles. The old horse crashed to his knees catapulting Rosemary over his head. She felt a sickening crack in her neck as she hit the ground.

But she was on her feet again, almost in an instant.

'Thank goodness for that,' she thought, examining herself from head to toe. 'I seem to be perfectly alright.'

She turned suddenly at a noise. The strange woman had approached and was standing beside her. Rosemary felt strangely calm after her shock. She turned to the woman while thinking that the fall must have done her good - her eyesight was better and the woman didn't seem nearly so vague. In fact she was quite solid, and she was smiling a warm, welcoming smile very different to the elusive one of the previous meetings.

The woman held out her hand towards Rosemary and said; 'Come.'

Rosemary looked towards the train. It, too, looked more solid and this time she could see the driver. He seemed sort of familiar. He was smiling and waving at her.

Suddenly her heart filled with an overwhelming sense of elation. She turned back to watch Murphy who was already trotting for home, none the worse for his fall, his tail high and his nostrils flaring in appreciation of his unexpected freedom.

Rosemary smiled warmly. She knew that he would be all right; that he would find his way home to his warm stall and his breakfast of oats and bran mash; and that he would alert Jim. She turned to the woman.

Happiness filled her being at the love that emanated from her beauty.

'Now I understand,' she said, as her joy lifted them both weightlessly onto the waiting train. 'You were waiting for me!'

Angelica Umbertini closed the front door of her flat and hobbled to the garage. Dragging open the heavy wooden door she limped inside to deposit her small Jack Russell dog into the wire basket situated in front of the handlebars of her motorised disability scooter.

"There Patch, time for your walk again," she said, stroking his soft fur.

Patch perched in the basket - his brown ears pricked up, tail wagging, paws hung over the front of the basket. He licked Angelica's face in eager anticipation of what was to come.

Angelica left her flat at 6.00 a.m. every day in order to take Patch for his morning walk. She did not sleep too well these days as her diseased hip hurt when she lay on it, and anyway she reckoned that at eighty two she did not need too much sleep. She had plenty of opportunity to doze while sitting in the armchair during the day. Angelica was a small, genteel lady, neatly dressed in a navy blue pleated skirt and smart navy and white woollen jacket. She never could get on with those new fangled anoraks; all quilted and puffy they made her look like a Michelin man. She may be well past her sell by date but she still had standards.

She loved the early morning - it was so fresh and bright. The pale green leaves of trees and flowers looking newly washed for the coming day. Birds sang their hearts out as she passed, especially in early summer when the skies were invariably clear at such an early hour. Angelica breathed in deeply to enjoy the cool, sweet smelling air. Naturally, in winter her timetable altered somewhat, but as soon as the days grew longer she was up and out on the sleek, black scooter that had become her lifeline. Without it she would be all but housebound, and certainly unable to take Patch for his morning and evening walks.

Patch had been her only companion over the past six years, and a faithful one he was too. He waited eagerly for his walks in the park, but when Angelica's arthritis deteriorated badly she feared she might never be able to walk him again. Then she discovered mobility scooters, and after purchasing one had quickly taught herself to manoeuvre it. Owning the scooter allowed her to go shopping again, as well as visit the library and doctor, but best of all she could still take Patch out. He enjoyed perching in the wire basket to ride to the leafy park in the middle of the small country town of Woodbridge. Once inside the park gates Angelica put him down and he was free to run the length and breadth of the broad sweeps of grass, sniffing out the trails of unseen animals and rummaging amongst bushes while Angelica trundled round the paths on her scooter. When Patch was tired he was placed back into the basket and taken home. The arrangement worked perfectly.

Angelica's disability had forced her to give up many of the things she enjoyed in life. Gardening had been a passion; growing each season's flowers from seed, nurturing then planting them out, watering and tending them through the summer months. Now her small garden was transformed for 'easy maintenance'. There were swathes of gravel and stone, a few shrubs surrounded by bark chippings, and a host of terracotta pots. A gardener came once a month to keep things in order, but she still missed getting her hands dirty among the flower beds. Lunch meetings with old friends had ceased as had the few evening meetings she used to attend. But now that she had her scooter she could at least enjoy the company of her friends once more. The scooter was easy to operate as well as easy to maintain. All she had to do was recharge the batteries after her day's outings, a simple job that Angelica now did without thinking. In fact, she could not remember recharging the batteries last night, but she must have - she always did.

Angelica set off down the road, peering into various neighbours' gardens along the way, eager to see which flowers had come into bloom, delighting in the freshly planted flowers in their tubs and borders. Woodbridge was truly beautiful in summer, she thought. She rounded the last corner and began climbing the slight incline towards the park. Patch was getting excited now, knowing that his much loved playground was nearby. His tail wagged and he began making low yipping noises in anticipation. Then the black scooter slowed and shuddered, refusing to climb the incline any further. Angelica took her hands off the controls and the machine came to an instant halt. She peered at the controls suspiciously. This had never happened before. Once again she pressed the lever to start the scooter - nothing happened. Angelica felt a tremor of anxiety pass through her. She had charged the battery last night hadn't she? She tried to remember carrying out the operation as she did every evening, but it was impossible. Memories of her evenings were jumbled one into the other - supper, television, scooter and bed, each night identical to the one before.

Patch started whimpering, no doubt wondering why Angelica had not completed the journey and put him down in the park to chase pigeons and sniff his familiar bushes. Angelica climbed off the scooter, patting Patch on the head while peering at the controls and cables - though having no idea what she might be expecting to find. Everything looked in order. She knew there was a dial that showed the state of the batteries but she had never quite understood which direction the needle should be to indicate 'fully charged'. Angelica's lip quivered, and tears filled her tired blue eyes as she wondered what on earth she was going to do. The scooter was heavy. Pushing it home would be beyond her physical abilities. The street was silent and empty, the park still one hundred yards away. She sat on the scooter seat and sobbed. She sobbed with frustration at being trapped in her pain ridden body when her mind still felt so young. She sobbed at having to use a scooter in order to go out, never again having the luxury of using her own two legs to carry her. And she sobbed because never again would she be able to dance or have the opportunity to kiss the soft lips of a man who loved her.

As she sobbed she became aware of someone standing beside her and of a hand resting on her shoulder. She looked up to see a young man; tall - maybe six feet two - wearing black jeans and a black sleeveless T Shirt bearing some strange emblem. His brown, muscular forearms were covered with tattoos. He had dark hair cut short to his head and three gold earrings in his left ear. He was the sort of young man that Angelica would normally be nervous of.

"Hello. Are you in trouble? Can I help in some way?"

Angelica looked at his face, his eyes were soft and brown - sensitive eyes, she thought - and within seconds she was pouring out her troubles to this total stranger. She sobbed anew into her handkerchief as she explained that she thought the scooter battery might be flat and she simply did not know what to do. The young man's eyes turned to the indicator and he nodded.

"You're right, it is flat. So, firstly we will push your scooter into the front garden. Then we will put your dog into the back garden, and then we will have a nice cup of tea," he said while helping her from the seat of the scooter.

Angelica watched as he guided the scooter to the front door of a reasonably large and well kept Edwardian house. Surely he is not old enough to own a house like this she thought as she trotted docilely behind him up the path. He lifted Patch from the wire basket and carried him through the front door. Patch wagged his tail and licked the stranger's face. He was even happier when set free in the spacious back garden.

"Right, now I'll put the kettle on." He pulled out a chair for Angelica and invited her to sit down. "My name is Kevin, Kevin Donnelly, and this is my parents' house. My father is working in Dubai on a two year contract - something to do with oil. I am house sitting for them. I cut the grass, take care of the place, that sort of thing. I'm looking for a job in design - without much success so far - so I paint pictures. You might have seen me in town trying to sell them. Painting is an obsession. I get up really early and paint in the front bedroom which I have turned into a studio. That's how I noticed you."

Angelica could remember seeing a young man in town - often sitting on the pavement - always surrounded by paintings for sale. She had considered him to be a down-and-out, and scuttled past in a hurry. She sighed; she should not make snap judgements.

"What is your name?" Kevin asked as he poured boiling water into a teapot and prepared too rather large mugs with milk.

"Angelica Umbertini. I live further along the road on the estate for disabled people."

"Angelica Umbertini. Wow, that's a mouthful. Sounds foreign too."

"It is, my father was Italian. I never married to change the Umbertini," Angelica added as she raised the large china mug to her lips. She liked this young man with his easy going, open attitude. "I was going to marry a young man long ago, but he was killed in the war. If he had lived I would have been Angelica Potts. He was a wonderful person and I loved him very much. There was never anyone to replace him. He used to call me Angel." Her eyes misted with tears at the memory and then she carried on. "Oh, I had men friends after he died, even lived with a man for a couple of years, but they were never like my Tom."

Disbelief crossed Kevin's face. "Oh yes, us old codgers did some naughty things too. I didn't always look like this you know," she remarked coquettishly. "Anyway Angelica Umbertini sounds an awful lot better than Angelica Potts."

Kevin laughed and patted her hand, pronouncing her to be 'alright.'

When they had drunk their tea and the cups were washed Kevin called Patch and bundled him into his 2CV beside Angelica, then drove them both home. He collected the charger for Angelica's scooter and told her that he would drive it back to her later when the batteries were fully charged.

Filled with relief Angelica wandered into her garden where she greeted her elderly neighbour over the fence. He had seen Angelica and Patch arrive with the young man in the jaunty car and was curious. He knew that Angelica had no grandsons or nephews of her own. She explained what had occurred and about Kevin kindly assisting her.

"Phew, you're brave trusting a type like him," Alf scoffed. "Probably down the second hand shop flogging your scooter right now. You won't see him again."

Angelica turned on her heel and stalked indoors as haughtily as her legs and hip would allow.

Esme arrived from number three, ostensibly for coffee but more likely to be nosey. After hearing Angelica's story she shook her head. "I think you have been a bit hasty dear, I've seen that young man in the town square, and he looks a bit of a drop out to me. I do hope everything will be alright." Which probably meant she would be delighted if it wasn't.

Other neighbours threw in their penny worth during the day until Angelica was beginning to feel concerned. When Kevin had not turned up by seven in the evening she had convinced herself that they were right. She went to bed dejected and disillusioned. Patch was not too happy either as he missed his evening walk. He lay in his basket, head on his paws. If a dog can look depressed Patch did.

Patch was even more dejected when his 6 a.m. walk was not forthcoming. Later, Angelica sat at her table munching a slice of toast and marmalade and feeling like a fool. She sighed as she thought of young Kevin. What a delightful young man he had seemed, caring and solicitous. Oh well.

As she cleared away the breakfast things the doorbell rang. There stood Kevin, face alight with smiles, the scooter beside him and at the back a young girl with pink hair.

"Angel, this scooter is the best thing since sliced bread. I can't wait to get one myself. By the way this is my girlfriend Tab - Tabitha really - she went to art school with me." That explained the pink hair! "Well, it's all charged up and ready to go. Sorry I didn't get it back last night but something came up," he said smiling and throwing a mischievous glance at Tab. She smiled back.

Angelica smiled too, she could remember the time when being with each other was more important than anything else.

"Kevin, I can't thank you enough. I owe you so much - I just hope that I can be of help to you some day."

"Angel, would you mind if I came to see you, maybe bring Tab sometimes. I would really like to get to know you and have a stab at painting your portrait. You've got a really interesting face."

"I would be delighted," Angelica said, and before she knew what was happening Kevin leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips.

"Great, see you at the weekend."

"I'll cook dinner if you like." Angelica tentatively offered, not wanting to be a nuisance.

"Wow, roast pork is my favourite, with plenty of apple sauce. See you then Angel."

With that he was gone, Tab with him. Patch looked at her then at the scooter.

"Alright. It isn't our usual time but I suppose we can make an exception." Angelica glowed all over. The super young man had kissed her, and called her Angel. It wasn't quite what she had been yearning for but his freshness and enthusiasm for life made her feel younger. She felt sure this new friend would be around for a while, so she whizzed off up the road contemplating the merits of roast pork over roast beef.

Comments

Opening = 10
Character(s) = 9
Dialogue = 9
Setting = 9
Plot = 8
Suspense = 9
Ending = 10
Enjoyment = 10

Judith, I would go so far as to say that I think this a very publishable story. I think you should send it to "Peoples`Friend" for instance or some magazine like it. Best wishes.

Dorothy Spry

Opening = 6
Character(s) = 8
Dialogue = 8
Setting = 7
Plot = 6
Suspense = 5
Ending = 9
Enjoyment = 7

Jo Austin

Opening = 6
Character(s) = 7
Dialogue = 5
Setting = 6
Plot = 6
Suspense = 4
Ending = 6
Enjoyment = 5

Some very good characterisation here and a well wrought plot.

Philip Neptune

Drink First