Stabbing, fierce pain woke me up. I knew I was awake as I could feel the hollowness of my stomach and hear the yowling of my intestines. I struggled to open my eyes though despite the perniciously bright sunlight which was desperately trying to force me to see through. At that instant I did not really know where I was, which day of the week, month or year I was supposed to be in. I could not remember if I was meant to be sleeping, was I on my own or if I had anything to do. All I could remember was the crispy sugary crust of that waffle I had had. Yes, that waffle... My last meal before I was wherever I was. It must have been quite a while since then as my appetite was screaming like a starving hyena in a desert. My imagination was rotating around a pile of those waffles poured over with maple syrup, sweet-scented cinnamon, chopped bananas, whipped cream, hazelnuts, hot chocolate... This reminded me of how incapable I was of consuming any of those scrumptious delights. I am sure many of us are susceptible to certain allergens and it is a common issue and tedious task cafes and restaurants must deal with to satisfy the whims of annoying customers. That’s why some brands have special sandwiches for people intolerant to either gluten, or dairy, or nuts, or sesame, or sugar, or eggs, or seafood etc. It is very much rarer for someone to be intolerant to all of those listed. Yes, you guessed, I am talking about myself. One of the reasons why I avoided to go to parties in high school, have lunch with my friends or dare to go out on a date was my frustrating intolerance towards pretty much every food I would try in those gatherings. Food tends to unite people, reinforce relationships, save the starved or just to make your day slightly more exciting sometimes if the new flavour of your favourite cereal has come out. But for me, food created mostly pain, especially when it involved others. How I had to triple check the labels of the snack bar every time before my lunchbreak and the disappointment I would endeavour when I discovered that the college café had no dairy free milk, sugar-free syrup or gluten-free bread. The potential exasperation my mum had to go through if I happened to not tolerate her soup despite her efforts to make it impeccably suitable for me. The number of times I had to say no when someone offered me a slice of cake on their birthday. No wonder I almost said no to Asha’s birthday invitation. Almost? The epiphany of my current condition hit me with a firm thrust. It was when the opening of a door followed by its sudden slam distracted my appetite and I could finally see gigantic tubes attached to my veins and nauseating smell of chemicals. A tall, slim, middle-aged man with a prematurely wrinkled face and bald forehead was observing me with concern as if I held the response to his perturbation. “Kamilah,” he uttered while painstakingly checking a list. “Mhm”, I did not even have the energy to speak. He adjusted one of the tubes which was flowing into my bloodstream and sat on the grey chair next to my bed as if he was about to interrogate me on a bunch of trivial issues until he reached to the pinnacle of his dissertation. “You must be pretty exhausted. We almost lost you. Your heartbeat was dangerously slow. You are lucky that we took you to the current state you are in. Your parents and friend Asha are very worried about you...” “But...”, I had to tell him the truth before anyone had jumped into assumptions and thrown a mass of accusations on me and my unsatiable greed and irresponsibility. “However, I thought”, he didn’t allow me to interrupt him, “that you will need more rest before everyone starts bothering you with questions”, it felt for a second as if he was on my side which made my breathing normalise, “It is better if you eat something first. You must be starving”, at the same instant a chubby nurse entered in the room carrying a tray which reeked of beefy soup, and I spotted a dry bread roll peering on the top. Did my parents not inform them about my gluten intolerance? At the end of the day this is the reason why I was here... “Let me speak first”, I almost yelled to terminate the brisk enthusiasm with which the nurse was approaching me, “I ate something I should not have. And I know that my mum is very mad at me and she has just forgotten to let you know about my allergies. They were staring at me with empathy for the first time and I felt as if I was actually going to be understood. I took a deep breath, ignored the incessant present of hamburger in my thoughts and tried to cultivate my energy so I could tell them everything I knew. “Everything began yesterday when I decided to go to Asha’s birthday party. She is the only person I relied on as she always understood my situation around ‘fussiness’ with food and tried to even adjust her diet according to my food tolerance. For the first time I felt the presence of someone who was patient enough with me. Even my mum is tired of cooking food for me sometimes as I would either get a rash, or stomach-ache or even end up in a hospital as it is happening now...”, I needed a long pause before I continued. It may have been even an hour until I managed to put my words together and state the truth. “Asha created her birthday menu according to my allergies so I could enjoy the party in the same way everyone did. Like normal people”, tears started shuddering from my eyes, “There would be vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free waffles. Meat-free burgers. Dairy-free cheese. More fruits and vegetables. Healthy snacks. And plant-based cake. I was looking forward to that day for weeks. It was...finally going to be a normal celebration. More normal than mine. Not thinking about the labels of food and just live in a world where the risk of my life being totally messed-up is to the very minimum. A world where food allergies do not exist because no one creates food which makes someone die,” I smiled and I saw how the man and the nurse reciprocated it as if they had experienced something similar before,” But everything proved to be an illusion once I tried Asha’s waffles. Initially I was simply indulging them in the same way I was indulging my trust towards her. But once I tried the burgers, I felt like something was not right. My hands started quivering and I felt dizzy. I went to the toilet and on the way back I overheard the conversation of Asha’s mum and one of the guests. They were in the kitchen and discussing the menu. Having had already a tone of doubts about the food I had consumed, I started listening with attention. The guest was apparently impressed by the quality of the food and asked about the ingredients of the waffles. I heard Asha’s mum mentioning something like 400 grams of sugar and one kilogram of white flour... I don’t remember what happened afterwards. I must have lost conscience”, I, myself, was shocked about what I had just said despite being aware of it earlier. My best friend had tried to poison me after I had bestowed her with my ultimate trust. The simple fact of my life being under danger did not matter to me to the slightest. It was the betrayal which brought me to the hospital. No one really tried to counter or acknowledge anything I had just stated. The man continued signing some stuff on his list and the nurse retrieved with the stinky tray without forcing me finish my meal. Hours passed and nothing was changing. The nurse never came back with a tray full of food appropriate to my needs. My parents did not visit me, and my stomach never stopped complaining of how empty it felt. I did not have the strength to leave but if I got the chance to the preoccupation of finding a food place which responded to my needs at the very instant was stronger than the exhaustion I was carrying. Maybe a week passed after I finally took the courage of asking what was going on. Was I about to die? Was I in a camp or prison? Why was no one talking to me? And why did no one care that I had been poisoned by my best friend or that I had not eaten for days? “What the hell is going on here?” I burst into tears as the pressure of my voice and the way the nurse looked at me made me even more emotional, “Why are you not paying attention to what I am telling you? I am starving to death, and you would not even bring me a piece of fruit? Where are my parents?”, the nurse seemed frightened. She left the room quickly. In a few minutes the tall slim man walked in and sat on the grey chair next to me. This time it was me who was seeking a response from him. “Good morning, Kamelah”, he smiled, “Lucy told me you didn’t sleep very well last night. What can I do for you? “Tell me what is going on! Who are you and why are you not letting me out? Why are you not letting me eat?”, I uttered with the last gasp I had kept for this moment. I just wanted to liberate myself from...everything. I wanted to listen. “Dear Kamelah”, he finally began, “I am doctor Leora and I am a qualified psychiatrist for eating disorders. You have been in the clinic for eating disorders for the last week and a half due to a heart failure you experienced as a result of putting yourself under a drastic meal plan. As far as I understood from your parents, the party of your friend Asha was a month ago and they told me that you had literally stopped eating after then. When it comes to your accusations towards Asha and her plans to ‘poison’ you, there hasn’t been any evidence in the records of you displaying any forms of severe allergies apart from your minor intolerance towards full fat milk which makes you gassy sometimes. You did not come to the hospital because you have experienced a seizure from an allergic reaction. You came to the hospital because your heartbeat almost stopped after you putting your body under so much strain. You have been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and will need to remain supervised under intensive care until we decide where to transfer you for your recovery period.”


I walked outside into the bitter cold, slowly stripping off all of my clothes. I didn't look back or even care about the things going on behind me, I just looked ahead at the freezing water. My bare skin was being bitten by the cold, when I slowly pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Flicking it away after a few puffs, I took a deep breath and jumped into the pool, hoping to be free from the pain inside my chest. In the house behind me they talked and danced, oblivious to my suicide attempt. A girl, much younger and wiser then me, sat regretting the things she did with my heart and wishing that she had never gone so far. Meanwhile her friend had snuck into the upstairs bedroom with her boyfriend, hoping to share an intimacy that I would never have again. All the while I'm dying, and there is no one there to save me. Deep down I want to be saved or at least have someone tell me it's going to be alright. The cold and darkness consumed me. I felt the warm embers of the fire that kept me going slowly die out. The silence was oddly beautiful. In that moment all my worries and cares seemed so far away. Looking at them, I saw that they were almost laughable. It had been my fault after all. I should have known better than to believe the lies she constructed. Should have known that her love for me was none existent. Should have known I was just her new thrill. A toy so lightly cast aside. But love will do that to you. Love will blind you and you'll be happy about it. Happy and vulnerable. So when the knife that blinded you suddenly plunges into your heart, and you stare out into the heavens and cry out "Why?" you have no one to blame but yourself. I allowed this to happen. Maybe because I had the delusion I could be happy. Maybe because I was tired of being alone. The reason doesn't matter, because I let it happen. My body had gone numb and the cold no longer caused me great pain. The only pain I could feel was deep within my tormented soul. Memories. They came in as flashes. Flirtation. A gentle touch. A kiss. A bedroom. An endlessly continuing cycle. That was until I tried to break it. A confession of love. Rejection. Pain. This place. Me stripping. Me jumping. Me dying. That's when I heard the people above. Someone was screaming, others were yelling. I then felt arms pulling me up. I suddenly felt very sad. I knew that I'd have to go back to this cruel world. But as I lay on the cold concrete, hearing a couple talk about how they saw me from the upstairs window and the sound of approaching sirens, I saw her. There was no love in those eyes. Only regret. She regretted me. Good. I sure as Hell did. As the ambulance drove me to the hospital, this thought swam around my brain. Why her? What made her so special? The answer came flooding in. She made me feel special. Not anymore. I felt myself tearing up, and closed my eyes. I just hoped that the next year would be better than this one.


LET GO It was nearly midnight when the train pulled into Kings Cross. Ellen checked her hair in the window’s reflection. She was sure the length and colour was exactly right, but only time would tell. Outside the terminal the pavement was wet although the rain had stopped. However, the seven minute walk to Oli’s bar was enough time for her plan to fail if moisture got to her hair. She retrieved her brolly and protected the hard-earned effect as if her life depended on it. Her life did depend on it. She was nobody without Oli’s attention, and ultimately his love was what she so desperately desired. ‘You okay?’ Ellen spun round, ready to tell whoever was poking their nose into her evening where to get off. The old woman held up both her hands, ‘I’m not interfering dear, just I don’t like to see young’uns in tears.’ Her resolve flittered away as if it had never been in place. The sigh was so loud, the old woman grinned and beckoned Ellen to follow. Sitting on a bench by the taxi rank, they shared a cigarette and Ellen her woes. For a full half hour, Ellen found she could talk to a stranger - a homeless one at that - more easily than anyone. ‘Sending him letters worked for a while; he even replied to the first two.’ Ellen pulled hard before handing what was left of their second cigarette back to Mo. ‘He’s a busy man, of course, what with managing a chain of nightclubs. But I was sure he’d want to catch up soon and tonight I’d wanted to make sure he’d be unable to resist the opportunity which was coming his way.’ ‘What’s stoppin’ ya still tryin’?’ ‘Nothting, s’pose.’ ‘Well, then.’ Mo stood up and reached for her carrier bags. ‘You’ll soon know.’ Ellen stood up too, ‘Know what?’ ‘When you get there. Whether it’s right to fight for him or not. You’ll know!’ Ellen stepped back into a shop doorway as a black cab swooshed water from the gutter over the curb. Her boots remained unharmed. They were identical to those worn by her so were sure to turn his head. Ellen had been secretly thrilled to notice Josy’s absence in recent months and so the plan to mend Oli’s broken heart had formed. Yet, Ellen had not rushed things. She didn’t want to be labelled a rebound, so had held back for a few weeks. The neon sign for Oli’s Late Night Cocktails swung in the breeze. Ellen breathed in the aroma of wet tarmac mixed with spilt diesel. The pavement glistened with bright colours and she cleared her throat in readiness to take the first step towards what would become an equally colourful relationship now laying within her grasp. “Alright, El? Like the hair!” ‘Thanks!” Head doorman, Mike, held the twisted red rope to one side so she could enter at the head of the queue. Ellen made her way across the packed dancefloor and up the curved staircase towards the VIP booths on the first floor. The smell of too much perfume and aftershave hung in the atmosphere made opaque with dry ice. At the backlit bar, Ellen asked for her usual and positioned herself on a stool, her bare legs crossed and the heel of her boot hooked over the supporting bar. She checked her watch, a gift from Oli four years ago. Apparently he gave all his dancers a watch, but Ellen had convinced herself that hers represented something deeper an she’d treasured it and always wore it to work. On the ground floor, on a raised circular platform, the DJ was mixing, one hand holding earphones tight against his ear while he choreographed the next track. The vodka Martini slid down Ellen’s throat, clinging in firey undertones all the way to her stomach. She wanted another cigarette, but Oli hated smoking. She chewed the olive on the cocktail stick and imagined poking the end into Josy’s perfect. Oli had always been Ellen’s. She just needed a chance to remind him. The music changed tempo and more dry ice hissed against the dancers below who squealed in delight. They raised their arms giving the impression of a large mammal with bristles writhing in the depths. She nearly didn’t feel the tap on her shoulder, so hard was she squeezing the tiny wooden javelin. It snapped as she turned to see Oli standing behind her. He leaned forward so she could hear him above the noise, and nodded in agreement when he invited her into his office. She took her glass with her. This was it. Behind the closed sound-proof door, the noise was dimmed to a regular thumping. Ellen stayed near the door, knowing her full attire would be more visible than if she sat in the leather chair in front of his desk. Oli sat down and looked up at her, “Come, sit.” Reluctantly, Ellen moved into the middle of the dimly-lit room. Oli didn’t look particularly happy to see her. He hadn’t even mentioned her hair. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking.” Ellen had no idea what was on his mind, but gently pulled down her top knowing more of her cleavage would show, “Okay...” Oli leant back in his chair. Ellen stared, fiddled with her watch. “I’m not sure how to say this.” “Okay...” Ellen repeated, feeling suddenly nervous. “I’m having to let some staff go.” Ellen’s stomach fell away. She felt powerless to reply with anything sensible. For six years, Oli’s clubs, and specifically this one, had been her life. “Not me, surely?” “I’m really sorry, Ellen. With recent difficult years and all the closures, I’ve got no choice. It’s not just you. I’m losing four or five from each club. It’s the only way I can stay afloat.” “But, I thought things were improving, with the DJs you’ve got booked, people will flock back all summer long.” She knew she sounded like a petulant child. He shook his head, “Like I said, I’m very sorry. You’ll get a payment; in your case a couple of grand.” Ellen fought the urge to hurl the rest of her drink at him before the truth of the matter dawned on her. He must be so heart-broken at being left by Josy, he can’t see the wood for the trees. What he needed was empathy and understanding. This is what the old woman had meant. She felt sure she knew what he really wanted. ‘It’s okay.” She stood and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge close to where he was seated. “You have to do what’s right for you , I totally get that and respect you for it. You’re not a brilliant businessman for nothing, are you?” He laughed at her attempt to lighten the mood. She saw his whitened teeth and the crinkles near his thirty-four year old eyes. Beautiful eyes which would soon be seeking her out, naked and in his bed. Oli wheeled his chair backwards and got up. He moved to a small drinks cabinet and poured himself a shot. Ellen waited for the invite to join him and when it didn’t come, she moved closer and laid a hand on the linen covering his shoulder, “I’m sorry you’re going through such a tough time.” He gulped down the shot, poured another and downed that. “I hope you know I’ll always be here for you, whatever troubles you’re struggling with.” “Of course I do,” Oli smiled and closed the cabinet door. “You should get back out there. Thanks for being so understanding.” “You’re welcome. You know me, Oli. Your bestie.” The slightly strained look on his face confirmed what she thought, that he was indeed struggling with the loss of Josy, of having to cut down on staff to save his business. She moved to the door and paused. “Let’s talk about it some more later.” Later never came. Her dances were appreciated by those below her podium, her moves captured on screen. But when she was helped down at the end of her shift, and walked upstairs to knock on Oli’s office door, she found it locked. “He’s gone, love.” Another doorman whose name she could never recall was splitting his time between manning the office door and perusing activity on the first floor. “Oh,” she said simply and turned. Outside, she made her way around the building to check whether his navy Porsche was in the space for one he’d purchased for the same price as her parents had paid for their three bed semi, twenty years ago. Through the metal fencing, she could see the space was empty. He really had gone. Ellen’s blood began to bubble and she ground her teeth, trying and failing to stop resentment surfacing. Couples spilled from the front door of the club. It was two-thirty and police vans were performing slow drive-bys in the hope their presence might deter any alcohol-fuelled fighting. She walked away from the club and passed a shop window displaying a spiders web of cracks where someone had hurled something heavy. She knew where Oli lived and while it was a twenty minute tube journey, the walk would calm her anger. He needed to apologise for leaving without finishing their conversation and Ellen needed to tell him things. Needed him to understand that she would be there to help him, in any way she could. That she would be more loyal than Josy who’d been around not even a year before vanishing into thin air, it had seemed. Perhaps he’d not even read her last few letters. Perhaps the stupid Post Office had failed to deliver them. Yes, that would be it. What with staff shortages due to lockdowns, her letters would have fallen between the cracks and Oli was simply ignorant of what lay ahead for them. She walked faster, desperate now to tell him how she felt. How she saw their future. Rain drops landed on her bare arms. Instinctively, Ellen felt in the her bag for her brolly but it wasn’t there. What the hell? Ahead, she spotted a bus stop and rushed over to check the Night Bus timetable. Sure enough there was one due shortly which would take her across the Thames. She leant back against the glass panel, covering an advert for Specsavers and took a deep breath. At least this way, she could arrive with decorum, knock at his door, probably find him in tears with regret that he’d walked away without speaking to her. She would take him in her arms and stroke his hair and whisper how she could save him and nothing would ever need to worry him again. The bus pulled up next to the path and the doors opened. She slapped the reader with her credit card and walked to the back seat. The rain lashed against the side of the bus. Drips found their way through an open window. She felt them land on her forehead and swore when the window was too stiff for her to close. Instead she moved along the backseat of the bus and immediately felt something wet where she had placed her fingers. Horrified, she realised someone had been sick on the seat and not cleared it up. She sat up and flicked the gross bits from her hand, wiping it against the next seat along. In her bag were no wipes, just an old serviette from a visit to a coffee shop. Her nostrils were now full of some stranger’s over-indulgence and she made her way to the door and pinged to let the driver know she wanted to get off. Walking the final mile, her feet ached and she paused to unzip the boots with the heels which had cost her a fortune and which Oli hadn’t even spotted. She’d never known him so unlike himself. Finally, she reached the road he’d moved to a while back once he’d earned enough to leave the east end. Buddleja shrubs tickled the neat painted walls of Victorian houses with wooden shutters rather than the dated curtains Ellen’s flat wore. She sniffed hard, defiance against the world which might tell her she was in the wrong place. She knew he lived at number 82. Knew because she’d followed him home from the club once, paying the black cab driver handsomely to follow the navy Porsche, then hiding in the shadows until all the lights went off in his house and she returned home. Her feet were dirty, wet and almost numb from walking across uneven concrete for half an hour. Her hair lay lank against her shoulders. Her thighs were mottled with cold. 78. 80. Then there it was. Pretty and plump pink hydrangeas grew beneath the bay window. Warm light flickered behind the slats of yet more shutters, painted in chalky grey. The street lamp illuminated her way along the terracotta tiles laid in a diamond pattern up to the doorstep. In the porch, Ellen took a sudden breath in and held it. A folded buggie was leaning against the wall. Oli must have a friend visiting, or maybe his sister. She’d had a baby, hadn’t she? She checked her watch but saw a naked wrist. Had she taken it off when she’d been for a wee after dancing? She leaned back against the brickwork of the porch. A baby’s cry was lulled by a man’s voice. Oli. He was soothing a baby. She heard his voice resonate through the stained glass of the front door and strained to hear what words he might be using. Then a woman’s voice. Laughing. She came down the stairs and went into the front room to join him. Ellen gripped her top to prevent her heart jumping from her chest. She held her breath but the three people inside the house were making small noises and the front door, or what might be outside it, couldn’t have been further from their thoughts. Ellen let silent tears stream down her cheeks. She made no noise as she turned to step back on the tiled pathway and her bare feet left no footprints on the rain-soaked ground. As she reached the open gate, she saw what she’d missed a few minutes earlier. The For Sale sign, swinging gently in the breeze, the agents’ lettering shining where the light bounced from the street lamp. The old lady was right after all. Ellen knew now that she’d be wasting her energies chasing a man whose heart had been captured. She walked back up to the main road, and stopped briefly at a black wheelie bin. She dropped the boots into it without a second glance.


The ding-ding-ding of the car’s door chime turned to a bassline in my head. Rhythmic, mathematically built for maximum danceability. Enough to make my ears pulse with each new addition to the dozens of dings before. Like a concert from the parking lot, reverb echoing in straining ears and hearts begging to thump to the cadence if they could simply get close enough to catch the beat. Rainwater rested like glass on the pitch-black pavement, late October’s fallen leaves dappling fluorescent orange against the shiny nothingness of an oil-slick surface. My measured breathing joined the door chime, briefly altering the beat. Just enough to snap me out of it. Unhook the seat belt, grab the purse, and get inside. Easy peasy. I reached for the button, but couldn’t make the move. My icy fingertips had nothing to do with the cool air that threatened to turn from rain to frost in a blink. A prickle of goosebumps ran along my arms, down my back, and straight to my toes--all warning, not a hint of excitement. Eva wouldn’t recognize me. Not anymore. It was ridiculous to imagine that out of a couple hundred people crammed into a sleepy hotel conference room, she’d pick me out of the crowd. Not without the spiked collar and fishnet sleeves. I was nobody without eyeliner to rival Robert Smith (after Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me made it big). Just put a fake name on the traditional “Hello! My name is...” sticker and hide the sucker behind my coat collar. Incognito. About as incognito as those letters I’d shoved into her locker. Heartfelt musings. Deep secrets. Promises to work up the courage to admit my identity. She was into it. Letters passed through the minuscule vents of dented metal doors without a word between us. I’d seen the excitement, actual joy, every time there was another note from her secret admirer--a lift in the corner of her mouth that was only for me. For my notes. Everyone else got the toothy supermodel smile with forced crinkles perfectly framing her brown eyes. That was the version she showed them, but I knew her true smile: Lips pressed tight into a lopsided, upturned curve, a little squint, and a wrinkle in her nose. That was the one I waited for. It was heartachingly beautiful the way she chewed her thumbnail after tugging open the corner of each perfectly folded bundle. Watching her eyes track the page gave me nearly as much of a thrill as slipping the square into her locker. Each passed note left me wondering if it would be the one that outed me; if it would be the time the secret slipped. Even if she watched for me to open the locker to retrieve her notes, just like I waited to see her reaction, she never would have caught me. The locker’s former occupant, Julian Rodgers, had moved the second week of school and they never re-assigned it. His anger at attending a ninth school in his four-year high school career was my gain: The bottom of his top locker never quite sat right after he put a fist through it, so notes tucked inside his dropped ever so conveniently into my bottom locker. I hadn’t gone to great lengths to hide my identity. I hadn’t shared it, either. Where was the line--and what was the balance between right and wrong? Would she have sent responses if she knew who I was? Would she have considered how well we got along, the way we knew each other, how we’d probably finish each other’s sentences during a face-to-face? I could feel the abyss in the center of my ribcage where the pressure of coming out collided with the fear that she’d reject me. Which was I more afraid of? Watching dressed-up thirty-somethings stroll, carefree, across the parking lot was about all I could bear. Reminiscing wasn’t on my agenda for the night. They could giggle and toss stories around, rehash homecoming nights, football games, homeroom, and skip day. I’d been too busy keeping my chest from caving in from the grief to join in the shenanigans. Not that I’d have been welcome. Chants of ‘Tori can’t get a man, that’s why she’s a les-bee-an’ still rang in my ears fifteen years later. I never found out who’d told her, but the notes stopped coming. Instead, I’d received the mocking echo of my own words read dramatically over the intercom during morning announcements, until someone from the office left the microphone squealing in their takeover attempt. Individual notes photocopied and plastered across walls, tucked away in lockers, and handed out at parties. Nothing but a joke, and they’d all laughed. Eva’s eyes were always downcast after that. They’d never fall on me for long, and for what? Fear that I’d make a move? Drag her down with me into my own little hell? My head, heavy as the hurt still held in my heart, flopped onto the headrest. With courage enough built up to tear out of the parking lot without looking back, I turned the key, threw the car into gear, and backed out of my parking space. My exit plan didn’t account for the crunch and jolt of backing directly into a light post. A string of profanities accompanied me out of the car and into the parking lot to assess the damage. Hanging bumper, busted tail light. Nothing a little insurance couldn’t fix. I made a beeline for the driver’s seat, but a voice cut through the raindrops, sparking heartstopping panic. “Tori?” Though her voice pitched upward, there was recognition in the tone. “Tori Jones?” The options were lie or run, and I was never a good liar. I tugged the door shut hoping she’d assume I didn’t hear her. Maybe we’d go on living our lives, ships in the night and all that. Before I could hit the gas, she was tapping on my window. An escape now would look like exactly that: running away. I lowered my window and looked up at her from my seat. Eva. Her understated turquoise dress played beautifully against her brown skin. The thought of her prom gown--nearly the same color, but two-piece and sequined--curled up in the back of my mind and settled in for the long haul. “Hi.” I looked past her instead of at her. Keeping the street lights in focus became my lifeline. If I could see the lights, I wasn’t getting lost in her eyes. She greeted me, then waved her hand to the side--a gesture that usually had an introduction attached. The idea of meeting her handsome husband and hearing about their perfect life together sent ripples through my stomach. I plastered a smile on my face and swallowed back the quiver that threatened to take up residence in my lower lip. “Meet my date,” Eva said. A woman stepped forward; cropped black hair, a swipe of glitter across eyelids, dangling earrings, and a black wrap dress stopping at knee length. “My ex-wife, Diana.” Eva pressed a squeeze into the woman’s hand. “I couldn’t bear to come alone. Deal with all of those guys from the football team again? Not on my checklist for this decade. She agreed to be my bodyguard for the night.” I huffed a laugh through my nose and nodded a greeting. “This is Tori,” Eva said, holding a palm in my direction. A speck of dark nail polish had jumped the cuticle, marring her otherwise perfect hand. I focused on that, a distraction to keep my mind off how casually she tossed my name into the conversation--and the flash of recognition in her companion’s eyes when Eva said it. “Are you here with your girlfriend? Wife?” she asked, glancing around. “I’m not really the relationship type.” I bit my lower lip as the confession slipped. Diana chuckled. “Eva, either.” Eva shoulder-bumped Diana and spread her hands, teeth gritted against embarrassment. “Stop it,” she whispered. Car doors slammed and enthusiastic greetings filled the parking lot as more guests arrived. Chest bumps and hoots of excitement echoed off buildings and pavement, once-close circles of friends becoming tight-knit again, even if only for a night. Disappearing into the darkness was impossible now that I’d been spotted, but the pressure was off. I could hit the bar without watching my back. Maybe even take care of the busted bumper after I’d drowned in nostalgia. “Well, if I’m going to do this, it’s got to be now. Before I completely lose my nerve.” I climbed out of the car, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. “Want to bet the band is the same one from prom?” Eva asked. “Want to bet the quarterback asks if I’ve finally switched sides?” I lifted a playful eyebrow to soften the edge in my voice. Diana leaned in and whispered in Eva’s ear. One corner of her mouth turned upward. “It seems my bodyguard has another assignment for the night. Any chance you’re available to provide security detail for this event?” My throat had gone dry. Stroll into the reunion with Eva, like nothing. Like my letters hadn’t been stapled to bulletin boards and tucked beneath windshield wipers. “It wasn’t me, you know.” She searched my eyes. “I had no idea it was you, not until it was too late. The rumors, I’d never have...” Her sincerity was like a bullet train hurtling through my chest. Somewhere deep down, I’d already known. “Hey,” I said, offering a bent elbow. “Let’s give them something to talk about, then.”


It's only been a few minutes, and already I'm feeling such terrible, terrible, guilt. I thought it through, planned everything out for weeks and took everything into consideration...or at least I thought I did. I guess I overlooked the consequences end of the deal. I didn't figure in how I would feel about actually going through with this. I didn't think of how I was going to get out of this mess, if and when I did go through with the plan. I tried to call my mum, but I couldnt speak when she picked up so I hung up abruptly. She's been trying to call me back, but I can't answer the phone. How would I even tell her about this? How can I tell anyone about it? If I call the police, it's game over for sure... I don't know if there is a defense I could come up with for myself that would sway judge and jurry to find me innocent. I'm not innocent.... If he would have just been a faithful boyfriend, I wouldn't be in this situation. The past two years having been nothing but lies, catching him with different one night lovers... Things of that sort. We met 3 years ago on Plenty Of Fish. Yeah, that was a low point in my life. Turning to a somewhat sketchy dating site to find someone that would make me feel important. I should have figured it wasn't going to last, but our first year together went so well! He showed me off to friends and family, said I was his girl, took me to movies, on camping trips, we even went to a couple theme parks that summer. We moved in together by the second year. That was when things started going south. The men, the women, the lying to me and making promises that it wouldnt happen again only to do it again the very next day. He would use money from my bank account to get gifts for the people he cheated on me with. Sometimes making me prepare breakfast for them in the morning, when I'd come home from working all night only to find some stranger in my house. This year I just decided enough was enough. He told me a month ago that he was going to change for good this time. I told him that if he didn't, then I'd get rid of him and carry on with my own life. He took that as breaking up, I meant it as killing him. Well, Vinny never did change and I've spent the last few weeks thinking of how I was going to handle the situation. I wore some rubber gloves and stabbed him 42 times in the chest. There is no cover for this. My intentions were to kill him and I did. I'm just sorry for what this is going to do to my mother. I did answer her call, by the way. I told her to call the police, and not ask why. I guess she listened, because I can hear the sirens in the distance. I won't fight it, when they get here. No sense in denying the truth, after all. So, for now, I'm just going to sit on my porch, knife still stuck in my late boyfriend's chest, and confess to it when they come for me.


I am getting married next year and I had this nightmare I wrote down. It made me cry in a way I rarely experience. I apologize for its inevitable typos and poor quality. I just had to share. Jaclyn, We were together for 8 magical years. Three blessed years of marriage. Every moment was amazing. It had its ups and downs but no one in the world could doubt our love. Nothing in the world matter besides you, then came that day. August 12th the day the world turned upside down. A rainy day, warm and gentle on my face as I wheeled you in the hospital, the doctor took you from me and told me to wait in the lobby. Four hours of pacing, four hours of never knowing what was coming next, no notice of progress or status. Then the nurse came out and said, “Mr. MacRory, please come with me.” I was brought to a hallway and shown a little girl in a pink cap and socks. My daughter, Melody, smiling back at me, I had never felt such joy. Then it all came crashing back. I was told there were complications with the birth and that my wife, my wife who was my rock, had not survived the violent birth. I was given a few minutes to say my good byes. How could I express my loss or say what I wanted to. How could I possibly say good bye to the woman who made very day brighter. I cried and said how much I loved you, or how I could never go on living without you. Two or three minutes I was given with her before I had to be removed from the room. Two minutes and that was the last time I ever saw that soft delicate face. I asked the nurse if you had seen your daughter before you left us. She said you had and that your face beamed with pleasure at seeing your little girl cry, before your heart gave out. I had to place you in the ground the same week that I had to care for our new and lovely daughter. It was the ultimate perversion. The joy in seeing my daughter, every moment with her is special, yet every time I saw her smile or see her eyes light up, I saw you, my wife who was not here to enjoy these moments. I went to your grave every night for 3 months and stared at that piece of rock that was all I had left of you. I struggled to keep a grip on my life for a bit, but I pulled through knowing you would have had I left you. After all, I had a wonderful new daughter, who would need to grow up knowing what a magnificent woman her mother was. Being a single dad was no picnic but I pulled through knowing there were others that counted on me. I also knew what I saw your face again that you, always joking, would have something witty to say had I failed. I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of being able to say you would have done better. I was going to raise Melody to be as amazing and special as you were. I had a picture of you by my bed and I would look at it every night and softly cry in bed missing you lying next to me. I know you would always have something comforting to say to me. I would grade my student’s papers and come across something amusing and I would stand up to go show you and forget that the house was quiet and that I had no one to show this to. I started to get better day by day, time heals all wounds as they say. It never takes away the scars. I took Melody to figure skating classes knowing that you would have loved to see her doing her jumps and winning those trophies. Not only did she have your smile and eyes, she had your brain thank god. She succeeded in almost everything she tried. I raised her with not only my ideals but I would always considered what you would say when an issue aroused. I would always tell her stories about you and what an amazing person you were. It is something I can never forget. I miss you still after all these years, always stopping to look at a cat or a hummingbird knowing how much you would have smiled at those sights. Melody got into high school with incredible grades, not only finding success at figure skating but also taking up my skills at bowling. She won 3 gold medals in figure skating and made the varsity bowling team. I even, against my better judgment, gave her my blessing when she started dating her dancing partner Kurt, knowing you would have. She went to college and earned her doctorate in Pharmacology, something I know would have filled you with endless joy. She got a job testing new medication for cancers. Soon after she married her high school sweetheart like I did. Our granddaughter was born July 16th, your birthday. Melody named her after you. I held baby Jaclyn in my arms and my eyes filled with tears instantly, joy at having a beautiful healthy granddaughter, and immense sadness knowing you weren’t there to share this moment with me. I lost you 33 years ago. I never once took off my wedding band. I lay here in my hospital bed knowing I will finally get to see you soon. Melody is working around the clock trying to find something to slow the cancer eating at my body, but I know nothing can help. I feel dread knowing how she will feel losing her father, or knowing I will never get to attend my granddaughter’s graduation. I told her not to worry, but she has your stubbornness built deep inside her. I looked at that picture of you every night before I went to bed and talked to you, told you about my day and what was troubling me, knowing you would have known the right thing to say every time. I wish I had that picture with me now. Looking at your beautiful face would always ease my fears. Childish as it seems, I fear the end. I always feared the unknown. Tomorrow though I will be back in your arms a place that seems so far off and yet so familiar it seems like I last kissed you a few minutes ago. I have, since our first moment together, loved you. After losing you all those years ago, that love never ceased, and I will continue loving you into whatever awaits me. "After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure" I will see you soon my love, we have so much to catch up on..


A wise woman once said, “If I could turn back time if I could find a way, I’d take back all the words that have hurt you, and you’d stay.” I wondered what she meant until the day I told you that I wasn’t sure if you were the love of my life. I don’t remember what brought this on. Memory is hazy and then it has an aching clarity. It is blurred, then it is searingly sharp. I wonder if you remember this, too. I wonder if you remember that one day we were fine, then we weren’t. In a moment love went from being exciting and new to a source of peril. Did you know that the person with the proverbial sword can cut themselves, too? Breaking someone else’s heart can shatter yours, and there is no balm or sympathy for the enemy. Before you hate me, you have to remember, that I was 19 and the only other loves I ever had were taped to my walls. Or it was tragically unrequited. There were the athletes with girlfriends who didn’t look anything like me. The musicians who would never make me their muse. The others at school who looked past me. The boys who couldn't find anything lovely within me, the girls who didn’t realize I could fall in love with them, too. That is where we met, in a young adulthood that left me primed for rejection. I had gotten very good at being alone. It is a skill to let people know you and keep your core so guarded. I developed the skill of being friendly and somehow distant. Everyone thinks they know me well and yet no one really does. You looked like everyone else on the surface. And so we started our romance the way so many do, as rivals. You were the only person who would have a retort for my opinions in class. The only one who could keep up with me and the only one that I could gather any respect for. Then you scribbled something on a torn piece of notebook paper and slid it towards me- your screen name. A screen name- that is now in a time capsule with my low-rise jeans and Xanga page. Those memories are tucked away in my treasure chest of a heart, where I retreat when the world feels loveless and friendless. Here you came, breathing and hairy and mildly annoying but somehow I couldn't get enough of you. I would sometimes joke that you were like penicillin- a mold that I saw the benefit in. You became so much more than that. Everything was heightened in your presence and in some exhilarating way, felt like standing at the edge of the world. In a way, it was; I will never know who I would have become without you. Somehow diner burgers felt gourmet and rides with the windows down and radio blaring was the most romantic thing. We were a relationship of firsts: first late-night phone conversations, first trips out of the state, then the country, first person to see me naked, in body and soul. I can’t forget that these first-time adventures were also met with first fights, first tears, first insults, and first betrayals. Yes, you were the first, but could you be the only one? The prospect of forever is touching and terrifying. Forever of what? With whom? What else could be waiting for me? The future unfurled itself with one more opportunity and three more possibilities in each step. What if the love of my life greets me on the French Riviera? Would we lock eyes and hold hands, reclining on the deck of an opulent yacht? Could I find completion in the arms of a foreigner with an alluring accent and tan arms? Or would I meet this great love on a safari, as we hold our breaths watching a lion stalk his prey? Could we meet in the mountains of Aspen? I don’t ski, but what if they wandered into a warm lodge at the end of the day, sore from sport, looking up to find me savoring a hot chocolate in some fetching fair-isle sweater? Or what if the love I yearned for all along meets me at the twilight of an exhausted life, in a nursing home with diapered bottoms and soft meals? What if great love is not meant for my youth, but for the end of my days, like the comfort of a quilt after a long day spent in discovery? Young love is easy, but loving someone when the shadow of beauty has fled with memory and flexibility, leaving arthritic joints and fading vision? What if the best is always yet to come? Then, I thought, we would only know our truest love when we are breathing our final breaths, crossing into the Beyond. No, I don’t know if you’re the love of my life. But I do know my indecision crumpled your face in the worst way. Though I hate to admit it, you were the sun. And I managed to dim the radiance in your eyes. Words are like weapons, they wound sometimes. Looking back, I do know it was the beginning of the end for us. You started to think that you would never be enough for me. You wondered if I would ever be satisfied with anything. In some heated arguments, you told me that I might never be happy and that you could never make me happy. In a way, you were right. I still don’t know who the love of my life will be, because life never stops revealing itself in interesting ways where the blush of a stranger can hold the bounty of affection I’ve been looking for. A stranger is just a lover I haven’t kissed yet. Don’t you know that life and love are endless until they are not? Hurtful as it was, there was a bit of wisdom in my youth; we can only truly take stock of our lives at their completion; you can’t truly look backward and live at the same time. I have pushed forward, determined to believe that looking back is a wasted exercise. But if I could take back the words that have hurt you, would you stay?


Once upon a time, there was a land divided in two. The land was watched over by a god in the heavens. The western side was devoted to God. They blessed Him with gifts and prayers every day! And in return, they received good health and prosperity. They saw themselves as being truly perfect. Everyone saw them, and they made sure to be seen. They blessed God and so, they were blessed by God in return. The Eastern side, however, had abandoned God long ago. It was told that almost all living there were poor and vile. That crime and disease had overtaken all there was to see. No one ever heard from them, they were treated like they didn’t exist. They had abandoned God. Therefore, they were abandoned by God in return. One day a mysterious maker of mirrors appeared. No one knew who he was or where he was from. Was he a god? Or was he from west or east? He carried three mirrors with him. Mirrors big and wide made entirely from gold. These mirrors were made gifts. The first one was given to God and brought directly to the heavens. The second mirror was given to the west and the other to the east. Upon receiving the mirror god was overjoyed. “What a wonderful mirror,” He said! “It’s absolutely perfect. Only my wonderful servants in the west could have made such a gift!“ So he gave even more riches and good health in return. Upon receiving the mirror, the west was overjoyed. “A perfect golden mirror, there is no better gift we could have received. Only God could have blessed us with such a mirror!" So, they blessed him with even more gifts and prayers in return. Upon receiving the mirror, the east stayed silent. No one ever heard from them. It was as if they didn’t even exist. God then took a glance inside the mirror, expecting to see a perfect reflection. But to his surprise, what he saw in the mirror wasn’t that, but an image of a terrifying monster instead. After staring for a short while, God simply turned away and said. “I’ll show how much of a perfect god I really am! Let’s make my people even healthier and richer, let’s eradicate illness from their families completely.” The west then took a glance at the mirror, expecting to see a perfect reflection. But to their surprise, what they saw in the mirror wasn’t that, but images of devils instead. “Let’s show how perfect of a population we really are! Let’s bless god and be faithful! Let’s build the most perfect temples in his name.” The east stayed silent. No one ever heard from them. But a single voice shouted, "We are slowly feeling better!" Some time past and times were good. But stumbling across the mirror, God took another look. The monster was still there and had grown even bigger. God covered the mirror with a blanket and spoke. “I will now perform another blessing! Let’s grant my followers immortality and grant them all the gold in the world! Everyone will live like kings, and they will never be forgotten.” Some time past and times were good. But stumbling across the mirror, the west took another look. The devils were still there and they had grown even bigger. The people agreed, “This mirror is off limits! No one shall ever look back into it again!” The people said, “Let us praise our God even more! Let’s build temples far and wide so the end can’t be seen by eye. Everyone will see Him, and he shall never be forgotten.” The east stayed silent, no one ever heard from them. But a few lone voices shouted, "We are feeling so much better! We exist!" Some time past and God was happier than he had ever been. But the urge to look inside the mirror never disappeared. God one day could no longer resist the urge and looked inside a final time. What he saw inside was a monster that had grown to unimaginable size. Upon staring god became frustrated, He became angry! I never want to see this vile mirror again”. Yet still, he couldn’t get himself to break the mirror. He tried and tried to no avail. And so, he simply locked the mirror away. “I will make a mirror that is perfect! I will make a mirror that is right!" So he created a stunning mirror by his own design.” When he glanced inside that mirror he was struck with pride. Cause like expected, he saw a perfect god inside. “This is the perfect mirror! There is no mirror more perfect than this!” Some time past and the west was happier than they had ever been! But the urge to look inside the mirror never disappeared. One day they could no longer resist the urge and looked inside a final time. And what they saw inside were devils that had grown to unimaginable size. “This mirror is cursed,” they shouted, “Let’s destroy this vile mirror! It has no place being here!”. They took the mirror down and shattered it to great success. “Let’s make a mirror that is perfect, let’s make a mirror ourselves.” And that they did! When they glanced inside their new mirror they were struck with pride. Cause like expected, they saw angels inside. “This is the perfect mirror! There is no mirror more perfect than this!” The east had kept their mirror up and for the first time, their voices were heard. “We do exist! We like it here! We love ourselves!” The west noticed and said, “You still have your mirror up, don’t you see it’s vile and cursed? We can give you a perfect mirror,” they said, “Entirely made by our own design.” “We don’t want your mirror,” the east responded. “We love our mirror, it has done everything for us!" Upon hearing this response, the west was in an uproar. “Of course they like the vile mirror! They are vile themselves, it’s what they like to see!” “No neighbor of us will have a mirror so vile and cursed! If they don’t want to take it down then shall we." They stormed the east and obliterated everyone in their way. There was heavy resistance but having to face an enemy immortal and rich, it was all to no avail. The west reached the mirror and took a glance. To their surprise, they didn’t see devils but angels inside. Regardless of that they broke the mirror and rejoiced! “Now we will put our mirror and grateful they will be!”. God liked his new mirror, he looked inside every day! But the urge to look in the locked away mirror never faded away. One day the urge became too strong and so again he took a glance. Now the monster’s reflection was gone! But instead, God saw no reflection at all.


The elevator door opened, emerging was Maggie Strout, young blond woman, with round red glasses. She was wearing a dark grey skirt suit and holding a big folder between her arm folded across her chest. She readjusted her glasses and walked out of the elevator as the door closed. Walking in the white hallway looking at the door numbers. She obviously didn’t know the place well, checking almost every doors. She finally stopped at door 111. She readjusted her suit and glasses, then knocked softly. *“Hu... it’s Miss... hu Agent... Agent Strout...”* she said in a really low voice. *“Enter.”* replied a voice behind the door. She opened the door and as before Colonel Carty was sitting behind his desk, with barely any light. Writing documents. He looked at her, and said ; “*Close the door and sit Strout.”* She nod and executed. As she was closing the door her folder felt on the floor, single page papers flying all over the place. *“I’m... I’m so sorry Sir. I’ll pick them up.”* As she nervously bend over to grab the papers, the Colonel started staring at her, his glasses covering his eyes completely as the desk light was reflecting on them, creating a mirror-like barrier. *“Agent Strout, do you think this is an appropriate attire for a mission of this importance?”* the Colonel said, still staring at her. She turned around, and looked at him, his glasses directed at her. “*I will change before the mission, Sir, this is my office cloth-“* *“Very well, I’m just trying to help.”* Replied the Colonel as he went back into writing on his document. Maggie finished to pick the paper, and rearranged the folder. She stood up and pulled her skirt down as she walked toward the chair. “*Sit please.”* the colonel said. And without taking his eyes from his document he continued ; “*Have you been briefed on Frank and the recovery mission for Entrance 38?”* *“Yes Sir, I am just a bit confused as to why Agent Dallay is still on the mission... or even in the Brigade, Sir. It seems as he had many reports filed against him.”* *“The reports are just because he is a drunk.”* *“But Sir, isn’t that an iss-“* *“It’s not, Agent. This is not your common Military Operation. We, well, we can’t be too picky in choosing our Agents. As you might know.”* The Colonel took his sight from his document and looked at Maggie. And he added : *“I would have thought that someone in your position would especially know, Agent Strout.”* She looked down. “*As I can read from your report, you weren’t even in the military when we found you.”* The Colonel moved some document that were on his desk, and looked at them. “*I was made aware that you barely passed the physical exam. If it wasn’t for your immense ratio for connectivity, we would have never found you. Or even brought you aboard. Isn’t that right?”* “*That is correct, Colonel.”* replied Maggie as she was still looking down. *“Frank was ALREADY in the Military, in addition to that he was one of the pioneer in developing the Sneeze Program.”* *“Yes, Sir.”* *“He went a bit off when he lost his daughter. But we still have use for someone like him. His ratio is even higher than yours. He can connect to well over 90% of Openers.”* *“I read his file. It is indeed impressive. Definitely one of a kind.”* said Maggie as she now stared at the folder she was holding. *“Yes, Agent, and that is why we need you to make sure we can still count on him.”* *“From his file, Sir, it seems that only Entrance 38 has been a problem in term of mission. But he hasn’t been getting along with most of the Agent he was associated with.”* *“Frank is a good Agent when it comes to connectivity to an Opener, that is why we NEED him, but he is not the most easy person to be around, and we need to make sure we can still make use of him. That is why you are here, you understand that, right?”* *“I see from his file that all the agents that were assigned to him asked for a transfer after only a single mission. That is until-“* *“Until Agent Clobet, yes. That is quite a tragedy. We had finally an Agent that could control Frank drunkenness’ and put up with him. Tragic indeed.”* *“There isn’t much in the file about what happened during Entrance 38.”* *“Frank has been vague, that is the first mission where Frank lost an Agent.”* *“Well, physical test after Agent Dallay was back show an extreme high alcohol level, I mean, Sir. It’s pretty obvious that at some point-.”* *“Frank is always drunk, something else happened with Entrance 38.”* *“But, Sir, most likely the level-.”* *“Something else, Agent Strout.”* *“Yes, Sir.”* Maggie open the folder, and looked at some papers and then said ; *“Colonel, it seems there was also a possibility of contamination. But nothing was found.”* *“Yes, that is something else we need you to look into.”* *“The Opener felt something coming back with Frank, they are rarely wrong. But nothing was found. Did the office was searched?”* *“It was, but nothing was found. It does happen that sometimes if only a fraction of the traveler are back - in this case Agent Clobet didn’t come back - the Opener feels something is off. After the search the scientists down there, thought it was just that.”* *“And you don’t?”* *“Call it a gut feeling.”* *“Noted, Sir.”* The Colonel started writing again. Then, without looking at her, said ; *“Your job, is to keep an eye on Agent Dallay while you both go back to clean up Entrance 38, and report anything suspicious.”* *“Aside from his drinking problem.”* *“90% Agent Strout.”* *“I beg you pardon?”* The Colonel stopped writing. Put his pen down, and looked straight at Maggie. *“Agent Strout, 90% is the connectivity compatibility of Frank. Let me be extremely clear, we need him. I don’t care if he is a coke-head, wife-beater, drunken bastard that can barely speak. What we need you to do is just go back to Entrance 38 with Frank, grab the body of our lost Agent while keeping an eye and find out if there was some kind of foul play with Agent Clobet and if Frank somehow managed to bring something over from Entrance 38. Are you up to the task, or should we bring someone else?”* Maggie stayed silent for a moment. Looking at the Colonel mirror glasses. She took a breath and finally replied ; *“I am, Colonel.”* *“Great then, if there is nothing else?”* he replied while showing the door. “*Thank you for your time, Sir.”* Maggie stood up and started to walk to the door. As she opened it, the Colonel said a last thing ; “*68% isn’t bad, Agent Strout, but it’s not 90%.”* Maggie nodded and left the room.


The Twist in the Tale November 24 th 1971 was just like any other Wednesday at the Portland Oregon Airport. Not particularly busy on domestic flights, so Dan Cooper had little wait time in buying his one way ticket to Seattle Washington. Dan Cooper was never planning to return. His identity documents were later proven to be fake. Security is a tad tighter today. In 1971 he did not have to concern himself with CCTV cameras. Even so he had timed his arrival to the last minute before the announcement to board his flight. A busy period for staff, he had correctly calculated they would be too busy to take much notice of individual passengers. All the Airport staff on duty that day, and Flight crew , were later to describe Cooper as a well-dressed clean shaven man wearing sunglasses, his appearance suggesting his age was around the mid 40’s. His suit colour varied with many of the descriptions. This non-descript appearance is no doubt the reason the Flight attendant did not see anything suspicious when he sat next to her during the take off. This was to change very quickly when Cooper handed her a note and told her to read it. No further verbal conversation took place. The note indicated he had a bomb in his briefcase which he showed to the Attendant. It also stated he would blow up the plane unless he received $200,000 and several parachutes when they landed in Seattle. The Pilot radioed the demands to the Air Traffic Control Tower. All Cooper’s demands were met, the money and the parachutes were loaded onto the plane. All the other passengers were allowed to leave as were the Flight Attendants. The flight crew remained on the plane. Cooper’s instructions to the pilot were to fly under 10,000 feet and set a course to Mexico City. The wing flaps were to be set at 15degrees a sure indication Cooper was familiar with the aircraft. Further proof came when he told the pilot to unlock the door to the rear stairway. This particular type of aircraft was the only commercial plane that has a rear stairway you could jump from. During the night flight the plane had a distinct jump in height indicating considerable weight had been jettisoned and in a flash Cooper had gone. No more instructions were heard and on landing in Reno Nevada it was obvious Cooper, the parachutes and the money had all disappeared. The investigating team, reporters from all over the USA and a public, eager to be part of this brilliantly executed crime, had gathered on the tarmac to greet the arrival of the aircraft. This brazen hijack became a case for the FBI. The tools they had to work with involved an evaluation of who Dan Cooper may be. A typo by a journalist in the early stages of reporting the crime is the impetus for Dan becoming DB. This has stuck throughout the 52 years since the crime. Comparing DB with a French fictional detective hero by the same name focused the FBI for some time. One theory advanced was that DB did the crime just to prove it could be done. Support for this theory is that none of the numbered banknotes have ever surfaced with the exception of $5,800 being washed up on the banks of the Columbia River in 1980. Perhaps Dan has a peculiar sense of humour and it took his fancy to stir up the mystery after a nine year hiatus. This points us in a direction that actually supports rather than decries the ‘just because he could’ scenario. Being familiar with aircraft, or at the very least with the type of aircraft he had absconded from, is undeniable. Flying lower than 10,000 feet stymied the use of radar to track a plane in flight in 1971. Insinuating he would be using several parachutes for the money and obviously for himself also indicated Cooper’s was familiar with their usage. One theory was advanced which sent the FBI checking through US Army Paratrooper’s personnel files. It proved to be nothing more than speculation. It proved fruitless. Search after search along the flight pattern between Seattle and towards Mexico City failed to find any trace of the money, or DB Cooper’s body until nine years later in 1980. $5,800 of the numbered bank notes are washed up onto the bank of the Columbia River. This waterway would have been flown over by Cooper’s plane on his flight, so authorities had divers search the area. Unsuccessfully. Quite often the most obvious solution to a crime is the answer. Even Blind Freddy would have realised the banknotes would be marked, so someone with the smarts of DB Cooper would have foreseen this and taken action to prevent it, that is unless he had no plans to actually spend the money. Jumping out of the aircraft at night with no real sense of where he was or where he could land does not make sense. However his smoke and mirror tricks worked, setting the scene first by being seen with a parachute on his back then jettisoning the extra parachutes to enforce the fact he had jumped. The plane reacted to a much lighter load. The rear stairs were down. Another visual fact which, together with the parachutes and money missing, combine to further enforce the belief DB Cooper had jumped. In a flash he was gone into the night in their minds. However, they got it wrong, he did not jump. No. DB Cooper was still on the plane, not quite in plain sight, but close. He had calculated that the plane would be overrun with officials and reporters from the time it came to a stop. Another person appearing from the toilet cubicle would not raise questions and he became one of the throng who had pushed and shoved their way onto the plane. The dapper DB Cooper was now dressed in a suit of a different colour, the same suit inside out indicating he had thought of every detail. Due to the bulging pockets of banknotes he also looked a far more portly figure. He slowly made his way off the aircraft to the arrivals lounge, and caught a transfer to the Overseas Terminal. Paris awaits. What was the worst that could happen? If he got caught he would plead diminished responsibility, it was a joke. He was prepared to serve a short sentence if, and it is a big if, France would grant extradition of a comic book hero. Anyway the statute of limitations on hijacking expires after 12 years. DB had obviously decided it would be more interesting to leave the crime as one of the great mysteries. His briefcase contained $5800 and the fake bomb when he threw it out of the plane. He left the case undone, hoping the notes would extend the mystery. That certainly worked.


The air was stale and carried an unusual stench. The kind of scent that makes you think of bleach or drain cleaner. It was a foreign scent to me, but seeing as Tom and I hadn't gone for a walk in this part of town for so long, I chocked it up to unfamiliarity. I strode through some overgrown vegetation covering the pathway into the abandoned warehouse. I looked down at the freshly minted green stain on my old jeans. It was nice to be out and about like this again. Usually Tom would have met up with me by now, though I didn't mind enjoying the peace and quiet by myself. After about ten minutes of traversing the foliage and old broken brick that lay about, I stood out front of the warehouse. The stench was stronger here, so much so that it stung the senses. It was unusual for Tom to be late, more often he was early and I was the one dragging my feet. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my phone. If he was still a fair distance away I would suggest he meet me elsewhere. The air here just wasn't fit to breathe while discussing life. As I sifted through the contacts list on my phone I heard the distinct sound of glass breaking from inside the building. I shrugged off the sound and called Tom. Much to my surprise I heard a phone ringing inside the warehouse. I waited for an answer but when he didn't pick up I began to get inquisitive. Making sure to tread carefully for fear of cutting myself on broken glass, I climbed through a front window and glanced about at my surroundings. The warehouse was much different now than it had been years back. There were large wooden crates around and what appeared to be laboratory equipment perched all throughout. It was unsettling upon the eyes. It took my brain time to catch up with my eyes. The reviling scent, the lab equipment, the boxes; they indicated one thing above all, illegal activity. I searched around for Tom, taking great care to move as silently as I could. As I navigated my way through the makeshift aisles and dark corners of the warehouse I heard a loud crack come from beneath me. I froze. My every instinct told me to crouch low and hide, but instead I stood as still as a statue. My hands were numb and tingling; the hair on my arms stood vertical. I looked down and saw a piece of glass underneath my shoe. "Hello? Is someone there? Can you help me?" I heard a panicked voice say from the other side of the boxes. That was Tom's voice. It was slurred and slightly less coherent than normal, but it was unmistakably my friend. I slunk my way around the boxes to see him tied to a chair. His face was swollen and he had blood streaming from cuts too numerable to count. Taking in my surroundings I noticed a line of shelves behind where my friend was trussed up. Upon them I noticed a shotgun and a small flip knife. I crouched low and shifted over to the shelves, first taking up the knife and then the gun. I crouch-walked my way behind Tom and began sawing at the thick ropes with the knife, all the while making shush noises to quiet my beleaguered friend. After what seemed like an interminable time the rope finally gave way and Tom's hands were unbound. I handed him the gun, pressed my index finger to my lip, and motioned for him to follow me. I figured the best way out would probably be the way I took to get in. I hadn't run into anyone else so I hedged my bets that we might be just as lucky on the escape. As we reached my infamous glass footrest I leaned closely into earshot of Tom. "How many people are here?" I whispered as softly as I possibly could muster. He didn't say anything, but instead held up his pinkie, ring, and middle fingers. So, there were three that he knew of. Maybe more that he didn't. The last thing I wanted was to run into some tweaked out drug dealers. Being this close to Tom's face I noticed with more clarity the seriousness of his injuries. It looked as though his jaw was dislocated and one of his eyes was nearly swollen over. I motioned for us to continue on and so inch by terrible inch we moved closer to my point of entry. As we crept through the warehouse periodically we heard voices. None of the voices were close enough to make sense of conversation, but whenever we heard them Tom and I stopped moving and listened for signs of commotion. I needed to know if his escape had been discovered. Eventually, after what seemed like hours we made it back to the window I entered through. "Alright buddy, you go first. I'm right behind you." I whispered. He climbed out the window quietly, albeit a little clumsily.I cleared the window just after him and made the executive decision for us to start running. We sped through the plant life and down the overgrown pathway. Vegetation whipping at our skin as we sprinted our way to freedom. We rounded a corner and came face to face with another man. He was a tall and slender fellow with a large nose. He panicked as he saw us and scrambled for the pistol waiting at his hip. As Tom brought the shotgun up to bear, time seemed to freeze at that moment. It felt as though I could look around and study the scene for hours before anything transpired. The whole world felt like a game on pause; like everything was ready to resume whenever I wanted. I watched as the man brought his pistol up and leveled it at my friend's head. A loud boom erupted in my ears. I watched as blood and bone and brain matter blew passed me. The world was no longer on pause. Nothing was frozen anymore. I charged into the man, knocking him to the ground. I reached out for anything I could grab and came away with a fist sized rock. I brought it down over and over upon the tall man's face. I struck him until my arm was weary with fatigue. I looked down at him and let the stone fall from my grasp. My hands were covered in blood. Next to the stone lay the pistol. I reached out and picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand. I pushed myself to my feet and looked down at the man I had beaten with the rock. His body jerked unexpectedly and I squeezed the trigger on the gun, discharging a round into the dirt next to his shoulder. The sound of the gun threw me back into realization of the situation I was in. I turned around quickly and looked at Tom. He was barely recognizable after his injury. I picked him up and slung his lean frame over my shoulder. I held the shotgun by the barrel in one hand and the pistol rested in my pocket. I held onto the legs of Tom as I trudged through the overgrowth and headed towards assistance. "Don't worry buddy. Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to get you some help. Fix you right up." I don't know if I whispered or if I was shouting, but I repeated myself many times. I could feel a hot wetness across the back of my shirt, but I ignored it. I forced myself to believe it was not a concern. "It's okay." I said. "It's okay." My legs were beginning to feel like they were aflame and my lungs must have been close to bursting. Just when I believed I could not carry on any longer I reached paved ground. "The sidewalk, this is good pal. Just a little further. You can make it." I tossed my shoulder up to gain a bit more of a grasp on my friend. As I did I heard a sickening splashing sound behind me. I didn't stop to look. I just continued moving down the sidewalk as swiftly as my body would trod on. I had no stamina left and my limbs were working mechanically, driven mostly by the little adrenaline I had remaining. I must have passed at least three people but for some reason my mind kept telling me to push on. It kept telling me that I hadn't found a single soul yet. "Sir please drop the weapons and place the body on the ground." I stopped moving. I closed my eyes and shook my head. It was a hard shake, and to any onlookers it probably looked as though I was on some kind of drug. When I reopened my eyes I saw people all around me. I saw a car with red and blue lights dancing with one another on the roof. I blinked rapidly. I opened both of my hands and heard the clanging of steel touching cement. I balled my hands into fists to reaffirm that I still had hands. My body was numb and everything seemed out of focus. I reached up and lowered Tom into my arms. "Hey buddy." I said. "Don't worry. All these people can see you. They know you need help. I told you I would get you nice and safe. I'm sorry. I never should have asked you to come for a walk with me. I just wanted it to be like the old days. Like it was before I made so many mistakes with you. I missed my best friend, but it's okay now. We're back again. Everything is back again." I rested Tom on the ground. It took me a moment to realize I was on my knees. I felt hands pulling something from my pocket. I heard the familiar clink of steel on cement yet again. I watched as the ground rose up to meet my face, like a cold, hard and welcoming pillow.


187.5 kHz. A storm is coming, so the shipping forecast tells me. A big one, in from the Atlantic. The three-hundred-and-first step is missing. Or anyway, the centre of the board is. Every other step - all three hundred and forty-one of them - are worn and bowed, but completely intact. It was like that when I took this position eleven years ago Mother . My mother came to see me. Not really my mother. I’m not a madman. I last saw her in a bombed-out church in France. I was lying next to my old schoolfriend Albert. We’d taken cover in the church, and it got hit. Albert took the worst of it. Half his face was gone. “You all right, love?” my mother said. She was there at the end of the pew. She had on her maroon coat with the fur collar. “I was trying to look after him, Mum.” I was weeping. “What will his mum say?” “Oh, she’ll just get on with it. You know Dot.” “Will I be all right? Am I going to die too?” “You will if you stay here.You need to go back where you came from.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “You’re not really me mum at all, are you?” “I know what’s best for you, love.” The Victorian engineer . This lighthouse is unique - the rock it’s built on has a hole in the middle and water spouts out of it with tremendous force. The engineer realised that you could harness that force, like in a water mill, to rotate the lens at the top of the tower. Very clever. Every room has a broad column in the middle, which is the bore for the driveshaft that rotates the lens. In every room, the thump of each wave resounds like a pulse in your ear. I don’t hear it anymore because it’s there all the time. The Alarm. My memory’s not been the same since the war. I forget things. Maybe I just don’t want to remember. People. Places. Dawn duty. Memories I can manage without. I forget everyday things too. Where I put my reading glasses. Whether I’ve had dinner. What year it is. When the alarm clock goes off, it’s time to light the wick. I have to look at the book for the time. It’s November, so each evening lighting time is a little earlier. Alcohol is forbidden in all the Authority’s lighthouses. You can see why. An inebriated lighthouse keeper would be a very dangerous proposition. I pass my evenings reading, and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes I allow myself a little laudanum to help me sleep - but never before lighting up. I only take it to be sure I sleep. I don’t like to see the dawn. The three-hundred-and-first step is missing. Did I write that already? I think I did. Oh - I had a dream of some of the keepers who’ve been here before me. I must write that down, Sixteen . All storms are different, like people. I give them names. There was a big one last year that was just like my sister Judy - loud, unpredictable and playful. She roared around, rattling the windows. She blew out a pane in the lantern room. That’s my big sister. Judy died of the influenza in 1908. She was twenty. I was fourteen. Stan was twelve. Judy had looked after the two of us since Dad died. He’d had the cough, like Mum. I was standing with Stan at the graveside. I looked towards the road and there was Mum, beckoning me over. “You alright, Jim, love?” She had her tight-lipped, get-things-done expression on. I thought she was my mum. I didn’t cotton on that she wasn’t really. I wouldn’t till France. “Judy’s gone now,” I said, my voice shaking. She frowned. “Now don’t you cry, James Atley. Not today. You need to put your face right.” “What are we going to do, me and Stan?” “There’s a man who’ll come to see you at home. He’ll come tonight.” “At home?” “Listen, Jim. You tell him you’re sixteen. Just swear till you’re blue in the face that you’re sixteen. What year would you’uv been born, to be sixteen?” “Eighteen..er...” “Quicker than that! 1892. Say it!” “1892.” “If you don’t say that, they’ll take you and Stan to St Botolph’s. It’s a dreadful place.” “But...” “The man doesn’t want to have to arrange all that. Just say sixteen and mean it, and he’ll decide to believe you. Then you and Stan can stay at home. Get lodgers for upstairs and ask Mr Peavey for a job at the yards. What year was you born in?” “1892.” “Good boy. I can’t have you going to St Botolph’s.” 342 . From the door at the bottom to the lantern at the top it’s three hundred and forty-two steps. From the galley to the lantern, it’s two hundred and ninety-eight steps. From the pantry, two hundred and fifty-two. Then there’s the main room, then my bedroom, then the workshop, then the lantern itself. I can climb those stairs with my eyes shut. You have to be able to, in case there’s no light - if you run out of candles, say, or one blows out when you’re up top. You’ve still got to light the the lantern. So I practice going up and down with my eyes shut. The three-hundred-and-first stair is missing. If you start from the galley, the missing stair is the two-hundred-and-fifty-seventh. From the pantry, it’s the two-hundred-and-fifth. From the top, coming down, it’s the forty-first. The brides . I had a dream of the keepers who’ve been here before me. I came down to the main room, and there were five or six fellows in there, each with a young bride. All in white the ladies were, veils lifted, holding their posies. And the men were done up smart - hair oiled back, pressed suits and white shirts. There was a newly-wed couple in the north window-seat, and two more couples at the table. There was another couple in the south window. All of them canoodling in their pairs, smiling and touching each other’s cheeks. I went up to the bedroom and there was a chap and his bride in my bed - and they weren’t sleeping. I was about to tell them to get out of my room, but my mother was there and she told me to shush. “These girls are all my daughters,” she said. “They’ll look after you boys.” Habits . We had an outside privy at home, in Chatham. Too bloody cold to go out there in the night. I did it out the window of me and Stan and Judy’s bedroom. I was the only one that would. I didn’t care. “You’re a filthy ossity, James Atley,” my mother would say. “I don’t know how you’re ever going to get a wife, with habits like that.” She was right. Nine years after Mum died I proposed to Emmie Hazelhurst, and she turned me down. A couple of years later she married my brother Stan. Me, I joined the army, first day they asked. When Albert was dying with his half his face off, I talked to him about going home. I said we were both going back to England and I would marry Emmie, and he’d be my best man - which was nonsense because Emmie had a little ‘un by then, and Stan was a young copper at St Mary Hoo. They had an Elizabethan cottage. Very lovely. I’ve never been there. The boat . The supply boat will come in a day or two, with enough food to get me through till spring. I need to be careful with the food I’ve got left. I’ve been using it too fast and I barely have provisions to last. Or candles. I only have half a candle left. The supply boat captain brings my tincture and my tobacco. Alcohol is forbidden in the lighthouse, but there’s no rule against laudanum. It’s just to help me sleep. I was heating up some soup when the alarm went off. I climbed up to the lantern with my eyes closed, to practice, because I have only half a candle left. Going from the galley, the missing step is the two-hundred-and-fifty-seventh. Coming down, it’s the forty-first. The wind was getting up. White foam was dancing on the black rocks below, dancing right to the door. There was a ship two or three miles out, rolling and dipping - heading for port. She’ll be all right. The storm won’t be here before this time tomorrow, maybe earlier. I opened the door out to the walkway, to answer the call. It’s too far to trek all the way to the bottom just to have a wee. I put the door on the hook. “How do, Jim,” my mother said. I was startled. I did myself up and turned, and there she was, standing in the door. “Hello, Mum.” I knew she wasn’t my mum. She wasn’t my mum in France, nor at Judy’s funeral. “You’re not looking after yourself, Jim,” she said. “You’re not acting civilised - doing your business off the balcony here. Shameful! And look at the state of your clothes. Is that gravy down your shirt?” “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “There’s no one here.” “Like an animal, Jim. Like a dirty beast rather than a man.” “Mum,” I said, “men can do things much more beastly than get beef gravy down their shirt, believe me. I’ve seen it.” “You need to be looked after, like all the other boys. I’ll arrange for you to meet my youngest, Emmie. She’ll be here tomorrow.” I went to bed early. I had some tincture in warm water, because I had to get to sleep. The storm’s coming, and I may have to light the wick during the day. I need my wits about me. The thump of the seawater in the bore was louder than usual. It was thumping in my head. I couldn’t read a book because I daren’t use even an hour of the last candle. I felt in the drawer in the dark and took a little swig of tincture straight from the bottle, to help me sleep. The shakes . I’ve got the shakes a bit this morning. I dropped the tea caddy when I was making tea. The whole lighthouse seemed to be bending in the wind like an oak. The waves were crashing up as high as the pantry windows. It was barely even the start of the storm. It was just the barrage that comes before the order to advance. At noon the thunder and lightning started. The explosions of thunder and the flashes of lightning get me all confused. I had to calm myself down. I had a little sip of my tincture. I went up to the lantern. There was still enough light to see by, and I didn’t close my eyes climbing up. I wasn’t sure I’d keep count properly. The sky was black to the north and coming towards me. Soon it would be dark, though it was only early afternoon. I lit the wick. I engaged the rotation lever, and the lens began to move, driven by the shaft that’s powered by the waves down below. The lens circled the lantern and sent the sweeping beam out over the sea. As I turned to go back down, there was a bright flash that lit up the lantern chamber and a bang so loud I felt it in my chest. I threw myself down flat like we used to in France. I didn’t mean to - I just did it. Threw myself flat on the wooden boards. You hold your breath a few seconds, waiting to see if anything hurts. If you seem to be all right, you look around, keeping your head low, to see who’s still with you. When I turned that day in the church, I saw Albert beside me, our shoulders touching, and half his face was gone. In the lantern chamber, I realised I was crying. I wanted my mum, just like I had in the church in France. The thunder and lightning crashed and flashed again and again, over and over. I knew it wasn’t artillery. I’m not a madman. But I just couldn’t stand up. I had my bottle of tincture in my trouser pocket so I took a good sip or two of that, to calm myself. It was hours before the barrage of the thunderstorm ceased and was replaced by the battery of wind and rain. When I woke up, I couldn’t see anything but water outside the windows, lit by the lantern, and I thought that I was upside-down in the sea. I felt wet too. I had pissed myself. I don’t know what my mother would have said about that. I had to get downstairs. I swigged from my little bottle of tincture, to calm myself. I had to tip it right up. I shook it beside my ear and held it to the light of the lantern. There were only a few drops left. I was sure it was nearly full this morning, but perhaps not. I forget things. I have another one in the main room. I got to my feet and looked down the spiral stairs. The lighthouse lantern lit the first few steps and even some more past the point that they curved out of sight. But beyond that, there was only the light from the tiny window, and it was pitch-black outside. Many, many times I’d gone down the stairs with my eyes closed, or in the dark. The missing step was the forty-first from the top. Yes, forty-first. Was that right? I forget things. No - it’s right. Forty-first. It was difficult though. I was confused, and the wind and rain were loud. And I could hear the thump of the waves in the bore, as if it was in my head. I got to twenty-four, just about where the light from the lantern couldn’t reach, and I looked down into the blackness and I wasn’t sure I’d counted right. I thought it would be best to start again. I didn’t want to go back up, in case there was thunder and lightning again. But I was nervous about going down because I wasn’t sure about my counting. I was confused. I turned and went back up. I started down again, watching my feet. One, two, three, four, five. Once I caught a fish alive. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Then I let it go again. What comes after that? Something about toes. I stopped again at the edge of the dark. I was on twenty-three. But last time I thought the edge of the dark was twenty-four. Perhaps I was right that time. I decided to do it again and believe whichever happened. Yes, I’d go back up and do it again. But the thumping in the bore was a drum, loud and muffled, like at a dawn execution. And I could still hear the barrage of thunder and lightning - far away now, behind me, miles behind me, behind me along with all the blood and the noise and screaming boys caught on the wire, crying for their mums. All of that behind me, where I left Albert dead in the church with half his face gone. I didn’t want to end up like Albert. I was going back to where I came from. I didn’t care. I looked into the blackness down the stairs and I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to do it again. Not this time. I wasn’t going to turn this time and go back where I’d come from. I was just going to walk forward. Even though I was scared, I was just going to walk into the blackness and the noise with my eyes open. I took a step. And another. I wasn’t counting. Emmie came in the night . I was propped up in the north window-seat, clasping my last bottle of tincture. The tincture keeps me calm and helps with the pain in my chest and with my leg, as long as I don’t look at it. I don’t know how long I was staring out into the rain, trying not to look at the bone sticking out of my leg. But the darkness was just starting to weaken when I saw her down there, in her white wedding gown dancing on the black rocks below, dancing right to the door. She looked up and waved to me, and then she was here with me, sitting in the window seat. I lifted her veil. She was beautiful and pale like the sky after a storm. “She sent me for you,” she said. “My mother, I mean.” I coughed and blood came out. “I’ve done something to my chest,” I said. “I fell. So many of us fell.” “I’ll look after you,” Emmie said. “But I have things to do. I’ll be back later.” It’s past noon now. There’s blood all down my shirt. I don’t know what my mother would say. I can see the supply ship, a long way out - they’re an hour away or more. They’re going to have a wasted journey, because by the time they get here, I’ll be gone. Emmie’s down there, dancing on the black rocks in her white wedding dress. She waves up at me. She goes to the door. “You won’t be needing that anymore, Jim,” my mum says. She takes the tincture bottle from my hand. “My Emmie will look after you.” “I knew you weren’t my mum,” I say, “I’m not a madman.” “I’ve always known what’s best for you.” “She went long ago - before Dad and Judy. And long before France. You weren’t my mum.” She smiles. “Well, let’s not argue about it,” she says. “I am now.”