One Curse

Every day is the first day of the rest of your life. Except, of course, for the day that you die.

- American Beauty

*~*

Casualty #1

Name:

Cora Merchant

Age:

32

Marital Status

: Married, 5 years

Progeny:

1

Occupation:

Housewife

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Cora glanced down miserably at her sudsy hands. The dishwashing water was scummy and growing cold, but the scant warmth it provided was like a roaring bonfire compared to the icy atmosphere in the kitchen.

'You mean to tell me,' said Mark, slowly, as if he was having the greatest difficulty in coming to terms with the matter, 'that in spite of the fact that you do nothing all day while I slave at a desk for eight hours to provide for the three of us, you simply couldn't find the time to iron my shirts?'

Cora flinched at the derogatory tone of his voice, but as ever, she shied away from outright confrontation.

'Well, you see, there was Jonathan Ryan's birthday party, and Margaret Ryan asked me to help out,' she said, her voice small and quickly trailing to nothing. No point in trying to tell Mark that a laborious day of minding thirty screaming toddlers in a townhouse with a postage-stamp garden was hardly 'doing nothing'. Unless you just sat back and allowed that Edmund boy to get his hands on some matches. He seemed to be harbouring pyromanic tendancies, not to mention that he had the attention span of a bored gnat. If she had done 'nothing', Edmund would soon have had a display of house-fireworks on the go to entertain his horrible little compatriots.

She could read how much Mark despised her -- her weakness, her refusal to stand up for herself -- in his narrowed eyes, even as he just wanted her to disappear. His long, narrow fingers - artistic fingers, she'd used to call them, when they were both young and happy and he thought he could make a living for them as a painter -- flew at his collar, snapping the tie into a Windsor knot. The solicitor's office where he worked as a hackneyed and under-paid clerk had very strict dress codes. They were a far cry from the torn jeans and tie-dyed t-shirts they'd both lived in. Once upon a time.

'Where's Thierry?' he asked. This was how their conversations invariably ran these days. Mark reverting to some kind of complaint or insult directed at his wife while she refused to rise to the bait, before the conversation turned to the one point where their increasingly disparate lives still matched.

'He's in bed,' she said, placing a soapy dish on the rack. The kitchen floor needed scrubbing, the whole house was crying to be vacuumed out, things were growing in the dust that covered everything. All she wanted to do was go to sleep. Preferably for the next ten years.

'You're too lax with him,' accused Mark. 'He needs a better routine to teach him some boundaries.'

'He was up till two this morning, throwing up,' said Cora, her tone almost sharp. 'Those canapés you brought back from that office do really upset his tummy.'

'Oh, it's my fault, of course,' said Mark, grabbing some toast from the toaster and shaking crumbs all over the worktop that Cora had just wiped clean.

'As I recall, he didn't even want to eat them,' muttered Cora. Mark only snorted around his mouthful of toast - no doubt spraying more crumbs all over the table.

'Is it asking a lot for you to wash some shirts for me today, then?' asked Mark, his voice heavy with irony. Cora gritted her teeth, trying to will back the prickling of tears in her eyes. Mark didn't love her any longer. It was as simple as that. It amazed her that after so long that knowledge still hurt. 'I trust I won't be cutting into your hectic schedule to any great extent?'

'I'll wash your shirts, Mark,' said Cora. She stared through the window at the house opposite theirs. The two gardens backed onto each other. Their climbing ivy had obscured most of their side of the garden wall. Better trim it back soon, or that grouchy old Mr Finn would come round complaining. Too much to expect Mark to bother. He spent every weekend in the sitting room, eating crisps and drinking cheap beer and watching the footy. That was if he hadn't headed off down to the local, where the only difference between the two courses of activity were the location and the level of inebriation reached.

'Right.'

The thud of a cup being dropped onto the table; the whisper of fabric as Mark rose from the table, grabbed his jacket and exited, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

~

'Were you born in a barn or what?'

Her voice wasn't critical; it was amused, cheeky, deeply in love. The cold blast from the glacial hallway forced her to snuggle further under the holey, cheap blankets and scratchy sheets.

'How did you know?' he said, jumping into bed beside her, his hands forcing her to forget the still-open door. 'All great artists were. Guess who was just on the phone?' He began to tickle her without mercy.

'Who? Tell me!' The words were half-screamed through warm blasts of laughter.

'The Lavitt Gallery exhibition co-ordinator!' His eyes sparkled. Only Cora and art could make them do that. Or so she liked to believe. 'He thinks there might be space in their next show for some of my pieces...'

~

Cora blinked and automatically moved to shut the door. She rubbed her hands on her jumper, pausing to glance at her reflection in the glass-fronted cabinets.

She had never been pretty, but her features were regular and 'pleasant', as her mother had been wont to put it. Her hair - had used to be nice. Now it would be kind to call it a crow's nest. She put a distracted hand up to it -- her left, where the faux-emerald engagement ring and wedding band seemed to mock her. How long had it been since she'd had it styled? Their means were straitened, but surely things weren't that bad. The voice in her head was a mixture of her mother's and Mark's. The truth was, she couldn't be bothered with her appearance. There didn't seem to be any point now.

'Mummy!'

Thierry's pitiful voice floated down the stairs. Cora shook herself out of her stupor and took the steps two at a time, profoundly grateful for the distraction.

*~*

Between Thierry's incessant demands and her own attempts to make a start on the mammoth housework confronting her at every turn, the afternoon was well-advanced by the time Cora got around to seeing to Mark's shirts. After settling Thierry with a juice box, crackers and Blue Peter, she wandered wearily around the house, picking up discarded shirts from every nook and cranny. Mark was extremely careless -- some of them had a distinctly pickled aroma. The last one she found was actually bundled up in the closet under the stairs, squashed behind the Hoover.

She squatted in front of the washing machine, feeding the shirts in one by one. She'd never been able to impress on Mark the idea of turning his shirts the right way round and pulling out the sleeves so that they'd dry properly. Ditto for every other item of clothing he possessed. In reality she had plenty of ammunition to fire at him any time he denigrated her, but she knew he'd only turn it around to make her out as the archetypal bored, nagging housewife. He had a gift for doing that. And in the end, she'd only end up as petty as he'd become. She wasn't quite ready for that.

The shirt she'd found under the stairs was severely crumpled. Cora found herself pedantically trying to smooth out the folds in preparation for the machine. She noted the red stains almost in passing. Her tired brain had latched onto yanking out the crinkles with an almost desperate concentration and she had thought, 'I don't wear that shade of lipstick,' before her consciousness had even admitted what the marks were.

She stared at the shirt, wondering why she felt so little surprise. It explained ... a lot. The only question -- and she didn't, really didn't, care, either way, because the fact was that her husband was having an affair -- was whether it was a cause or a symptom of his dysfunctional relationship with his wife.

Cora sat back on her hells, rocking a little, for a long time, staring at one pronounced smudge until her vision blurred. It was remarkable that the merest cutting statement from her husband had her on the verge of sobbing, yet tangible evidence of his infidelity left her unmoved.

Eventually she stood up, letting the shirt fall away from her nerveless fingers. The tip of her right index came away red. Pretty fresh, then, a knowing little voice said, as Cora nodded along in agreement. Probably from last night. No wonder he came home so late. No wonder he's been distant and cruel and horrible. It's probably that new secretary, the blonde Barbie we saw at the last Christmas bash ...

Funny, that. Mark had always preferred brunettes. Like Cora.

She shrugged mentally, feeling a ghastly squeezing sensation around her abdomen. The world as she knew it had officially ended and she hadn't even started the washing cycle.

*~*

Cora hugged her worn blazer closer to her body as she struggled up the lane against the wind. Thierry had been deposited, wailing, at the Ryans' house. Margaret was too sensible and too cynical a single mother to ask questions.

Cora had no idea what she was going to say to Mark. 'Hello, I just figured out you're cheating on me.' 'Why don't you love me any more?' 'Pretty good place to get a divorce, wouldn't you say? You can commit the causes and we can submit the file in the same building!'

She nearly walked straight into her husband, who was tearing out of the office door as if he had wolves on his tail. When he saw her, his face melted and he looked like he was going to burst into tears. He grabbed her roughly by the arms and buried his face in her neck.

'I'm so sorry,' he said, muffled against her collar. 'It was only a few kisses, I swear. I didn't mean to -- it's just I feel so frustrated at the moment -- I can't even paint any more --'

Cora's arms went up around him; she muttered soothing nothings into his ear, all the while her mind whirling. Was he telling the truth? Most likely; Mark didn't lie. Brutal honesty was his weapon of choice. It wasn't fair, of course, for him to take out his frustrations on her, at least without giving her a chance to see if she could help. But at the moment, nothing else mattered except that her husband seemed genuinely upset at his mistake, which had to mean ... it had to mean ...

After a while, Mark lifted his reddened face. The imprint of her zip ran across one cheek. Cora raised one cold finger and rubbed it away. Mark grabbed her hand and kissed it.

'Forgive me?' he pleaded, his voice hoarse.

Cora tried to swallow, but found it to be beyond her. Instead, she went for the easy option and nodded.

'I - have to go back,' said Mark. 'But tonight - maybe we could sit down and have - a proper chat, you know?'

Cora smiled. Mark breathed a sigh of relief. 'How are you getting home?'

'I'll catch the bus from the end of the road,' she said, feeling happier than she had since Thierry was born. 'There's one every ten minutes.'

'Okay then,' said Mark, reluctantly letting her fingers go, but not before stealing another kiss. 'I'll see you tonight?''

Cora wondered why he'd phrased it as a question when there was no doubt involved. She drifted down the road in a dream, barely noticing an unusual -- for this peaceful area, at least -- fracas between two men.

*~*

'James

*~*

Mark's pen was jolted out of his fingers by an almighty crash. Green light imprinted itself on the back of his eyelids even as the screaming filled his ears.

He started to run.

*~*

Casualty #2

Name:

Clewyn Price

Age:

19

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

Student of History, Warwick University

Progeny:

None

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Not for the first time in his life, Clewyn cursed having a Welsh hippy for a mother.

It wasn't as though he had any bias against Welsh people, or indeed anyone really. In his particular case it would be astoundingly hypocritical. Living with Irene Price for nineteen years would probably do it for most people, however. He'd survived childish teasing over a name that sounded like a part of a plumber's toolkit, having his mother turn up at parent-teacher meetings wearing rainbow-hued dirndls and no bra and his friends being scared out of their wits by her offer to teach them yoga when they came to watch porn on his TV-video. It had been paid for by his 'soul-destroying' job stacking shelves in Mr Esthappen's corner shop while his mother read tarot for a living.

But this was just the limit.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, just in case his mother had slipped him some of her mushrooms in the soup he'd had for lunch and he was suffering from possibly the strangest hallucinations ever recorded.

Every inch of his room -- the bedstead, his dressing table, the lightshade, his -- his fists clenched -- television, everything -- was adorned, decorated or strung with crystals. Pink crystals.

'MUM!' he roared. He refused on principle to call her 'Irene'. His snub had the added value of pissing her off, something no teenager in his situation would have passed up, saving that they had the disposition of a saint.

Irene floated up the stairs, trailing dozens of drippy, hand-painted scarves and clanking with bead jewellery. She had a necklace around her forehead, so that the jewelled skull pendant fell right between her eyebrows. Clewyn derived some small amusement from the fact that movement and his mother's small head had combined to have the skull gradually slip down her face, so that it was now dangling precariously near the tip of her nose.

'What is it, dear heart?' she inquired peaceably. Irene liked to portray herself as possessing the persona of someone who was practically unrufflable, although waking her too early in the mornings shattered that illusion.

'This -' Clewyn found himself unable to form the words. He gestured vaguely with his hand. He didn't need to be too specific - there were so many crystals per square foot that as long as he pointed through the door he'd be certain to encompass at least four. 'What have you done?' he spluttered.

'Oh, the crystals,' she said, beaming. 'You noticed, then?'

'How could I not?' demanded Clewyn. 'What did you do, rob a crystal mine?'

'They're for the positive vibrations,' she informed him. 'They're all rose quartz. It's meant to stimulate your love life. I thought you could do with a little help. You've been away at university for over a year now and I've yet to hear even the tiniest mention of a girlfriend.'

Clewyn gaped at her. It was possible, he thought, that his father's death a year after Clewyn's birth had slowly but surely driven her round the twist. The woman was clearly bonkers. Of all things, stuffing his room full of crystals to get him a girlfriend...

~

The bar was smoky. Clewyn almost choked on the acrid air. He didn't want to cough, though. Anything not to bring attention to himself, not in this place. He wondered, for about the hundredth time, why he'd let his roommate talk him into this. It wasn't as if Clewyn had felt a desperate need to experiment, not if it meant suffering this level of humiliation. On the other hand, none of the bar's other patrons seemed embarrassed, or anything close to it. He had to avert his eyes from some of the more blatant displays of flesh.

And where the hell was Steve? He'd sworn he wouldn't leave Clewyn alone. Much as Clewyn hated to have to beg for companionship, he'd captiulated this once. In fact this whole situation had come about because Steve didn't want anything complicated in his life and shagging roommates came under the heading of 'complicated'. He'd gone and buggered off all the same, and - oh. There he was. Might as well hang a 'Do Not Disturb' sign around his -- or his --

Clewyn decided to leave that train of thought to be derailed and, sweating, headed for the packed bar.

There was plenty of fodder for discomfiture for a non-tactile person like Clewyn as he inserted his way to the counter. At least in other bars, when you brushed against another man like that, nothing was read into it. He was starting to see why girls tended to get so offended when boys leered at them. It really was unnerving. One drink -- now he'd made it as far as the bar -- and he was leaving. And he'd go doss on someone else's floor if Steve complained that Clewyn sleeping alone yet again was cramping his style.

He ordered a lager and was proud that his voice didn't shake, even though someone's hip was digging intently into his thigh. Around him, people were ordering euphemistically-named, lewdly-coloured cocktails and shots without a care, but Clewyn wasn't feeling that brave or that careless of his liver. He still got a feeling that the barman was laughing at him, though.

Once he had the beer in his hand, he was at something of a loss. Was he just going to go and drink this on his own, standing in a corner like the loser he suspected he was? If only to get away from that persistent hip, he struggled back through the crush of people, losing half his drink in the process. Good. It wouldn't take so long to drink and he could leave sooner.

People heading against him had other ideas and he sidestepped with such haste he jostled someone standing against a pillar quite roughly. From the angry exclamation, he guessed a quantity of liquid had made contact with someone's shirtfront. Wincing, he turned to face his victim.

And was faced with the greenest -- and admittedly, the angriest -- pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Their electric gaze stole all the breath from Clewyn's lungs. He'd never felt anything like it. Mind you, he'd never been in a situation before where an attraction like this could be readily acknowledged as such.

Clewyn decided he loved university.

The other man reminded him of himself, in that he was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and was holding a glass of beer, as opposed to oddments of leather, a cocktail and a leash. He was glaring at Clewyn, who abruptly realised he must have been wordlessly staring.

'I'm sorry,' he said, all of a rush. 'I didn't mean -- someone pushed me --'

'Oh, that's all right then,' said the other in a languid drawl. He dragged his eyes up and down Clewyn's body, quite obviously. Clewyn felt himself starting to blush. Again. 'Some people use that sort of body-grope as a chat-up line. I'm not particularly fond of that approach.'

'Oh, I wasn't -- I wouldn't --' Clewyn was mortified. The man raised his eyebrows.

'You come here often, then?' he said.

'First time,' whispered Clewyn, grimacing, but figuring he couldn't possibly look much more gauche if he tried.

'And you came here alone?' The eyebrows crawled towards his hairline.

'Well, my friend is currently otherwise occupied.' Clewyn was unable to prevent a slightly sarcastic note from colouring his tone.

'You a student?'

'Yeah, first year. You?'

'Second year, Economics.'

'Phew.' Clewyn pretended to wipe sweat from his forehead. The other man laughed. 'I'm Clewyn, by the way.' He fumbled for a moment and held out a glass-dampened hand.

The other man took it, smiling slightly. 'I like you, Clewyn.' He didn't even snigger, to Clewyn's surprise -- after all, Clewyn didn't even have a Welsh accent.

'I'm Dyfan.'

~

Yes,' his mother said, adjusting a tassel on her shawl and surveying the mounds of crystals with a proprietorial smile. 'I expect to have you inviting a nice girl home to meet me by the winter solstice.'

'Mum, I'm gay,' said Clewyn in desperation.

For a frozen moment, they stared at each other in mutual horror. Clewyn was mentally cursing himself. Of course he'd meant to tell her -- this week, in fact. Steve had ordered him to, Dyfan had begged him to almost continuously for months. Even the girl in the next room had demanded he do something so that he wouldn't keep coming back early from his mid-term breaks to meet Dyfan and thus disrupting her while she was trying to get a little extra study in. But he'd meant to lead up to it gently, somehow. The actual logistics were something he hadn't as yet contemplated, the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach providing ample distraction.

For what they were worth, the damn crystals had acted as some kind of catalyst. The words had emerged from his mouth without double-checking with his brain first.

Irene's face slowly drained of natural colour, leaving her looking vaguely green about the gills. Her hands clutched helplessly at her shawl. For the first time Clewyn noticed how claw-like they had become, how old.

She turned and groped her way down the stairs. Each creak stabbed Clewyn like a knife. He didn't know how long he stood there, holding onto the wall for support. Eventually, he made it to the phone extension in his mother's bedroom and shakily dialled Dyfan's home number. Dyfan, who'd clearly been waiting for his call, picked up on the second ring.

'Hi, it's me.' Clewyn cleared his throat rapidly to get rid of the hoarse, choking sound.

'You told her, I take it?' Dyfan sounded relieved and sympathetic at the same time. He'd never had to go through this sort of angst; his parents were intelligent people who'd spotted his leanings before he himself had dared to recognise them. For his seventeenth birthday they'd given him, along with his other presents, a pamphlet on AIDS and a tube of mail-order lubricant. Clewyn felt dully jealous of someone whose parents lived on the same wavelength as they did. It was too much to expect his mother even to acknowledge this, much less accept and welcome it. Dyfan's parents had to be exceedingly liberal. Perhaps they'd adopt him, after his mother tried to perform a ritual castration on him to rid him of his evil tendencies.

'Yeah, I did.' Clewyn felt very weary. 'All of five minutes ago. I'd better go check on her actually, make sure she hasn't died of shock or something. I just wanted to -- you know, tell you.'

''Preciate it.' Dyfan's voice was warm and soothing. 'Love you.'

'Yeah. Me too,' said Clewyn shyly. He'd never managed to build up the courage to say those words back to Dyfan.

One day.

When he came downstairs, his mother was feverishly thumbing through the phone book.

'What are you doing, Mum?' he asked.

'Looking for a GP,' she muttered. When she glanced up at him, for a second, her eyes were over-bright. 'Maybe there's something to fix it ...'

Fury crashed over Clewyn like a tidal wave, destroying the tiny dam of hope that had formed from a spark of an idea that his mother could be adult and sensible and undiscriminating about this. All the things he could have said in defence -- that he didn't have a disease, that there was nothing wrong with him except stupid, narrow-minded people like her, that love made no differentiation between gender -- fled his rage-hot brain.

'Fuck you,' he said, low and wild. His mother looked up with a gasp, hurt writ large on her face. He'd never used language like that on her -- rarely used it at all, in fact. The novelty value wasn't lost on either of them.

Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the door. With no clear idea where he was going, he turned up a side-road with a vague intention of heading to the town centre and finding a pub. He was cold; the bitter wind whipped through him and he hadn't stopped for a coat. Halfway up the road, he passed two men having an intense argument. He paused, feeling in his jeans pocket, and realised that he hadn't a penny to his name. He'd left it all in his wallet, currently residing on his bed with the rest of his college stuff.

With a heartfelt sigh, he turned to go back.

*~*

and

*~*

For something to do, Irene Price fretfully shuffled her dog-eared tarot cards. In her heart of hearts and despite the occult show she put on for customers, she knew that she was as psychic as next door's dog.

But, after all, she may have been a little more prescient than even she knew. For when the phone rang, she was trembling violently before she picked up the receiver.

*~*

Casualty #3

Name:

Sister Bonaventure (Mary Neenan)

Age:

53

Marital Status:

Bride of Christ

Occupation:

Missionary nun

Progeny:

None

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Being back in England made Sister Bonaventure feel so very old.

Everything was so dull and drab here, always wet. The inherent pathetic fallacy seemed to saturate the lives of the people. People rarely smiled and then only at people that they knew. No one had a happy expression to spare for a perfect stranger, or a penny to give a needy beggar. They kept themselves wrapped in themselves, holding their bodies away from each other as firmly as they buttoned their coats.

Even her fellow nuns were -- and she invoked the divine right of honesty in this case -- dried-up old prunes. Sister Bonaventure was of the firm opinion, moulded by years of experience, that in order to be good and kind to others you had to be good and kind to yourself. Unhappiness was catching and if you were discontented it was going to rub off on those around you. She was frankly amazed that these women had found themselves called to the service of God. Of course, everyone, in their own particular way, was called to the service, but they had specifically vowed to make it their life's work. As far as she could see, their life's work thus far had been to refine pettiness to an art form.

Take mass this morning, for example. A muted affair, with no singing apart from the discordant croaking of Sister Francis, who had dementia and was generally hidden from public view. The priest had been a pig of a man. Sister Bonaventure had nothing against a few extra pounds -- in Africa they were, rightly, regarded as vital. However, his rolling flab bespoke a life of gluttony and sloth. Sister Bonaventure could see all this plainly and forgave it, for that was in her nature in any case. But not one of them had a sense of humour and what was life without humour? It was like salt. Although they skimped on that too -- all the food in the convent was as bland as porridge. It reminded Sr Bonaventure of her childhood, when nothing was in plentiful supply. But at least then, they had used salt when they could get it.

One of the altar boys, ascending the dais to the altar after communion, had entirely failed to notice that the belt of his robe was slipping. It was only when it got tangled up in his feet -- causing him to very nearly send the platter flying -- that he realised it. He was forced to kick it along the floor until he reached his bench. Sister Bonaventure had been nearly crying with mirth and had had to stuff her rosary beads in her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. From a distance it might have looked like religious fervour, but she doubted the nuns sitting in her pew were convinced. And not one of them had even cracked a smile.

She sighed a little. She longed to be back in Africa, with its air so dry it nearly seared the throat and a people bowed by poverty and injustice but still the most welcoming and united she'd ever known. It was the will of God that she had been recalled, of course. The Lord knew even the Midlands could do with someone working actively to spread the Good News. She couldn't help wishing, though, that He would manage to see His way to having her posted back to the country she dearly loved, and with all possible speed.

Things had greatly changed in the thirty years since she'd last set foot on her native soil. Television had to be the greatest culture shock. She recalled her whole street in London clustering around one small, black and white set to watch the Queen being crowned. Now, every household had one and they were in colour, with unimaginable programmes and 'all sorts of degeneracy', as Mother Eucharia had sniffily put it. Judging from even limited acquaintance, Sister Bonaventure determined that Mother Eucharia was the sort of person who had a terminal cold. Sister Bonaventure couldn't quench a wistful desire to see this famous 'Countdown'.

It was the time of day in the convent dedicated to contemplation of God and back home they'd just be getting ready for school, and all the faces eager and ready to learn and to grasp the slight opportunity provided them. The sisters were encouraged to spend it in whatever manner they thought appropriate. Most of them retired to read the Bible, or rather to stare at the Bible and fall asleep by the fire. Even Sister Bonaventure found her eyes growing heavy in the stifling room.

One of the nuns -- a Sister Beatrice, the only person in the convent Sister Bonaventure had really warmed to - would probably go out to tend the garden, despite the searing cold. She had cultivated the beautiful grounds practically single-handed, with no help whatsoever from her fellow nuns either in monies or in labour. She had in fact told Sister Bonaventure -- with a calm, patient expression -- that Mother Eucharia often found it impossible to provide her with the funds to buy sufficient amounts of new seeds each spring. So -- and her face had become a little guilty as she mentioned this and she confided that Sister Bonaventure was one of the few people she'd taken into her confidence over it -- she kept back one or two of the crocheted dainty bits she made and sold them independently to pay her way. The rest of her produce, along with the handmade rosary beads and similar craftworks fashioned by other talented sisters, was sold in the chapel shop, the profits from which Mother Eucharia appropriated for 'running costs'. None of which, seemingly, could be spared to provide adequate heating oil. Sister Bonaventure could feel herself developing her first cold in three decades.

She longed for Africa with all her heart.

~

And there had been a time -- one of many times, in that dry, parched place, where poor education and desperation had culminated in over-cultivation and drought -- when the rains did not come. It had been spring. They waited for months. The sisters, in their sandals and light robes, had watched as the farmers' faces became more haggard and drawn, as hope for late rains drained away.

The ground dried up. The rivers dwindled and disappeared. The edges of the nearest lake sprouted a mosaic of cracked mud, as the water first seeped down and then evaporated altogether, leaving a thin rime of caked salt.

The first year, the water disappeared. The next, the grass was gone and the livestock sprouted ribs like barred gates. Finally, the next spring came and the only creatures eating well were the buzzards. The fourth year, even they felt the pinch.

There's no malice in a drought except that which people give it. It doesn't mean to hurt people, in the same way that a poverty-stricken herder doesn't mean to hurt the land by grazing his cattle on the scanty scrub holding back the borders of the desert. In this drought, Sister Bonaventure found more strength in herself and in the people around her than she had ever thought possible.

The little village was so isolated that the nearest post office was a week's journey away on foot. No one owned a vehicle. The church was four mud walls. In the good times, people had stayed at home until showers passed. Now, people didn't worry about getting wet. But still they gathered, the little square packed to capacity every Sunday, praying with such fervour and hope that Sister Bonaventure couldn't get through a single mass without wanting to cry. There was surely no way that God could not hear their faithful pleas.

The drought ended with skies like green bruises. The shadow of the rainclouds spread across the land like a wedge-tailed eagle unfolding its wings. Then the rain began. It was hard to think of it as rain at first -- it was as if someone had scooped the world's oceans into a huge basin and dumped the lot on the African plains.

Sister Bonaventure was not the only one who ran outside, screaming happily and raising her hands to the sky, trying to catch handfuls of water.

Most of that first storm was lost, washing away and leaving dry soil behind it. But there was another, and another, and another. Children of five and six, who couldn't really remember rain, sat on their doorsteps and complained about the tears coming out of the sky.

It took time for the land to recover completely. Early one morning Sr Bonaventure rose and surveyed what was before her. Greenery was sprouting madly. The place was lush with growth, as if the land was grasping at life after so many years of dormancy. Then she saw something even better and even more of a surprise.

She called her sisters, and they stood together outside the mud-walled convent, smiling.

There was a cow.

~

The small gold clock on the mantlepiece chimed the hour. Sr Bonaventure, who had been reading over her favourite Gospel story -- the one in which Christ was on the cross, speaking with the two criminals hanging beside him and telling them 'Today, you will be with me in Paradise' -- closed her well-worn leather-bound Bible and sighed. The room in which she was sitting, festooned with fussy doilies and cracking wallpaper, managed to be stuffy and cold at the same time.

'Mother, would you mind if I took a walk to town? I feel some Vicks for my chest would do me good,' she said, turning to the shrivelled-up old woman seated in the best armchair, closest to the meagre fire.

Mother Eucharia sniffed, an unpleasant sound which brought to Sr Bonaventure's mind the memory of an elephant passing wind. 'If you feel you must, Sister,' she allowed. 'However, you must use your stipend. We have no spare money this week and the times are tight.'

Sr Bonaventure thought uncharitably that for Mother Eucharia, times would be tight if she were living in the Papal Apartments. Picking up her wooden rosary beads -- she could say the Joyful Mysteries on the way into town and ask penance for her unkind thoughts -- she thanked the Mother Superior, who merely sniffed yet again.

Sr Bonaventure retrieved her outdoor coat from the cupboard in the front hall. The horrendous lime-green paint was peeling back from the walls. When Sr Bonaventure touched a gnarled finger to it in hopes of pushing it back into place, it crumbled away. Feeling guilty, even thought it was not her negligence that had caused the paint to decay in the first place, Sr Bonaventure buttoned up her coat. It was one of Sr Beatrice's cast-offs; Sr Bonaventure had little clothing that was suitable for an English winter. She resolved to say the Sorrowful Mysteries, as well.

Outside, it was a raw day. Sr Bonaventure had no gloves and she felt the stinging wind keenly. Her thin cap of grey hair was no protection against the cold. However, she did need some Vicks and the walk would be beneficial. It was not healthy to be shut up inside all day, even on a blisteringly cold day such as this. Back home, they would have been working on their farm right now, or teaching the village children. Sr Bonaventure smiled at the memory. How she had loved teaching. Her gift for explanations and holding an audience's attention was God-sent and there was no one more appreciative of her skills than the people of the village she missed so much.

There were few people out and about, but Sr Bonaventure smiled and greeted each person she passed with a cheery, 'Good afternoon'. Most looked startled by the attention and not a few seemed displeased. Only three sent her a muttered 'Howrya' in return. Disheartened, Sr Bonaventure tired of her walk by the end of the lane. She suddenly felt too tired to walk all the way into town to visit the chemist's.

She turned back, her attention caught by two men in the throes of a heated argument. She hurried forward, wondering if she should intervene. One of the men, tall and with dark hair in disarray over his handsome, eerily calm face, struck Sr Bonaventure. He seemed ... awestruck, standing there, listening to the other man's passionate tirade.

'Excuse me,' Sr Bonaventure began.

*~*

Lily!'

*~*

Life went on much as usual in the convent. Mother Eucharia sniffed and squirreled away the convent's money in a secret compartment under the statue of the Sacred Heart in her bedroom. The clocks chimed the hour and the nuns ate and slept and prayed.

A few months later, Sister Beatrice died from a chill, taken from working too long in the wet, frozen gardens. She was mourned; her delicate, intricate lace doilies had brought the greatest income to the chapel shop.

*~*

Casualty #4

Name:

Sam O'Dwyer

Age:

26

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

Accountant

Progeny:

None

Cause of death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Beatrice was angry at him. Again.

Sam could always tell. Even if he didn't know the why or the how or the wherefores -- which was generally the case -- he knew when Beatrice was angry. Her lips would compress together, like two little slugs being squashed to death, and fine lines would engrave themselves at the side of her mouth. He was pretty certain that, when she was older, Beatrice would end up with a mouth like a pickled prune because of the way she pursed up her lips when she was mad.

He already knew that Beatrice would be a very ugly old woman. She dyed her hair so much now that it was sure to be frazzled to a crisp by the time she was forty and she didn't eat well enough to keep her complexion healthy and blemish-free, instead covering it with makeup applied, it would seem, by trowel. Most of all, when her figure and her transitional, cheap prettiness faded, what would be left was the angry, bitter woman underneath, who would finally show.

When they got home - Sam always drove them home from the office where they both worked, Sam as an accountant, Beatrice as a secretary -- Sam headed straight for the television, hoping to catch the end of the Arsenal match. He would have been able to see most, if not all, of it if it weren't for Beatrice. She'd insisted on hanging back to chat to one of the other secretaries, who'd just fallen pregnant for the second time. Sam had waited impatiently in the lobby for a good half-hour, listening to the faint sounds of Beatrice cooing over catalogues of baby clothes.

'Samuel O'Dwyer!'

Beatrice's strident tones echoed down the foot-long hallway of the small flat. Sam sighed, his hand on the remote. 'Yes, Bea?'

Beatrice appeared at the doorway, her hand on her hip. She'd taken off her grey suit jacket and her slowly-growing spare tyre was spilling out from under the short, hot-pink blouse she was wearing. 'Don't call me Bea,' she snapped.

'Sorry, Bea,' said Sam automatically.

Beatrice advanced into the living room. Sam stifled a sigh and fingered the remote, wondering what would happen if he dared to turn it on. Beatrice would get in an awful huff, but if he was really lucky, she'd storm off to the kitchen for the night and leave him alone. Of course, she'd refuse to give him any tea, but he could always sneak out at midnight and grab some of the cold beans he had sitting in the fridge.

It wasn't like he hadn't done it before, after all.

'So,' said Beatrice, sitting on the sofa across from him, crossing her ankles and giving him a beady glare.

For a moment Sam remembered why he'd asked her out in the first place. A few years ago, before she'd let her figure go slightly and had been less abrasive, less settled, she'd been quite a catch. Not that Sam had been feeling particularly picky at the time; in fact, if she hadn't pursued him, he would have been as happy to never see her again.

'Anne thinks it's going to be a boy,' Beatrice informed him. Sam tried his best to appear scintillated, which he was most emphatically not.

He managed a non-committed, 'Really?' wondering if asking her to go put the tea on would be construed as misogynistic instead of a way to get rid of her.

Beatrice had a lot to say about misogyny since she'd read The Female Eunuch and started attending a female self-empowerment group on Thursday nights down in the old church hall. Her favourite time to expound her new theories was in bed and she had an unerring instinct for picking the times when Sam was feeling exhausted or horny. He had thus far resisted telling her that he'd read The Female Eunuch already and that he was perfectly prepared to do half the housework, as long as he was asked and not ordered to. With Beatrice, however, keeping silent made for an easier life. Considering how difficult his life with her was already, he shuddered to think what it would be like if he set out to antagonise her.

'Yes.' Beatrice's mouth was starting to purse up. 'You know she's only twenty-three? And she's been married for three years. And she's two years younger than I am.'

'No, I didn't,' said Sam, which was true. He didn't care, either, but he neglected to employ that addendum.

'Sam!' Beatrice burst out. 'What's wrong with you? Don't you want to have children?'

'What?' exclaimed Sam. Where had that come out of? Talk about a bolt from the blue!

However, Beatrice was staring at him with a face like thunder and Sam thought he'd better answer, if he wanted to wake up the next morning with his crown jewels intact.

'Um, I've not really thought about it,' he mumbled. 'I guess I do, someday. What's for tea?'

'It's your turn to cook,' snarled Beatrice.

Sam tuned out.

~

Once upon a time, there was a boy called Sam and he was happy.

Back then he'd lived in a sleepy little village in the Cotswolds, with parents and a brother who was useful for beating-up practice and a cat who ate more than the four of them put together. School was quiet and laid-back in a red-brick building on the edge of town; teenage pregnancy, drug scares and hooliganism had not yet penetrated its confines.

It was a favoured location for the sort of London yuppie who wanted to get back to nature, preferably through the tinted glass windows of their Range Rovers. Sam's next-door neighbours ran a profitable bed and breakfast and Sam started working there the summer after he finished school, to save up some money for college. He was lucky that his parents were well-off. His father was a vet and his mother worked in the surgery, looking after the books and the appointments. In a time of nationwide depression, Sam was lucky to be able to go to university at all and he was mindful of the fact.

It promised to be an exciting year, what with going up to Manchester to study Accounting and Finance, a bit of money in his pocket, ready to taste all the delights life away from home could bring.

However, one delight arrived a little before time and in his very own village. Her name was Jemima. Her parents were something big in City investment banking. They'd taken a week out of their busy lives to go on holiday with their daughter before she went away to college. In Manchester, as it turned out.

Jemima could not have been more different to her parents, who wore business suits to breakfast and were always dashing off to make phone calls to the office. Jemima wore a rainbow-coloured crocheted cap on what seemed to be a permanent basis. Long ribbons of hair, dyed a combination of blue and blonde, cascaded from underneath it. She had a diamond stud in her nose and combat boots on her feet. She tramped around the village wearing a curious expression and army fatigues. No one knew what to make of her; they'd never seen her like before.

Sam was smitten.

Utterly incapable of verbalising his devotion, he instead sent her table the best slices of toast and rashers of bacon every morning, made sure that the flowers there were the freshest and most attractive of those delivered every day and gave the chambermaid the most expensive chocolates the village shop offered for her pillow. He didn't think she noticed, but it made him feel warm inside to think that she enjoyed these attentions, even if she didn't realise it.

On one of his days off, he went to the local pub with a couple of mates, for a few beers and a round or two of pool. He was just starting to feel pleasantly comfortable when she walked in.

Sam could feel himself going red. Not just the faint suggestion that yes, you

are blushing, that most people got. No, he could sense the flush rising from his toes, surging through his bloodstream and letting off little sparks that forced their way through his skin, turning his whole body scarlet. So he felt.

She looked about with an interested expression, all her weight resting on one combat boot, her finger twirling one blue strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze crossed the room to the alcove where the pool table was situated and she smiled. At least, her mouth quirked upwards in a gesture that set Sam ablaze.

When she started walking towards them, Sam froze, his hands locked about his cue. His friends noticed her and a few of them nodded towards her, asking in body language, 'Who's she? What's she doing here?' They didn't see Sam turning into an ice sculpture.

'Hello,' she said, when she was within hearing distance. She directed her greeting to Sam, who was far too embarrassed to acknowledge it. A few of the boys returned her greeting, looking slightly confused.

'You're the boy who works in the B and B, aren't you?' she persisted, that smile still playing about her lips. Sam swallowed - a major undertaking -- and managed a muted acquiescence.

'You weren't there this morning,' she said. Her voice was low, and the rest of the boys, realising she'd already picked her man, turned back to the game.

'No,' agreed Sam, wondering when a prickly cactus had taken root in his throat. 'It's my day off.'

'Ah.' Jemima pressed her index finger to her bottom lip. 'I missed the toast,' she added, her voice rushed.

Although he couldn't meet her eyes, Sam was smiling like a madman.

She was leaving the next day, but she promised to meet up with him during Freshers' Week. True to her word, they did. Her diamond stud was now a sapphire and her hair was pink and blonde, but Sam still couldn't take his eyes off her. He's been thinking about her all summer. They'd exchanged a few letters, but Sam found he never had much to say; in truth they didn't know each other that well, but when they were together again, they talked for hours, about everything and nothing.

Sam loved being in her company so much that it didn't dawn on him for two months that he'd never kissed her, nor she him. He wanted to and he thought about it a lot, but when he was with her he entirely forgot in the face of her jokes and her debates and the sound of her voice. He worried then that she was insulted by the fact that he'd never tried -- or worse, that she didn't want him to.

The next time they met, Sam was awkward as he'd never been awkward since the first time she'd talked to him. After a bit, Jemima got angry and then worried.

'Sam, are you feeling well? You're so quiet.'

'I -- I'm not --' Sam felt the blood rush to his face.

'Perhaps you need a lie-down.' Jemima sounded nothing but concerned, but with the new thoughts that were sloshing around in Sam's head like molten magma, it was not the best thing she could have said. He groaned.

'Jemima.'

'Yes?' She was hovering over him now, her cool hand checking the temperature on his forehead. Before he could lose his nerve, or forget again, he arched his neck and pressed his lips to hers.

It was a long time before they stopped and then most of Jemima's red lipstick was on Sam's face, and Sam was shivering. He couldn't believe he'd waited so long to do that.

Of course, it didn't last. He loved her, but it didn't last. When they graduated, they broke up, because Jemima felt they were too young for a commitment like marriage and Sam agreed.

'It's a pity we didn't meet three years from now,' Jemima said, sadly. 'Then it would have been perfect.'

But she'd met Tom, who

had been perfect, and Sam had discovered that Jemima had been perfect and that nothing and nobody would ever compare. Which was when - for lack of a better term - Beatrice found him.

~

Beatrice took sick leave the next day, having come down with a bad cold overnight. It was nothing that would have stopped her from typing or taking shorthand dictation, in Sam's opinion, but Beatrice was the queen of hypochondriacs.

Sam was just returning to his desk from hanging his coat in the cloakroom when his phone rang. When he picked it up and heard who was on the other end, his body knew exactly how to react. With a blush that spread from his toes and rocketed out of his blood into his skin ...

'... I don't know why we were so scared, Sam,' said Jemima. 'It was so foolish, to throw away what we had because we thought we were too young for it to be real, or for it to last. I know it's probably unfair, but I just wanted to say that I still love you, Sam. I always did. I promise you won't hear from me again, though, because I don't want to ruin what you and Beatrice have. But -- but I couldn't live without you knowing --'

'Stop,' commanded Sam. 'Where are you?'

Jemima sounded surprised. 'Why, I -- I'm using the public phone box at the train station. Sam? What's wrong?'

'Stay there,' said Sam, his voice rising and trembling slightly. 'I have to get my coat -- just stay there -- I'm coming. Promise you'll wait for me, Jemima?'

Jemima laughed. It wasn't a laugh of humour. 'I've waited for you since I was seventeen. What's a few more minutes?'

'Stay where you are,' Sam repeated, ready to burst out of skin with excitement and love. 'I'll be there soon.'

He hung up.

*~*

Peter

*~*

Five hours later, Jemima decided to go home. She knew she hadn't misjudged what Sam -- in his incoherent, wonderful way -- had been saying, but it was quite clear that he wasn't going to turn up. He'd been delayed, she decided, or he'd done the brave thing and gone to talk to Beatrice first. She couldn't feel very sorry for Beatrice, because she didn't like her. But then, she unequivocally hated anyone who had Sam instead of her, so perhaps that didn't really count. She could wait until tomorrow to see him again. They had the rest of their lives to use up, after all.

When she sank onto the sofa and turned on her small, black and white portable television to hear the news -- and when she saw what was on the news -- she realised that she had the rest of her life, in fact, to wait.

*~*

Casualties # 5 and # 6

Names:

Sarah-Lee Mackey and Joseph (Joe) Reed

Ages:

16

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

Students at Oakfield Vocational Secondary School

Progeny:

None. Yet.

Cause of death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Sarah-Lee popped another stick of chewing gum into her mouth and began to masticate it with much enthusiasm and lip-smacking. It was chilly outside on the bench, but she'd promised Joe that she'd meet him here. She hoped he'd take her in for a milkshake in McDonald's when he arrived. She was really hungry all of the time lately.

The wind picked up speed and Sarah-Lee huddled into her coat. Her large gold hoop earrings swung. She wished she'd thought to wear gloves; her hands were turning a mottled shade of purple. She slid them inside her coat for warmth, feeling the slight bump with a thrill of something like excitement.

A few minutes later, her reverie was broken by Joe's arrival. He plumped down on the bench beside her and wrapped his arms around her, smothering her with kisses. Sarah-Lee giggled.

'Stoppit, Joe,' she protested, but without any real force behind her words.

'How's my little soldier today?' Joe asked her stomach, covering her hands with his own.

'Made me throw up all my Weetabix this morning, that's how he is,' Sarah-Lee informed him.

'Ah, he's just picky, like his dad,' said Joe, smiling. 'Well, princess? What do you want to do today?'

'I'd really like a milkshake,' said Sarah-Lee.

'Sounds good to me,' said Joe, helping her to her feet.

'Hey, I'm not an old woman, you know,' said Sarah-Lee, shaking off his arm and smoothing her ponytail.

'I know.' Joe's face was earnest. 'I just want to take care of you and the bub, that's all.'

'You're sweet,' Sarah-Lee said, kissing him on the nose. 'So ... when do you think we should tell my parents? And yours?'

'I'm feeling brave,' declared Joe. 'How about tonight? Are they doing anything?'

'I don't think so.' Sarah-Lee frowned. 'Mum's going out to bingo at nine, but if we catch her before then ...'

'Fair enough,' agreed Joe. 'Mine can wait till tomorrow.'

'Joe.' Sarah-Lee bit her lip. Joe looked at her in concern. 'Do you think they'll be really angry?'

'Aw, come here,' said Joe and Sarah-Lee went into the circle of his arms. 'Look,' he muttered into her hair, 'it'll come as a shock to them, right enough. But I love you and I'll always take care of you and the kid. Big Mick at the garage said he might take me on as an apprentice. We'll soon save up enough for a little flat for the three of us. It's going to be fine.'

Sarah-Lee snuggled against him, feeling reassured once more. Something inside of her protested and it wasn't the baby. Reluctantly, she broke away from Joe. 'I'm really hungry now,' she said.

'Milkshakes and burgers it is then, princess,' said Joe gallantly, and took her hand in his as they walked into the shopping centre.

~

Sarah-Lee stood in the corner of the disco, tugging at her cheap, short skirt and feeling generally left-out. All of her friends were dancing with boys and she could see that Vicky and Suzie already had their tongues stuck down their partners' throats. Sarah-Lee was angry, too, underneath of it all. Her friends had promised to look after her at her first disco. Instead they'd abandoned her almost as soon as they'd got in the door.

The punch tasted odd and she was pretty sure it was spiked. All the same, she kept going back for more, because she had nothing else to do.

After a while, it became more and more difficult to focus her eyes and the room began to spin alarmingly. A boy came up to her at last, asking her if she felt all right, with an odd grin on his face. Sarah-Lee was too drunk to notice it. When he asked her if she wanted to go outside, she agreed. She felt a breath of fresh air would do her good, maybe clear her head.

She never did find out his name. Standing against the pebble-dashed wall of the rugby hall and taking deep lungful of air, she realised just how wobbly her legs were. When the boy pushed against her, she couldn't even find the strength to push him away.

It was over in a few minutes, of panting and groaning on his part and faint bewilderment on hers. Her older sister Liz had once told her in confidence that the first time you 'did it', it really hurt. Sarah-Lee didn't feel pain, just a sort of tearing sensation that left an ache for a long time, followed by an uncomfortable feeling of fullness.

He escorted her back into the disco and left her sitting on one of the benches; she didn't see him again. When her friends found her at the end of the disco, chatting and boasting about the lads they'd danced with, they didn't notice the vacant look on her face.

Her period was due the next week, but Sarah-Lee felt no surprise when it didn't come. She knew already.

Joe was a boy in her class. Gangly and spotty, he was quiet, found school a bit out of his league and never got asked out by anyone. He was always '... and Joe'.

'We went to the disco and there were those really fit lads from school there ... and Joe.'

'The boys won the football match and we went to the party afterwards and the team was there ... and Joe.'

'We're going to the cinema next week, Tommy. Do you want to come? You can bring all your mates ... and Joe.'

He hadn't needed much persuading. When Sarah-Lee asked him out, a dull fearful sensation in her insides urging her on, he agreed straight away. Sarah-Lee was surprised to find him a really sweet boy; he paid for her cinema ticket and her large popcorn, he walked her home afterwards and was a perfect gentleman, doing nothing more than kiss her on the cheek with lips that were unexpectedly soft. Sarah-Lee felt even worse about what she was doing because of how nice he was. And also because, in other circumstances, Sarah-Lee wouldn't have minded going out with him for his own sake.

He put his arm around her the next time they went to the cinema, but it was she who instigated kissing him properly at her doorstep. He started when she pressed her mouth to his and his breath hitched. When she broke away he was wearing a loopy grin. He forgot to say goodbye as he wandered off in a daze and Sarah-Lee felt something in the pit of her heart squeeze.

It was a month before she could get him to sleep with her. The baby was already going to be premature, that was for certain. Sarah-Lee had trusted that he knew what to do and when he whispered that it was his first time, she almost died. It was ... messy, and still uncomfortable, although there was no soreness this time. However, the look on Joe's face and the way he couldn't stop muttering his astonishment into her hair more than made up for it.

She assumed he'd be angry when she told him she was pregnant; in fact, she was pretty much prepared for the idea that he would desert her entirely. She'd wanted the baby to be his, though. Not because she thought he'd be a wonderful father or even because she loved him, but because above all things she didn't want the baby to belong to that boy in the disco. This way, at least she could pretend. At least she would have a name to tell her child when it grew old enough to ask.

As it turned out, he wasn't angry. In fact, he was delighted. Sarah-Lee thought she'd never seen one person look so happy in the face of such news. He'd got up and started pacing the room, wearing the same grin he'd worn when she'd kissed him the first time, babbling incoherently. Phrases like, 'Oh my god, I'm going to be a dad' and 'You're sure, princess? You're sure?'

Sarah-Lee was sure.

~

Sarah-Lee sat slurping her strawberry milkshake, twirling the straw around the bottom of the paper cup. Joe stood in line at the counter to get her a second burger. She had a stomach like a bottomless well these days.

When he returned, setting the food in front of her, he asked, 'Hey, princess, have you thought about names yet?'

'For ou -- for the baby?' asked Sarah-Lee.

'No, for the dog.' Joe snorted at his own joke. Sarah-Lee humoured him with a smile.

'I have, actually,' she said. 'Have you?'

'Yeah.' Joe looked a bit embarrassed. 'But you go first.'

'Okay,' Sarah-Lee said. 'If it's a girl --'

'It's gonna be a boy, though,' interrupted Joe. 'I can feel it. And he's gonna be a better footballer than George Best!'

'If it's a boy,' Sarah-Lee reminded him. 'There's no way to be certain. Anyway, if it's a girl, Melody or Tiffany. Or Jade. If it's a boy, maybe Christopher or Gulliver, like the chap in that book we're reading in English. You?'

'Oh, George,' said Joe, with utter certainty. 'After Georgie Best, of course.'

Sarah-Lee hid a smile. 'And if it does, by some chance, turn out to be a girl?'

'Ehm.' Joe's big honest forehead wrinkled up with the effort of cogitating. 'Maybe ... Georgina?'

'Good call,' said Sarah-Lee. 'Though, someone once told me that you'll only know after the baby's born. That's when you'll see what name fits.'

'Hopefully George,' Joe said, and Sarah-Lee had to laugh at him. 'Not long to go now, eh, princess? Five months?'

'Yeah,' confirmed Sarah-Lee. 'I'm surprised Mum hasn't noticed yet; I guess she's too tired from work.' Or drinking, she added mentally. As for her father, he wouldn't notice if his daughters grew wings and flew around the living room, so long as they didn't get in the way of the telly.

'Well, she won't have to notice after tonight,' Joe said. 'After all, we're going to tell them. I'm sure they'll be pleased with grandkids. I know my mum wants them.'

Sarah-Lee didn't answer. Her parents already had five grandchildren. They paid them as much attention as they did their own children, which was to say little to none.

'Have you told any of your wee mates yet?' Joe was asking.

'No. Well, I mean, Vicky guessed --' And was utterly appalled. 'You're only sixteen! Are you seriously going to throw your life away on this? Don't you think you should ... you know ... get rid of it?' '-- but aside from her, no. I haven't told anyone.'

'I told Marcus,' Joe confided, his face wreathed in smiles. 'I couldn't help it. I was just so proud, princess.'

'That's okay, Joe. After the weekend we can tell everyone.' Sarah-Lee hesitated. 'And what did Marcus think of it?'

Joe's face clouded over. 'Eh, nothing much,' he mumbled. 'I asked him to be a godfather. He said he'd think about it. I mean -- if you don't mind, princess.'

'No, no,' Sarah-Lee reassured him, feeling cold all of a sudden.

'You finished there? I should be getting you home,' Joe said. 'And of course we need to practice what we're going to say.'

'That's true,' Sarah-Lee said. She sucked up the last drop of milkshake and hopped off her chair, adjusting the belt on her drain-pipe jeans. She couldn't tie the top button any longer and even the belt was getting uncomfortably snug, but she had to wear it to keep the top of her jeans closed.

'Princess,' Joe asked, as they walked down the road past two brawling men, 'have you thought about what you're going to do after the baby comes? Are you going to go back to school?'

'Nah, I don't think so,' Sarah-Lee said. 'My aunt works in Tesco's and I'm sure she'd help me get a job there, once the baby's got a bit older. Or I could stay at home and mind it.' She rubbed her arms, trying to chafe some warmth into them. 'It's going to be really scary, Joe,' she said, in a moment of painful honesty.

'I know,' said Joe, drawing her close and kissing the top of her head, hitting his nose off her scrunchy. 'But I'll be here. I'll look after you.'

*~*

sobbed. 'How

*~*

The policeman rubbed his bristly hair. This was one of the worst parts of the job. He looked around the squalid little kitchen with its worktops marked with suspicious brown stains. He tried not to think about what he was actually saying. The balding old man in the singlet was looking at him as if he were speaking French and the mother had a glassy-eyed look about her that suggested she was seeing the world through the bottom of a bottle. His news didn't seem to move them at all -- unless it was somewhere deep inside, in a place not visible to the naked eye.

He tried again. 'I'm sorry, madam,' he said, addressing the mother, who turned her head slowly towards him. 'Did you know that she was pregnant?'

*~*

Casualty #7

Name:

Roberta Wilcox

Age:

37

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

Stage actress

Progeny:

One

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Roberta kicked Tom's football kit away from the kitchen door with a grimace of disgust. If she'd told him once to put it away, she'd told him a thousand times All the same, every Tuesday evening she still returned home to find his gear ten yards from the washing machine, reeking and obstructing the door. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but the faint sound of explosions emanated from down the hallway, suggesting that he was at that very moment mutilating aliens on his video games.

'Tom!' she called and, when she got no response other than an extra loud bang, 'TOM!'

There was a minute pause and a gruff voice yelled, 'What?'

'Come here right now!' Roberta commanded, but it was clear that Tom was either ignoring her or that he couldn't hear her voice over the noise he was making.

Stepping over the kit, tangling her high heel in a grubby sock that wound itself around her ankle like a persistent snake, Roberta strode down to her son's bedroom and tried to open the door. It was locked, so she rattled the handle, calling his name in exasperation.

After an eternity, she could hear Tom shuffling off the bed and the sound of the lock snicking open. His tousled dirty-blonde head peered around the tiny crack, wearing an expression of long-suffering patience.

'Yeah?' he drawled.

'Your kit.' Roberta was almost incandescent with rage. 'I told you to put it in the washing machine directly you come home, Tom! It's still out in the kitchen on the floor!'

'I'll put it away later.' Tom sounded bored.

'No, Tom, now!' Roberta cried.

'I'm doing something, Mum,' said Tom. 'My -- homework. Leave me alone.'

'What, your homework is researching video games?' retorted Roberta and instantly realised her mistake as Tom's face lit up. She'd inadvertently supplied him with an alibi.

'Yeah, that's right,' he said. 'For -- Social Studies class. When's tea ready?'

Roberta sighed and turned away without answering him. She hadn't even got back to the kitchen when the door slammed and the lock was pointedly turned.

She pulled off her killer heels and threw them against the wall. The ugly flock wallpaper didn't even show a dent. Hampered by her A-line skirt, Roberta got to her knees and gathered up Tom's shorts, jersey and socks. They all smelled of the musty odour that was stagnated dirt. It was no use putting them in the washing machine; they would have to be soaked, otherwise she'd clog up the machine and the plumber would have to be called. And she couldn't afford a plumber.

It took fifteen minutes for the hot tap to run hot water. Even then it came in fitful spurts that jumped off the side of the sink and scalded Roberta's wrists. She knelt down again, feeling the backs of her knees crack ominously and fished some Daz out from under the sink. She noticed that there were no more Marigolds; Tom had used the spare pair for water bombs on the weekend and the ones she'd been using had slit open on one of her false nails. It meant she'd have to stick her bare hands in the boiling water, which was an unattractive prospect at best.

Roberta lumped up Tom's kit and plunged it in, trying to swirl it around without letting her hand come into contact with the water. Today had not been a good day; but then, no days ever were and had not been since Tom's birth. There were only bad days and really shitty days. Today had been a really shitty day.

Martha, the other secretary in the doctor's practice, had decided to call in sick, leaving Roberta to bear the brunt of the filing, the receptionist work and Dr Martin's incessant, petulant requests. He didn't seem to appreciate that Roberta couldn't make him a coffee with decaffeinated granules, no milk and three teaspoons of sugar-replacement (not real sugar, because he was on a low-fat diet due to his bad heart, something Roberta wasn't exactly dying to hear the extensive details of) and answer the telephone, direct patients to the surgery and take payment details all at the same time. His tone implied that Martha would have been able to. This was because Martha passed the majority of her time fetching decaffeinated granules and sugar-replacement from the corner shop and doting on Dr Martin, while Roberta quietly got on with such trivial tasks as filing and filling out patient files.

Roberta prayed to any deity that happened to be listening -- she'd been Episcopalian as a child, and renouncing the religion had driven a large wedge between her parents and their only daughter -- that Martha took it upon herself to come in tomorrow. Roberta was only supposed to work mornings on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, as per her contract. This gave her a chance to go to rehearsals. However, if Martha kept thinking she was sick -- Roberta was no doctor, but after living with her father for twenty years she could spot a case of hypochondria at twenty paces -- Roberta would have to stay the whole day. She might get a pat on the head from Dr Martin, if he noticed, or one of the slaps on the arse he seemed to think his female employees and patients deeply appreciated, but no extra pay. She wouldn't lose her job, on the other hand, which certainly would happen if she complained.

Roberta retrieved an old whisk from the bockety drawer and used it to swirl the clothes in the sink, whilst simultaneously reaching for some bread. Tom could have egg and soldiers for tea, if he ever decided to come out of his room. It wasn't the most nourishing meal in the world, but it was better than chips, which he adored and which cost far too much because the local chipper employed bully-boys to scare away any competition.

Her script was sitting on the tiny living room table, a relic from her childhood. It had belonged to her childhood bedroom and had once held a huge collection of porcelain dolls. Now it was festooned with Tom's grubby car magazines and plates onto which crumbs were soldered like glue. Tom had a habit of getting up at two in the morning and fetching snacks to watch late-night telly by. Roberta wiped tomato sauce off her script with the edge of a plate and carried it back into the kitchen.

It was Macbeth. Roberta was playing Lady Macduff, but only for the matinees. Roberta had to swallow bile when she thought about that. There had been a time when she'd been Lady Macbeth.

~

'... Not all the perfumes of Arabia,' Roberta muttered to herself. 'Out, damn spot, out, I say ...'

'Having trouble learning it off?' a voice from behind her inquired. Roberta jumped; she'd thought she was alone in the little anteroom of the converted-church theatre which had once upon a time housed crucibles and vestments. She turned slowly. The voice had been deep and mellifluous -- unmistakeably male -- and she was already blushing.

'Just -- a little -- bit,' she stuttered, aware of the impression she was making. She'd been extremely lucky to land the part and here she was, stuttering! No one wanted a stuttering Lady Macbeth. Her big break would turn out to be nothing more than tiny fracture if she wasn't careful.

'Not to worry,' the man said, smiling and showing large, uneven teeth that glowed in the dusky gloom. 'I always have a bit of trouble myself. The trick is, I find, to practice with someone else. You see, it simulates you having an audience, not to mention that you have someone there to prompt you if you go wrong.'

Roberta, drawn along in the warm, flowing current that was his voice, nodded. She blushed harder when she realised he had finished talking and was looking at her with an expectant expression.

'Yes, yes, I agree,' she managed. She couldn't look him in the eye, instead discovering a profound interest in his shirt collar. He smelled so very good.

'I could practice with you,' he offered. He took the script from her limp hands and inspected it. Roberta, daring to raise her gaze slightly, found the corners of his mouth tilting up slightly as he saw how she'd carefully highlighted her lines in yellow marker.

'I see you're to be my wife,' he remarked. Roberta gasped. 'I'm playing Macbeth,' he added. Roberta started breathing again. He was smiling properly now and she looked up into his eyes, her heart thudding.

They were the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, flashing from dark to light like a kingfisher's plumage and framed with thick, long, sooty lashes. The rest of his face was pleasant yet non-descript; but his eyes. His eyes. They were the most beautiful things Roberta could imagine.

Later, it would turn out that Tom had those eyes. Lawrence's eyes. Fortunately, on breaking, Tom's voice hadn't betrayed the heart-wrenching smoothness that characterised Lawrence's. Roberta was heartily thankful for that. It was bad enough to see Lawrence's eyes staring out at her from the face of her sullen teenage son; she didn't think she could have borne it if Tom had spoken in those sweet tones as well, demanding his tea or to know where his clean shirt was.

Lawrence had stayed with her all evening, going over her lines with care and diligence. Roberta, heady with the rush of fatal attraction, didn't protest when his hand strayed to her knee, or when he brushed a curl away from her neck as they countered soliloquies. To his credit, he didn't try anything more, at least not on that night.

When they returned to the rest of the group, Roberta glowing like a lamp, she noted -- but only in passing -- the ugly looks on the faces of a few of the women in the group. They muttered behind their hands as Roberta -- young, reed-slim, with naturally-blonde curls cascading down her back -- leaned past them to procure a cup of tea. She smiled at them, not knowing that she did, and the women shook their heads. When Roberta looked back on it, she thought they might have been pitying her. In fact, if she was honest, she knew they were.

The next night, Lawrence invited Roberta back to his apartment for more practice. Roberta readily acquiesced, lured by the hypnotic pull of those eyes. His flat was neat and small. Lawrence suggested that they withdraw to the bedroom, because he'd only moved in recently and as she could see, the couch hadn't arrived yet. The bed had, though.

Those weeks of rehearsals were the best of Roberta's life. She was in love and floating on air. When she got home every night, she recited the words Mrs Roberta Keyes in her head along with her lines.

It came as a nasty shock when one of the older women of the cast -- a faded woman, with dyed auburn hair, who was playing the role of Lady Macduff -- pulled her aside one evening to 'talk to her about Lawrence'.

'What is it?' Roberta demanded, fear leaping to the surface. The rehearsal had only begun and Lawrence had not yet arrived, but then he was often late. Had something awful happened to him and this woman had been drafted in to tell her so?

'Calm down, lass,' the woman said, snorting. 'He's fine. I -- and the rest of the girls --' Roberta realised after a moment that she was talking about the other women in the group '-- thought t'was only fair that we warned ye.'

'Warned me about what?' asked Roberta, starting to feel angry although she couldn't have said why.

'Lawrence,' the woman said. 'I can see that ye and he -- well, you know.' She gestured vaguely, apparently implying that he and Roberta had been performing some kind of archaic waltz. Roberta got the gist though and felt proud, even as she should have been feeling ashamed, that everyone saw herself and Lawrence as an 'item'.

'Ye ken, lass,' the woman said, 'that ye won't be the first one Lawrence has diddled. He has a talent for't. Now, I've been on many a play with the lad -- more that I'd care t'admit, now,' her hand flew to her greying hair, 'and every time, some poor wee slip of a girl falls for his charms. It never lasts. Ever. Ye probably think ye can tame him, am I right? Or ye haven't yet realised his true nature. Either way, it'll end in tears. Yours, now, no' his.'

Roberta stared at her, trying to take in what she was saying. That Lawrence was -- that he -- no! She refused to believe such rubbish. But the woman was still talking.

'Like I said, t'is only fair that ye find out now. Before -- well, before it becomes more than yeer own problem, if ye catch me drift.' Her finger tapped Roberta's flat tummy. 'Ye ken?'

'I ken -- I mean, I know.' Roberta inflated with provoked indignation. 'I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to break us up, because you're a jealous old washed-up has-been!'

The woman didn't seem fazed. 'I've heard better,' was her only cryptic comment. She walked away, leaving Roberta fuming and with the seeds of doubt taking root in the fertile ground of her mind.

A week later, as Roberta sat in one of the cubicles of the ladies' lav, holding a blue-tipped stick in trembling hands, the woman's words seemed almost prophetic.

'She can't have been right,' Roberta told herself fiercely, almost believing it. 'Lawrence will look after me. This is his baby too ...'

On opening night, Roberta dressed quickly in one of the gowns she had delighted in trying on during fittings. Now she barely noticed it as she walked quickly towards Lawrence's dressing room. He'd been distant the last few days, but Roberta had put it down to the stress of the play opening. She didn't really have a more comforting option.

As she pushed open the door, the sound of female laughter penetrated her ears and she wished she could close her eyes and not see what she knew was there.

'Roberta!' Lawrence said in surprise, pushing the girl from his lap -- her hair was rumpled, as was her dress. Roberta recognised her as the bit-parter, a girl so short and slight she passed for a boy or a page with her hair bound up. Her sloe eyes regarded Roberta in superior amusement.

'I have to talk to you,' said Roberta, her voice cracking. 'I - I'm pregnant.'

Lawrence's eyes widened. 'Go, Laura,' he commanded. Rolling her eyes expressively, the girl sashayed out.

For a moment, as Lawrence held out his hand to her with something that looked like concern on his face, Roberta truly thought everything would be all right. Then he spoke, and Roberta thought her heart would never, ever stop breaking.

'Are you sure it's mine?'

~

Roberta tossed the script aside to place some eggs in a saucepan of water. It wasn't like she needed the script, anyway. She knew every word by heart.

She opened the fridge again to fetch some milk. Tom would much rather drink Coca-Cola, but Roberta had put her foot down at that. She was quite aware that he bought it on the way to school every day, but she was determined to make him drink something healthy in the house, at least.

The bottle was empty save for a few measly drops in the bottom. Roberta groaned as she remembered that she'd meant to buy some on the way home. She checked the clock; if she hurried, she could make it in time to finish the tea. Wincing, she slid her feet back into her high heels and grabbed her purse from the bench top.

'Tom?' she called. No response. 'Tom, I'm going out. I'll be back in half-an-hour.' Still no response. Gritting her teeth to hold back frustrated tears, Roberta clambered down the ancient stairs of the flat and walked out.

*~*

could

*~*

The smell of burning alerted Tom at last. He'd turned on his tape deck and the sound of the Rolling Stones had obscured that of his tea disintegrating. The sight of exploded eggs decorating the ceiling and a saucepan with the base scorched to black on entering the kitchen surprised him. His mum wasn't what you'd call a culinary genius, but even she had managed to keep from turning eggs into missiles up to now. He wondered where she was.

He just heard the phone ringing from the living room; his music was a bit loud, actually. He now saw what his mum meant when she screamed at him that she couldn't hear herself think.

Bemused, he picked up the phone, wondering if it was his mum calling to say where she was. She might have a rehearsal or something, now he came to think of it.

*~*

Casualty #8

Name:

Anthony Hughes

Age:

21

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

Electrician

Progeny:

None

Cause of death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Today was Matt's five-year anniversary.

Anthony woke up in the morning with a faint feeling of unease which settled on his mind even as the sunlight, creeping through the slatted blinds, tattooed a pattern on his half-closed eyelids. When he opened his eyes fully and wiped away the sleep, the knowledge hit him with a force that left him winded for a moment.

Once upon a time, he couldn't have imagined that he wouldn't realise the date until it came. That he wouldn't be expecting and dreading it for weeks beforehand. He felt faintly guilty. He should have remembered. He should still be grieving. But he wasn't.

It was six am, far too early to call his parents. Anthony worked for Hagan's Electricians, a job he'd only got a few months before. He was still keen to make a good impression and as such arrived half-an-hour before the appointed time. He was pretty sure Billy Hagan was impressed. He wasn't a vocal man, but his grunted, 'Well done' at the end of every job left Anthony glowing with pride that could not be matched should he be showered with far more fulsome praise.

As Anthony went about his morning ritual, he thought about Matt. He picked up a second, freshly-laundered pair of overalls from the back of a chair. He recalled the way Matt used to laugh at the stupidest things, like Anthony falling over a chair in their mother's warm, yellow kitchen. How Anthony had never been able to comprehend the crying jags that invariably followed. Peering at his reflection in the mirror, razor at the ready and wincing as he saw a new spot on his chin, Anthony remembered how Matt had taught him how to shave long before he needed to, letting Matt scrape a razor carefully over Anthony's exposed throat. How Matt had stared at the packet of razor blades for a long time afterwards.

Anthony carried Matt with him as he walked down the stairs to the dining room. His memory presented him with an image of Matt pushing Anthony down the banisters of their old house, the seven-year-old Anthony screaming in delight as he shot downwards, utterly certain that Matt would catch him before he hit the ground.

'Morning, Mrs Hill,' Anthony greeted the landlady, heading for his customary seat by the window.

'Ah, morning, young Tony!' said Mrs Hill, her face cheery. She was the sort of person who always presumed that people had a nickname and called them by it. Anthony hadn't told her that he'd never been called Tony in his life, except by her. He retained only too well Matt's rage at being always called Matt, and never Matthew. He'd tried to get people to call him Matthew, but even his own parents couldn't manage it. Anthony wouldn't have minded being called Tony once in a while, actually, because 'Anthony' was a bit of a mouthful, but Matt had always been so fiercely protective of him. Matt also had a reputation for flying off the handle and no one at school dared to cross him. Therefore, when he said Anthony was not to be called Tony, he was called Anthony.

Anthony took one of the papers lying on the table by the door -- the Sun. There was an article on the front cover about Lady Di, which Anthony read avidly. He thought she was gorgeous. Matt would probably have thought so too. He'd always fancied petite blonde girls who never fancied him back. It'd never prevented him asking them out, though. He'd always been so torn up when they turned him down. Anthony had felt desperately sorry for him each time it happened, but his suggestions that Matt aim a bit lower had been met with screaming fury.

Anthony had never worried too much about girls. Matt seemed to find them an enigma, but Anthony discovered that he got along with the ones he knew without too much effort. Even if some of the other boys called him a speccy git -- although never in Matt's earshot -- it didn't bother him too much and his unobtrusive manner earned him many girl-mates.

Anthony supposed it was to be expected, on the anniversary of his brother's death, that all the things Anthony had worked quite hard to bury at the back grave of his mind were to be unmercifully unearthed. For some reason, he couldn't get Matilda out of his head, even as he turned to the sports pages and tried to immerse himself in them.

Matilda had been yet another of the blonde doll-like girls that Anthony always privately classified as 'Matt's type'. She'd moved to their sleepy Suffolk town from London just as Matt was getting over yet another of his painful crushes; one that showed Anthony exactly where the term 'crush' had come from.

Matilda had looked a bit disoriented on her first day, so Anthony had gone over to her after class and said hello, trying his best to be welcoming. She looked like she appreciated it. Anthony introduced her to some of the girls he was friendly with in his class and she was soon pals with them. Anthony didn't think much more about it. His O-levels were occupying most of his thoughts at the time and he was hoping to do well. Matt was preparing for A-levels, which was unexpected; even Mr and Mrs Hughes had thought he'd drop out after O-levels and take a trade. Not that Matt was actually doing much preparation. He spent most of his time in his room, listening to Leonard Cohen and writing in his journal.

Therefore, it had come as a surprise to Anthony as much as anyone else when Matilda started seeking him out. At first, Anthony assumed it was because of their shared appreciation of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. Anthony was a little taken aback to find that Matilda had read the Lord of the Rings, because in his experience most girls didn't. It didn't stop him from getting involved in heated discussions with her about the possible fates of Arwen's children, or whether or not Legolas and Gimli were in fact lovers. That had been all Matilda's idea. Anthony had been horrified on first hearing it, but after a while he grudgingly admitted that it made some sense. Matilda claimed a great victory that day.

Anthony heard a few whispers to the effect that Matilda was his girlfriend, but he dismissed them as nothing more than silly rumour. After all, he and Matilda weren't going out. They had never kissed or done anything else boyfriends and girlfriends did. She was his friend and they shared a love of Tolkien, and that was about the extent of it.

He should have known Matt - the crowned and robed king of irrationality - wouldn't see it like that. But even Anthony couldn't have imagined his reaction to the news.

Anthony invited Matilda over for tea one day, on the premise that they could do some study together -- and naturally take breaks for discussion of what Matilda claimed were Tolkien's rampant homoerotic overtones. Matilda had accepted with alacrity. That probably should have been his first warning that she thought they were more than friends. Perhaps because Anthony was naturally diffident, or perhaps because he didn't really mind the prospect of Matilda liking him that way, he didn't take much notice.

Admittedly, they were sitting pretty close on the sofa, closer than sharing a Biology textbook -- Matilda had forgotten hers -- really called for. Anthony refused to mind, because Matilda's perfume was making him feel slightly heady and she kept looking at him sideways, smiling and biting her lip. It was quite distracting.

There was still no excuse for what Matt did when he came downstairs and 'discovered them canoodling' as he'd roared later, when their parents were home. He'd made it sound like Anthony and Matilda were having three-act sex on the sofa, when in fact the most suspect thing that had occurred was Matilda's knee brushing against Anthony's every so often. The effect, of course, was quite a lot like what Matt was describing, but it wasn't like Anthony did anything about it.

It was at this point that Anthony's memories became slightly hazy. He could remember the screaming -- Matt's, and also Matilda's, as she jumped up and started to accuse Matt of -- oh, so many things. Being unbalanced, and stupidly jealous, and just plain crazy. And the other screaming, that of Matilda after Matt's fist connected with her face.

Needless to say, Matilda never spoke to Anthony again, but Anthony forgave Matt. His face had crumpled and Anthony would have had to be a much harder person than he was to ignore Matt's impassioned pleas for forgiveness.

'Rashers, love?' asked Mrs Hill. Anthony looked up, startled. He'd become so lost in his thoughts that he'd never even realised he was looking at the horoscopes.

'Yes, thanks, Mrs Hill,' replied Anthony, and on impulse checked the horoscope for Taurus. A good day for the heart! it informed him. For those of you with no one in your life, today may be your day. Lady Luck is on your side; every romantic line is working, so make the most of it! Anthony snorted. The only women in his life at the moment were all married; his mother, Mrs Hill and Mrs Hagan, who did the books for her husband and looked like someone had baked her slowly over several years.

The hall telephone rang and Mrs Hill bustled off to answer it, leaving Anthony to tuck into his rashers and toast. He'd just loaded a fork dripping with brown sauce when Mrs Hill poked her head around the door again and called him. 'Anthony! For you, dear!'

Mrs Hill was holding the earpiece in her hand as Anthony came through the door, still wearing a napkin around his neck. 'Your parents, love,' she whispered, wrinkling up her nose. Anthony felt a jolt of fear, then remembered that Mrs Hill couldn't know about Matt. She was probably just working on the presumption that most of the young men who passed through her establishment weren't too keen to hear from their parents, unless some kind of monetary incentive was in the offing.

'Hello?' said Anthony.

'Anthony! Hello, darling,' his mother said. 'I just rang because -- because it's --'

'Matt?' Anthony confirmed.

'Yes,' his mother sighed. 'And do you know, I've realised I don't think about him as much as I used to. I mean, I used to wake up every morning crying. And now ...'

'I know what you mean, Mum,' said Anthony. 'I only remembered this morning -- and before --'

'Does this make me a bad mother?' Mrs Hughes sounded anxious.

'Does it make me a bad brother?' Anthony countered. 'I don't think so, Mum. I don't think we could have gone on grieving for ever and ever. I don't think humans were designed for that.'

He could hear his mother's sigh as a wave of static. 'You're right, my darling. But don't you go dying on me any time soon, you hear? If you're feeling -- bad, you tell me, you understand? I can't --' her voice broke slightly '-- I can't bury another son. I just can't.'

'Don't worry, Mum,' Anthony said. 'I'm not ... like Matt. And my horoscope promised that I'd meet whatever is the female equivalent of a tall dark stranger today.'

'That's nice,' his mother said, her laugh only a tiny bit frail. 'I wouldn't mind some grandkids before I get too old, my son.'

'I'm working on it,' said Anthony, trying to imagine her face if he decided to elope with Mrs Hagan. Although she was very fond of him and always gave him a box of sugar biscuits every Friday, he doubted he'd be up to lusty romps in Tenerife. 'I'll call you again next week, okay, Mum?'

~

His parents weren't farmers, but they still lived on a farm. When he was a kid, Anthony's favourite place had been the old hay-barn. It had been a long time since it had held hay, but the platform was still intact -- if dangerously rickety -- and bore the scuff-marks of generations of children jumping from it into bales of hay. When they'd first moved there, Anthony had been exceedingly disappointed to be denied the chance to do the very same thing. Matt had taken pity on him -- a Matt, who, at the time, was still jolly and cheerful and happy and, most of all, fun to be around. He'd located a couple of old mattresses in other sheds and attics. After testing it out himself and emerging unscathed apart from the odd bruise or three, he'd taken his brother to see it. He made out that he was unmoved by Anthony's squeals of delight and monster hug.

It was one of Anthony's best memories of his brother. He still couldn't blame Matt for tarnishing it. He couldn't really blame Matt for anything.

It was the week before the exams were due to start. Anthony had spent most of the night studying; he'd noticed that Matt's loud music wasn't playing, but he hadn't had the time to wonder at it. He didn't turn up to breakfast, which again wasn't unusual; Matt's eating habits were irregular at best and the despair of his parents.

When Anthony didn't see Matt at school and couldn't find him outside the gates afterwards, waiting, he started to worry. Matt might not like school, but he'd never missed a day unless Anthony was sick. He took a prodigious amount of care of Anthony and had never let him walk home alone before.

Anthony abandoned his schoolbag at the base of the stairs and thundered up the stairs into Matt's bedroom, wondering if he was ill. On the contrary, the room was empty and suspiciously neat. Anthony couldn't remember Matt making his bed since he was a kid, but it looked like he'd not only made the bed, but changed the sheets as well.

Even years later, Anthony couldn't decide what it was that called him out to the barn. Maybe it was some kind of sixth sense; maybe it was something more prosaic. Whatever the case, his feet led him there, fear a growing, snarling beast in his gut. When he pushed open the door into the gloom he was sure that his fear was misplaced. He could summon up that sick sense of relief to this day.

Then he'd looked up.

~

'Well done,' Bill commended him. 'You're a great little worker, son.'

'Thanks,' said Anthony, trying not to smile too widely.

'Your parents pleased?' Bill said, surprisingly; he rarely asked questions about Anthony's home life.

'Oh - yeah, they are now.' Anthony compressed his lips. He'd failed every one of his exams, but even so, his decision to leave school had come as a shock to his teachers and parents. 'They are now.'

'Good,' said Bill. 'I would be too.'

*~*

you?'

*~*

'Nice young lad, that Tony,' said Mrs Hagan, as her husband came into the kitchen. Immersed in rolling out batter for her famous sugar biscuits, she didn't notice her husband's dead white face. 'I'm glad you took him on.'

'Anthony,' said Bill, and his bleak tone was enough to make her look up, floury hands flying to her chest.

'What's wrong, Bill?' she cried. Bill sank onto a chair, his face still immobile in disbelief.

'Anthony,' Bill repeated. 'His name was Anthony.'

*~*

Casualty #9

Name:

Erica Fox-Delaney

Age:

28

Marital Status:

Married, 7 years

Occupation:

Housewife

Progeny:

2

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Erica had always suffered through not being Eric.

Not someone called Eric, or even being like her father, who was called Eric. No, Erica always carried an immense load of guilt for not being Eric -- the imaginary son her parents had wanted, and longed for, and dreamt about, and who, through a cruel quirk of chance, Erica could never be.

Her parents had married late in life, possibly -- although it was never put like that -- when the other options they were holding open turned out not to be options after all. Her mother had suffered several miscarriages -- again, never spoken off, and only known to Erica though a drunken confession from her Aunt Catherine. '... you know, you were supposed to be a boy,' she'd slurred, as an introduction to her revelations. If Erica didn't already know that, she might have been hurt, but her aunts had never liked her anyway. She was far too pretty for their tastes.

All their hopes rode on the pregnancy which turned out to be Erica. Her parents had never got over their disappointment in Erica's choice of reproductive organs. Every failure she'd suffered was blamed on them and every success paled in comparison to the success it might have been, had Erica been born with prostrate glands instead of a uterus.

They hadn't even bothered to give her a second name, one that Erica could have adopted when the strain of requiring that prosthetic 'a' grew too great. She was doomed to live forever as a more useless version of a brother who would never be born.

Not that her life was all that bad; far from it. Her parents loved her, as they would love a puppy dumped on their doorstep; with pity, good meals, the best of everything and very little attention. Her parents were kindly people. Erica was sure she could have had a much worse upbringing. The tragic part was that it could have been so much better, as well.

Erica was by nature a loud and rambunctious person, but she was never punished for pushing things over, for breaking ornaments, for throwing temper tantrums. Her parents would just shake their heads sadly and sigh at her. What they were saying without saying anything at all -- not even, 'Go to your room, you naughty girl!' -- was 'If only you were a boy, then we might be bothered'.

As it was, Erica got away with murder, her every capricious whim was met, and her teachers described her as the student from hell.

She supposed it was only divine retribution that her own daughters were turning out the exact same way.

'Pauline! Jessica!' she called as she wandered through the echoing halls. The nanny had a day off, which was terribly inconvenient. Paul had explained to her that some Geneva convention said Chiquita was allowed it under human rights. He'd seemed impatient that she didn't know what the Geneva convention was and there probably had been a class on it in school, but Erica had never paid attention in school. That wasn't what school was about. School was about getting detention and flirting with boys.

Paul was always impatient in the mornings, anyway. She supposed being the chairman of a large multinational company that made -- something vital and desperately boring, like loo-roll (he'd told her once, but it was far too boring to remember) -- was quite stressful. She wasn't used to people being so strident with her, though. Her parents had never been like that and even her teachers stopped trying to change her after a while. She'd been married to Paul for seven years and he was still impatient with her quite often. It was surprisingly hurtful.

'PAULINE! JESSICA!' she shouted and at last she heard a faint, evil giggling from the direction of - her own bedroom? 'Oh god,' Erica groaned.

The sight that met her eyes made her feel quite faint. The twins had got hold of her deluxe Estée Lauder make-up case and were diligently smearing her favourite lipsticks all over her cream Chantilly lace coverlet. As Erica tended towards a violent crimson slash in the lipstick stakes, it looked disturbingly like someone had been brutally murdered on her bed. Which two someones would be, very soon -- the twins, to be exact.

'Pauline and Jessica Fox-Delaney!' Erica thundered. Two angelic curly heads turned towards her, bearing identical expressions of cherubic innocence. 'What the fu -- what are you doing with Mummy's make-up case? You know you're not allowed in Mummy's bedroom!'

'We just wanted to make it pretty,' Jessica -- or was it Pauline? Erica could rarely tell -- pouted.

'Mummy's woom pwetty now!' Pauline -- it was Pauline, yes, she was the one with the annoying speech impediment -- exclaimed, throwing her pudgy arms wide and streaking the lace princess curtains with mascara.

'We made you dress too,' Jessica added, a demonic gleam in her little grey eyes.

'You what?' said Erica dangerously.

'Wook!' said Pauline, pointing.

Trying very hard not to have a cardiac arrest, Erica turned slowly and screamed.

Her nail scissors was lying abandoned by her chaise longue. On said chaise, her favourite dress -- an original by Yves St Laurent, after which acquisition Paul had not spoken to her for a week and had gone about with compressed lips every time someone said the word 'dress' or any derivative thereof for months thereafter -- was lying in silk shreds.

'I'm going to kill you evil little brats!' Erica shrieked.

The six-year-olds looked unimpressed.

'Chita, she says that every day,' Jessica informed her.

Erica stumbled over to the chaise, but it was too late, far too late. The twins had done a thorough job and the beautiful gown was utterly ruined. Erica could have cried.

'You two,' she managed, 'stay there.'

The twins shrugged and wriggled up onto the bed, smearing the lipstick deeper into the coverlet. Erica didn't reprimand them; they'd only do it worse if she did and the lipstick wasn't going to come out anyway. The coverlet -- another thing that had cost Paul a bomb and which he hated. He'd be angry at the waste and pleased that it was gone in equal measures.

Well, Erica thought, her face hardening as she strode into the adjoining bathroom, she'd just go into town and pick up another one. She knew where there was a specialist shop. It would cost twice as much as it would in London, but she didn't really care.

She pulled open the cabinet doors and fumbled around for the little bottle she was searching for. She shook out two fat pills into her palm and washed them down with water from the toothbrush mug. Feeling thus bolstered, she returned to her daughters, whose heads were together, conspiring. Erica didn't like the look of that, not at all, but she had no intention of putting up with them for the rest of the day.

She pulled the phone extension over to her, ignoring the twins and dialled. 'Yes, Mother?' she said curtly. 'Do you think I could drop the twins at your place for the afternoon? I have an urgent errand and the stupid nanny girl is on her day off.'

'Of course, dear,' her mother replied, sounding worried. Erica rolled her eyes and rang off. Her mother had grown principles in the last few years, it seemed. She hadn't wanted Erica to get married so young, even though it was getting Erica off her parents' hands -- even though Paul was exactly the sort of son Erica should have been. She had been equally chary about Erica falling pregnant so soon. Erica was just annoyed that she'd managed to bring her curse onto the next generation. Not only had she failed in not being male herself, she'd failed in producing a male heir into the bargain. Not that Paul had seemed to mind; he'd made a good fist of acting entirely unbothered, in fact.

~

Erica had cried when the midwife had presented her with the twins.

'Two lovely, healthy girls,' the midwife announced proudly.

Erica looked down at the two red-faced, crumpled, squalling infants in her arms and promptly burst into tears.

'There, there,' the midwife comforted her, rubbing her on the back with a hand that looked like a side of pork. 'Let it all out, dear. Lots of new mums get a bit emotional when they see the little ones for the first time.'

Erica, sobbing wildly, hadn't been able to speak coherently enough to say what she was thinking -- that is, 'Shut up, you stupid woman! I'm crying because I've failed again! They're girls! GIRLS!'

'I'll get your husband for you,' the midwife said. 'I'm sure he's anxious to see his new daughters!'

That only made Erica cry harder, so the midwife left to fetch him with all due speed.

Paul had come in white-faced. Erica couldn't stop crying long enough to apologise. He walked quietly, as if afraid he'd break something and crept up to her bed.

'Can I see them?' he asked. Erica nodded, feeling tears dripping off her chin. Her bump hadn't gone down, either; she'd had the babies and she still looked like a beached whale. It was so unfair.

Paul took one of the twins -- the baby who'd later be called Pauline -- in his arms and looked down at her with an expression of the most amazed, fearful wonder Erica had ever seen. She couldn't understand it.

Paul took one of the baby's tiny hands in his own and watched it instinctively curl around his finger. When he looked up at his wife, she saw that he was crying too.

'We can call her Pauline,' Erica suggested in desperation. 'It won't be so bad.'

'I love you,' said Paul, his voice shaking with emotion.

'Well, I love you too, of course.' Erica was confused. 'And we can try again ...'

As it turned out, they couldn't. The next pregnancy had been etopic and it had nearly killed Erica. Paul was the one who decided there would be no more babies, even though for his sake Erica was willing. Oddly enough, he seemed to love his daughters whole-heartedly and Erica had never heard him say that he wished they were boys.

After a while, she began to hope that he didn't think it, either. And Pauline's second name was Maria.

~

'

Come on, devilspawn,' commanded Erica. 'You're going to Granny's house for the day.'

'Yay!' the twins chorused. Erica regarded them suspiciously as she ordered a taxi.

'What's so great about Granny's house?' she wanted to know, as they sat quietly and cleanly in the taxi, Erica having remembered at the last minute to rub the lipstick off their hands and faces and put them into new dresses.

'Sthe giths us sthweeties,' Pauline informed her.

'And she plays games,' said Jessica, 'not like you.'

'And sthe sayths sowwy for not loving you pwoperly,' volunteered Pauline.

'Humph. Well, you shouldn't believe everything you hear,' Erica said. 'Are you starting school soon? How old are you again?'

'Six,' said Jessica, rolling her eyes. 'Dad's already taking us in September.'

'Stheptember,' Pauline echoed.

'Shut up,' Erica said, gritting her teeth. 'Ah, here we are. Get out.'

'Aren't you going to go with them?' the taxi driver asked, shocked.

'You might keep your mouth shut if you want your tip,' said Erica sweetly. 'Pauline? Jessica? Skedaddle. Driver? Drop me in the town centre, please.'

Fortunately, the driver kept his mouth shut. Once she got her bearings, Erica walked away from the centre and down one of the lesser known streets, where the specialist drapery shop was located. She passed two men shouting at each other and hugged her Burberry coat closer to herself. Honestly, what was this town coming to?

*~*

He

*~*

Mrs Fox wiped the twins' faces clean and rubbed the tears from her own cheeks.

'There you go, girls,' she said, inspecting their matching black velvet dresses and hair bands. 'Do you feel all right?'

Jessica and Pauline exchanged pointed looks. 'Is Daddy here?' asked Jessica.

'He's in the sitting room with your grandfather,' said Mrs Fox. She looked at them worriedly; Paul had said they hadn't cried yet.

Pauline crept to the door and looked through to verify Mrs Fox's statement. She nodded at Jessica.

'Yes, Nan,' said Jessica. 'We're fine.'

~

Casualty #10

Name:

Geoffrey (Geoff) Walker

Age:

74

Marital Status:

Widowed

Occupation:

Veteran

Progeny:

3

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

They wanted to put him in a nursing home.

Geoff wasn't fooled. He'd dandled his daughters on his knees and played footy with his son, but as the years passed he came to the rather horrible conclusion that his actual children were completely different people to those he imagined in his head. Nora had turned into a bad-tempered shrew -- perhaps he should have guessed, from the way she used to sulk when Cathy got more sweets than she did. Cathy -- well, he never saw Cathy, she was away on something called a 'commune' in Northumberland. Julian was the biggest penny-pincher Geoff had ever had the misfortune of coming across.

And now they wanted to lock him up until he died.

For all Nora and Julian's sweet talking, Geoff refused to be hoodwinked.

'It's a great place, Dad, big huge gardens. You'll like that, won't you Dad -- it'll remind you of your old home in Wales,' Nora wheedled.

Geoff shook his head. He'd seen the brochures. There was a little patchwork garden with regimented rows of daffodils and tulips, squeezed in between a huge expanse of smooth tarmacadam for parking the cars of visitors and jailers -- or 'staff', as they were called in the brochure. The cottage in Wales -- which was fading fast in his memory, even as he tried to hold onto it ever more tightly -- had been a riot of shrubs and trees jostling for space with wildflowers and his mother's veggie garden. A child's paradise, chock-full of places to hide away in that were dirty and that smeared clothes with a joyful pattern of grime. Lots of perilous trees to climb and play pirates on. No, the landscaper's vision that was the garden at Strawberry Fields Retirement Home just couldn't compare.

Julian tried then. 'We want to be sure you're okay,' he'd said, his brow wrinkling in a fine semblance of loving concern. 'It's not safe for you to be on your own like this all the time. At Strawberry Fields there'll be people to take care of you and other chaps your age to chat to.'

Geoff highly doubted that. When Maura was still alive, she'd been in the habit of going to visit elderly relatives in those sorts of places. Geoff, under duress, had accompanied her. He had never failed to be horrified. He didn't doubt that the facilities at Strawberry Fields were of the highest standards, but he knew the kind of people who worked there; whey-faced nurses who cleaned and fed and cajoled and pulled and shoved and ignored, all with ferocious energy. And the people! Institutionalised to the extent that they could hardly be classified as human any longer. People who sat sunk in chairs, never speaking, never responding to the human contact of the nurses because probably they knew, in the tiny part of them that was not immersed in a deadly stupor, that the nurses didn't care and didn't want to care. Geoff had decided long ago that he'd rather die than live in one of those soul-destroying places.

Julian and Nora couldn't understand it, of course. All they saw, when they took it upon themselves to visit Strawberry Fields, was a cheery place for the old people, private rooms with sinks, a good spread every meal and the highest quality care. For all Julian's stingy and Nora's irritable ways, they couldn't forget a Dad who was always there for them, to patch their bleeding knees and dry their tears and, a few minutes later when it was all better, to play with them again. They were fully prepared to give him all that money could buy. Geoff thought they might even think that they were doing it for the best. The problem was, though, that they were doing it for their best, not his.

Geoff sat in the dim light of dusk when their cars had pulled out of his tiny driveway -- tyres squealing off the road, as if to convey the driver's irritation at an old man's intractability -- and leafed through old photo albums. His sight was no longer what it had been, but he didn't like to wear his reading glasses unless he absolutely had to. He was convinced that the more he wore them, the worse his eyes would get, so it was better to use them sparingly.

The start of the album contained the few pictures of his and Maura's wedding day. They were bad quality black-and-white prints, but even that couldn't disguise Maura's ecstatic face, wreathed in smiles, or Geoff, looking awkward and embarrassed but delighted. She'd been a mean woman with a needle, Geoff remembered fondly, rubbing the small grainy face with a gnarled finger. She'd made her own wedding dress out of parachute material, and you'd never have guessed. That was the way of it, during the war; no talk of waiting for a better time, because that time might never come. Even if it did, you might not survive to see it...

Geoff had enlisted in the army well before the war, at the age of sixteen. His parents hadn't been able to support him at school and there was no money to pay for training in a trade. The army had been the cheapest route and Geoff had picked up a bit of carpentry during his days in uniform which stood him in good stead in later years. By the time Hitler invaded Poland, Geoff had already ascended to the rank of sergeant. He didn't expect to get much further, though, as a working-class private.

He kept his medals in a box under the photograph album. North Africa, Italy, Arnhem; he'd served under Montgomery in the desert, Montgomery's Desert Rats against Rommel's Desert Foxes, finally beaten at El Alamein under Operation Torch. Arnhem, though, that had been a difficult one. In fact, the whole war had been a difficult one. Geoff's brow clouded over as he remembered. So many mates lost, wounded, driven mad by the terrible slaughter. His childhood friend, Irfon, who'd survived the horror of the Somme only to be killed in the Blitz after being sent home to London to recover -- and so many more. Too many more. Geoff sighed, and let his mind drift.

~

Geoff had got used to drinking out of tin cups. There was no fancy crockery to be had here, only battered tin ware that gave everything a faintly metallic taste. Geoff dreamed about proper food, nowadays. He wasn't entirely certain that his mother's shortbread and, in fact, everything to do with his home wasn't just a cruel fantasy. It seemed little more than that, in this world of blood and dirt and camouflage and drinking tea from tin cups.

'What do you think is going to happen?' whispered Jimmy, as they lay cramped in the camp beds which could never have been designed for human comfort. He turned over in the dark so that his face was smudge of lighter grey in a sea of black.

'I suppose Urquhart will organise us into some kind of defensive formation around the bridge,' Geoff parroted, recalling whispered conversations he'd heard around headquarters earlier in the day. 'We can't let the bridge fall.'

'I didn't mean about that,' said Jimmy.

'What then?' asked Geoff and, without waiting for an answer, 'I hear there's far more Germans here than they thought. They have the Tigers and everything. I hear -- I hear there's no way we're going to get out of here alive.'

'That's the same for every op,' Jimmy said peaceably.

Geoff couldn't really understand Jimmy, whose method of dealing with the carnage was one of fatalistic acceptance. Nothing seemed to frighten him any longer. Geoff, now, Geoff was

terrified, and he didn't like it. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to be captured, either, and carted off to one of the Jerries' torture chambers. It wasn't cricket to admit it, but all Geoff wanted to do was go home, see his parents again and tell them that he loved them. He couldn't remember if he'd ever bothered to say it before he'd left and it was tormenting him.

'What I mean is,' continued Jimmy, 'what do you think is going to happen when this war is over?'

'Over? This war is never going to be over,' Geoff spat.

'Montgomery said this op would mean the war will be over by Christmas.' Jimmy didn't sound convinced.

'Oh, yeah, I'll bet. It's September and we're haemorrhaging troops on this bridge. I'm pretty certain we're going to have to evacuate. What of the war then?'

'It has to end sometime,' argued Jimmy. 'It can't go on forever. God wouldn't allow that.'

'Really?' Geoff snorted. 'Why'd he allow it to begin in the first place, then? In fact,' he added, his voice rising, 'if there is some all-powerful god somewhere, why ain't he fighting his own wars?'

'What would we do with our time then?' Even in the dark Geoff could see Jimmy's grin. He threw his pillow at him.

'Seriously, though,' said Jimmy, his voice turning grave, 'I don't think Europe will ever be the same again.'

'No, probably not,' Geoff agreed. 'Not if the Jerries win, that's for sure. We'll all be kowtowing to Hitler and driving out the Jews and whatnot.'

'No,' said Jimmy, his voice firm. 'No, I refuse to believe that Hitler can win this war.'

'I move to disagree,' Geoff said mordantly. 'He already is. I just hope that I'm dead before he invades England.'

Jimmy smiled, shaking his head. 'Oh ye of little faith.' He rummaged in his bedroll, his voice becoming shy. 'Look, I wanted to show you something.'

'What is it?' Geoff raised himself onto one elbow.

Jimmy handed over a small black and white photograph. Geoff studied it. It was of a young, pretty girl who, in the manner of studio portraits of the time, was staring upwards into space and clutching a rose for dear life.

'Who is she?' Geoff teased. 'Your sweetheart?'

'No.' Jimmy sounded revolted. 'She's my sister, Maura. Listen to me, Geoff, I want you to do something for me. If I get killed in this war and you survive, I want you to find Maura and look after her for me. Mum's old and frail and I'm all Maura's got left, really. Will you promise?'

Geoff looked down at the photograph, swallowing. He looked back at Jimmy's face. 'I promise.'

There was no use in protesting that Jimmy wouldn't die, or that Geoff wouldn't. Death walked with them every day and it was only by chance that they didn't take the long walk home. There was also the added guilt of knowing that every time Death passed them by, he took someone else away by the hand.

War was a bitch.

Geoff made to hand the photograph back, but Jimmy shook his head. 'No, keep it. Please. Our address is on the back. So ... you can find her, later.'

'And what if we both manage to survive?' Geoff tried to make a joke of it.

'Oh, then I won't let you next to or near my precious sister, you rogue,' Jimmy said, grinning.

Geoff wondered, later, as he stared up at the red-gold explosions taking over the whole night sky, if Jimmy had been touched with some sort of foreknowledge. He doubted Jimmy screamed anything but pain as his silhouette, dark against the bombs, jerked repeatedly, the machine gun bullets ripped through his flesh. He liked to think he knew Geoff would keep his promise.

'Come on!' someone screamed in his ear. 'We've got to swim! We've got to get across the river!'

~

Geoff passed a hand over his forehead, feeling headachey all of a sudden. In a sudden panic, he wondered if he'd ever told his children about their uncle. Surely he had. Surely.

His face relaxed as the voice of a ten-year-old Cathy sounded in his ears. 'Why do I have no uncles and aunties, Daddy?'

Geoff would never have told anyone, of course, but Cathy was the favourite of his children. He missed her most of all. Nora had informed him, last year, that Cathy was living in a state of sin with another woman, and they were bringing up the woman's child. 'No father to be seen, of course,' Nora had said, her voice aghast. 'A one-night stand jobbie, I shouldn't wonder. It's scandalous.'

Geoff kept his peace, as he did so often nowadays. He couldn't summon up Nora's outrage at the news; he only wished Cathy would bring the woman to see him, or even just visit. He missed her so much. As for her choice, well, he'd had his suspicions about Jimmy, if he was honest. But in a state of war, such trivialities were dismissed for the inconsequential details that they were.

The more Geoff saw of life, the more he thought that it was a permanent state of war, in one way or another.

He rubbed his head again and stiffly pulled himself out of his chair. He could feel his bones creaking, reminding him that he was an old man now.

But an old man, Geoff decided, who could still fend for himself and would do until the day he died. And one who, in addition, could do with a breath of fresh air.

He fetched his coat and cap.

*~*

reached

*~*

Cathy held the letter from her sister in shaking hands. Lissa, who was in tune to Cathy's heartbeat, knew something was wrong and left off playing with baby Daffodil to slide an arm around her shoulders.

'What is it, lovely?' she asked in a soft voice.

'My dad,' Cathy choked out.

'He's dead.' Lissa guessed straight away.

'Yes,' Cathy sobbed into her shoulder. 'Nora went to visit him on the last day ... and he still hates me. He still hated me.'

Lissa held her as she had her cry out and, later, they lit a candle.

*~*

Casualty #11

Name:

Misha Farishta

Age:

19

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

None

Progeny:

None

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

'For the last time, no, Misha! And that is my final word!' Mr Farishta thundered.

Misha, anger inflating her insides like a balloon, nonetheless closed her mouth over the words that were fighting to be released.

Her mother shook her head at her wayward daughter as she stirred the aloo gobi. 'We never have this trouble with Nasreen,' she prompted.

'We never had this trouble with Nasreen,' echoed Mr Farishta, his dark eyes flashing. 'Indeed, she want none of this ridiculous university business!'

Misha couldn't keep her mouth shut this time. 'But I have a scholarship!' she cried. 'For full board and tuition for a year! And I can get a job during the summer to cover the rest of the time and apply for more grants --'

'ENOUGH, Misha!' Her father's moustache was practically shooting out sparks. 'We come to this god-forsaken country for a better life and instead our children turn on us like ravening beasts. I cannot believe that you would try to betray us this way!'

Misha gasped with the unfairness of it all. She tried one last time. 'I do not see how I am shaming you,' she said in a quiet tone, when really she wanted to scream. 'It is a great honour --'

'You be quiet now,' said Mrs Farishta, shaking her spoon at Misha in warning and splattering the floor with steaming drops. 'You be quiet now, girl, and listen to your father.'

Misha curled her lip, but only after her mother had turned back to the stove. Across the table from her, her brother Saleem smirked at her. She gifted him with a sharp kick under the table. Weakling that he was, he groaned in pain and looked away from her again.

It was so bloody unfair. Saleem got the best of everything because he was a boy. Her parents had skimped and saved to send him to a posh public school, where he wasted his time making trouble in class or bunking off to smoke behind the bicycle sheds with his drongo mates. Misha, on the other hand, had been forced to endure the indignities of the local community college, where the only facilities were those you brought in your own head. Most people left after O-levels, including Misha's sister Nasreen, who was now married to a good Indian boy whose parents drove a Mercedes. That, of course, being the pinnacle of achievement for a good Indian girl in the Farishta household.

Misha had battled to be allowed to sit her A-levels. Her parents had acquiesced only on the basis that Misha was so unfailingly rude to all of the boys who called round to their house that it would be a good while before they could managed to marry her off and she might as well do something with her time until then. Misha had achieved four As, which, as far as her parents were concerned, might as well have been four Ds -- which Saleem seemed to be aiming for. As her mother so concisely put it, 'What you need grades for to be good wife?'

Misha really, really wanted to go to university and study medicine. She had gained a coveted place at Bristol University and, had she been a boy, she guessed her parents would not have been happier. As a girl, however, it was a completely different story. To her horror, her mother was happily planning her marriage to a nice Indian boy; one of her far relations in India, in fact.

Misha didn't want to marry someone from India, she didn't want to live in India -- in fact she hated India. She couldn't even speak Rajputani. The last thing she wanted to do at nineteen was settle down and have babies like her mother and her sister. She'd rather die.

'I get letter from my sister in Bombay today,' her mother was telling her father. 'She say that cousin Zafar is of good age now to marry. She ask him to visit England for betrothal to Misha.'

Misha couldn't help herself. Before her father opened his mouth, she shrieked, 'What?'

'Misha!' her father remonstrated, and 'Mee-sha,' her brother echoed, so only Misha could hear.

'What does your sister say of the young man's prospects?' her father wanted to know.

'He have good little towel-making business in Bombay suburb,' said Mrs Farishta proudly. 'He is of age thirty years old.'

'Thirty years old,' repeated Misha, feeling faint. Eleven years older than her. When he was eleven Misha was only being born. She wanted to throw up.

'Write back to your sister saying we will receive his suit if he decides to visit,' instructed her father, and Mrs Farishta turned back to her aloo gobi, humming.

'And me?' Misha said, her fists clenching under the table. 'Don't I get a say in this?'

'What are you talking about?' her father said in impatience.

'Well, I'm only getting married to this - this old man,' Misha spat. 'Were you going to ask my opinion at any point?'

'Do not be so silly, Misha,' said her father, and she knew he was very angry from the strained tone of his voice. 'You are a young girl. You do not know the ways of the world. You must trust your father's judgement in this.'

'Oh, really?' said Misha, her voice rising in indignation. 'I trust your judgement so that I'll end up like you? Or end up like her?' She flung out her arm to encompass her squat, sour mother, wrapped up in a faded sari like an ancient parcel. 'I don't want to be like you! Why don't you understand that? This is my life! Mine! I want to live it the way I decide!'

There was silence; a black, gaping hole of silence in which all Misha could hear was her own ragged breathing. She hadn't realised she'd risen to her feet until she saw that her father was looking up at her, his face red as a pepper. She expected him at any moment to slap her, or start screaming imprecations at her, but for a long minute he did neither.

Punishment came from a more unexpected quarter. Misha didn't even see her mother advancing until her spoon connected with Misha's head. Misha gave a roar of anger and pain. For what seemed a long time, her mother beat her with the spoon, until Misha couldn't bear the pain any longer and sank to the floor, cradling her aching head in her hands. And still the spoon went on. Misha could faintly hear her father's voice crying, 'Stop, stop!' and even Saleem, sounding horrified, yelling, 'Ma! That's enough!'

When Misha opened her eyes again, Saleem was hovering over her anxiously.

'Are you all right, sister?' he asked.

'I hate you,' Misha informed him, through a red cloud of pain. Her lip stung and when she put a hand to it, it came away bloody. 'I hate you all. I hate you. I hate you.' She began to cry, dry, painful sobs, all to the rhythm of 'I hate you'.

'She is in shock,' her father's voice told the world. 'She just needs to calm down a bit. Saleem, take her to her room.'

Saleem pulled his sister to her feet, fighting her flails all the way.

'Don't tell anyone of this,' were the last, hissed words Misha heard her father say.

'I hate you,' Misha whispered.

She kept her eyes shut, letting Saleem drag her up the stairs and into her bedroom. He pushed her onto the bed and she heard the door open again.

Sure that he was gone, Misha opened her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She could still feel where the spoon had hit her flesh and she was pretty sure she'd have bruises tomorrow. She smiled grimly at her red-eyed, red-faced reflection. No, she was going to be a doctor, and she was certain that she'd have bruises tomorrow.

She almost jumped out of her skin when the door opened again, revealing Saleem balancing a glass of water, a flannel and some sandwiches on a tray.

'What do you want?' snapped Misha. 'Go away, Saleem.'

Saleem resolutely ignored her, setting the tray down on her bedside table next to a book on the endocrine system. He picked up the flannel and advanced.

'Close your eyes,' he suggested and, after glaring at him for a second, Misha obeyed.

She felt the warm flannel dab gently at her tear-stained face and cut lip. It felt soothing and when he was done, Misha deigned to open her eyes and grunt her thanks.

'It's okay, sis,' said Saleem, sounding worried. 'I'm sure Ma and Da will be all right in the morning.'

'I don't really care if they are,' said Misha. 'I'm not staying here to let them boss me around and sell me into a life of slavery. No, thank you. Nasreen was their prize cow and you're their treasured son. They don't need me.'

'What are you going to do?' asked Saleem, his face a picture of anxiety.

'Run away,' said Misha.

~

'Run away,' said Misha.

Five-year-old Saleem's brown eyes were huge in his small face. 'But why, Mishy? Why?'

Even at seven, Misha was sure of her logic and reasoning. 'Because if I don't, Nasreen will tell Ma and Da that Josh Hamilton kissed me in the art storeroom on Tuesday.'

'Did you really, Mishy?' asked Saleem. 'Did you really kiss Joshy?'

'Yes, I did,' said Mishy defiantly. 'I really kissed Joshy - I mean, Josh. And I liked it too.'

'Why will Ma be mad?'

Misha looked down at Saleem. He was only five, he didn't understand. Misha had understood when

she was five, but then, it was different for her. It would always be different for her.

'The thing is, Saleem,' she explained, 'Josh is not a little Indian boy. He is a little English boy. And Ma wouldn't like that I kissed a little English boy and not a little Indian boy, like the little Indian boy Nasreen kisses behind the hedge.'

'I doan under'tand, Mishy,' said Saleem, frowning. 'Aren't little English boys and little Indian boys the same thing? Don't they all have willies, like me?'

'Saleem!' Misha exclaimed. 'Where did you learn that word?'

Saleem chuckled, putting on the charming gap-toothed smile that always melted her mother's heart. Misha, however, wasn't charmed in the slightest. 'Saleem!' she said, her voice a warning.

'Ah, Mishy, you're always so cross!' protested Saleem. He studied her grim face for a second, then capitulated with a sigh. 'Sonny Chamcha tole me it.'

'Told it to me,' Misha corrected without thinking. 'I don't want to hear you using that word again, Saleem, do you hear me? It's rude.'

'But if you runnin' away, you won't hear me at all.' Saleem's logic was impeccable.

'Fine.' Misha played her hand. 'I'll tell Nasreen what you said before I go, then.'

'Oh no, Mishy, don't!' Saleem cried, clutching Misha's legs and adopting a penitant expression.

'You promise, then?' Misha tried to be threatening.

'Oh, I pwomise!' Saleem said sincerely.

'Okay, then.' Misha was mollified. 'Now, you also mustn't tell Ma or Nasreen that I'm gone, all right?'

'Won't they notice?'

'Oh, I doubt it,' said Misha, bitterness dripping from her tongue.

'But you still never tole me whether little English boys have -- I mean, why Ma'll be mad,' Saleem cajoled. He liked his big sister Mishy, who didn't pull and tug at him like Nasreen, or shower him in kisses, or make her friends coo at him, even if Nasreen gave him more sweets than Mishy. Mishy told him sweets would make his teeth rot and he believed her, because Mishy never lied. Not like Nasreen.

'You'll understand one day,' promised Misha. 'There's no difference between little English boys and little Indian boys, but the thing is, people like Ma and Nasreen thing there is. But there isn't! There's no difference! It's all just stupid!'

Saleem was looking at her, slightly shocked. For his sake Misha reined in her anger.

'Now do you see, Saleem?' she asked.

'I fink so,' Saleem said, wrinkling his nose. 'So they all has willies, then?'

Misha just sighed and swatted him. It was as good a reasoning as any.

~

'But where will you go, Misha?' demanded Saleem. 'Where will you stay?'

'I'll find somewhere,' said Misha. 'Bristol let me defer my place and I'm sure I can get a job until next September. And once I have a job, I'll find a place to rent.'

Saleem studied her with an unreadable expression. 'You're really serious about this, aren't you?' he said at last.

Misha nodded. 'Deadly.'

'Wait here,' commanded Saleem. A few minutes later he returned with a bulky envelope, which he pushed into Misha's lap.

'What's this?' Misha asked, suspicion leaking out of every pore. She investigated the contents of the envelope and gasped when they turned out to be twenty-pound notes.

'Saleem Farishta!' exclaimed Misha. 'Where in Allah's name did you get all of this?'

'You probably don't want to know, Misha,' Saleem said, scratching the back of his head.

'Saleem ...' Misha began warningly.

'Okay, okay.' Saleem put up his hands, looking hounded. 'I ... sell things.'

'What kind of things?'

'Um...you know.' Saleem gestured. 'Things that people want. Things that people need. Stuff.'

Misha studied him.

'Trust me,' Saleem said, and she did.

'Don't tell Ma,' she said. Saleem looked affronted.

'Do I look stupid?' he retorted. 'I'll tell them you've gone to sleep, okay?'

'Okay.' On impulse, Misha darted forward and kissed him on the forehead. He batted her away, looking pleased all the same.

'Bye, Saleem.'

'Bye, Mishy.'

*~*

for

*~*

'Sister?' Mrs Farishta waited for the crackle of a long-distance call to subside, and for her sister's surprised greeting to fade. 'Inform young Zafar. The wedding is off.'

*~*

Casualty #12

Name:

Timothy Rogers

Age:

6

Marital Status:

Unmarried

Occupation:

None

Progeny:

None

Cause of Death:

Gas Explosion (?)

Timothy inspected the scab on his knee and wondered if the time was ripe for pulling.

Chewing his tongue, Timothy dug a grubby fingernail underneath the rough, reddish edge of the scab. If Mummy was around, she'd shriek and fly at him and tell him to stop and try to kiss the scab better instead. Timothy was scornful of her methods. Kissing never worked, or at least had no immediate effects. Timothy was all about immediate effects.

He tried to remember if this scar was from falling off Lois Wallace's bicycle or from the sword-fight he'd had with Barney Wallace using tennis racquets. It was probably from the bicycle, he decided. He'd screamed in pain when that happened, because the bicycle had toppled on top of him and his knee had scraped along the gravel. Lois had nearly screamed too, when she saw all the shiny new paintwork shredded. Besides, he was sure he'd scratched his tummy when he was sword fighting, because he'd tumbled over one of his Tonka Trucks and banged off the sharp edge of the dining room table.

The scab was making unpleasant squelchy noises and Timothy regretfully decided it wasn't quite ready to be peeled off. He abandoned this pursuit in favour of going in search of Mummy in order to beg a choccie biccy.

Mummy was on the hall phone, talking and flipping her hair. Timothy knew she only did that when Mr Melvin called. Mr Melvin was Mummy's boss at work, and he called her 'Sweet Pea', even though Timothy knew her real name was Susan. Mr Melvin often called Mummy up on the weekends as well. Daddy's face would go all hard and angry when that happened. Timothy thought perhaps he was mad that Mr Melvin kept getting Mummy's name wrong.

When it happened, Daddy always knelt beside Timothy and asked him if he'd like to play with Daddy for a while and because Daddy was really good at pushing him high on the swings, Timothy didn't mind it when Mr Melvin called.

Mummy didn't like to be disturbed when she was chatting to Mr Melvin. She always made a face at Timothy and told him to 'Go away and play'. She'd then give a tinkly little laugh that reminded Timothy of the sound his weewee made when he went to the grown-up's toilet and say, 'Oh, it's only Timmy. He's such a handful. Anyway, you were saying ... Wednesday afternoon ...?'

Timothy wandered into the kitchen and stood looking up at the counter, whereupon was ensconced the Holy Grail of his small life, the Cookie Jar. Diving into the deep waters of critical path analysis, he thoughtfully pushed one of the kitchen chairs towards the counter. He pushed it so hard, in fact, that it hit off the counter with a resounding bang and the back of the chair splintered. Well pleased with his work, Timothy clambered up onto the chair and from thence onto the counter, curling himself under the overhead cupboards and taking up the Cookie Jar.

It was something of a struggle to get the lid open; the twisty stopper was dug deep and was not in any case designed for pudgy little hands to manoeuvre. Eventually, by dint of much effort, Timothy managed to pop the stopper out. In fact, his success took him somewhat by surprise and his grip on the jar -- never steady to begin with -- weakened considerably. The stopper careened off the top of the counter and fell, smashing on the floor. The assorted biscuits tumbled out of the Jar, spilling over his lap and the counter in a hail of crumbs and broken edges.

Timothy, after surveying the chaos for a few moments, shrugged and began to lick the crumbs off his hands. He then proceeded to munch his way through most of the Jar's contents.

When Mummy came through the door, licking her lips and fluffing her perm, she took one look at the destruction and let out an animalistic roar of rage.

'What's wrong, Mummy?' Timothy had a wide chocolate smear around his mouth.

'What have you done, Timmy?' wailed Mummy. 'Just look at this floor! It was spotless this morning!'

Timothy frowned. Actually, the linoleum had a pattern of flowers, most of which had several spots in their design. 'Mummy, you're silly,' he chuckled.

'You, my son, are a lighting devil in human form,' sighed Mummy. Timothy took no notice; Mummy said that quite a lot.

Her foot crunched on glass and she squealed. 'What have you broken now?'

'Twisty thing,' Timothy enlightened her, holding up the now-almost-empty Jar.

'Oh, dear,' said Mummy, taking the Jar off him and setting it on the kitchen table. She lifted him bodily from the counter and tucked him under her arm. Timothy screamed in delight. 'I'm going to wash you now, Timothy Tully Rogers,' she informed him.

'No, Mummy, no!' Timothy begged, but even as he wriggled she had his shorts and t-shirt off. She popped him into the bath, where he slid underneath the water for a second and came up spluttering.

Once he was in the bath, he didn't mind it so much and Mummy added bubble bath and his rubber ducky. He was soon absorbed in shooting the duck backwards and forwards across the bathwater, making revving noises.

'Now, if you promise to stay in the bath while I clean up that mess you made below,' said Mummy, 'I'll take you to the park afterwards.'

'Yay, the park!' Timothy shrieked, splashing his arms in the water and sending jets of water slopping over the side of the bath to drench Mummy's shoes. Mummy just shook her head and left, closing the door behind her.

Timothy heard the phone ring again as he dived under the water and up again and watched his fingers and toes become wrinkled. At one point, he heard Mummy say, 'What, now? Well, I suppose ... but Timmy will be there.'

Mummy came in again with a big fluffy towel and Timothy obediently stood up in the bath, letting Mummy engulf him in the warm towel.

'Look how wrinkled my fingers is!' Timmy was proud of his handiwork.

'Lovely,' said Mummy, sounding distracted. Timothy wouldn't let her dress him, although she kept saying, 'Do hurry on, Timothy, or we'll be late.' This confused Timothy, because how could you be late for the park? It was always there. But then, at lot of things grown-ups did confused him, like when Mummy put lots of make-up on her face. Timothy didn't like when she did that, because she wouldn't let him kiss her when she had it on. Or when Daddy said things like, 'Not in front of the children,' to Mummy when they had arguments - there was only one of Timothy, but Daddy always said 'children', and Mummy always had red eyes afterwards.

~

Once, when Barney Wallace had come over for tea, Daddy and Mummy had started doing some of their confusing grown-up things.

'I know you're seeing him again.' Daddy sounded pretty angry, although he was smiling at Barney and giving him another fish finger.

'I don't know what you're talking about, Frank,' said Mummy, but her back was to Daddy and Timothy because she was fetching tomato sauce from the cupboard.

'Don't lie to me, Susan,' Daddy said, his voice really quiet. 'Do you think I'm stupid or something? Tell me the truth.'

'The truth, Frank?' Mummy's voice was loud all of a sudden. She whirled around and slammed the sauce bottle on the table so hard the plates rattled. 'The truth is we never make love any more and I don't know why that is. Am I supposed to live the life of a nun? I have needs too, Frank.'

'Susan!' Daddy exclaimed. 'Not in front of the children.'

Mummy's lip had trembled and she looked like she was going to burst into tears, but at the last minute she stopped herself. 'How're your chips, Barney?' she said, ignoring Daddy.

'Lovely, thanks, Mrs Rogers,' said Barney, reaching for the tomato sauce.

Later on, when Barney and Timothy were watching Blue Peter, Timothy heard Mummy go into the kitchen after Daddy. He decided he wanted a glass of milk, so he told Barney he'd be back in a minute. Barney, absorbed in cartoons, didn't protest.

The door was slightly ajar and Mummy and Daddy were talking in low, fast voices.

Daddy was standing at the window, looking out, his arms folded across his body as if he were trying to stop himself coming apart at the seams, like Timothy's battered old teddy-bear. When he spoke again, his harsh voice startled Timothy.

'Are you fucking him, Susan?' he said.

Mummy was sitting at the table crying. Timothy wanted to run over and hug her, but for some reason he couldn't. His feet felt like they were frozen to the ground.

'Yes, I am, Frank,' she sobbed. 'I love him. He loves me. You don't love me, you told me so yourself.'

'You've hardly put yourself out to make me, have you?' retorted Daddy. 'Ever since we've got married you've paid less and less attention to me. You'd think it was because of me --' He broke off with a huff.

'Go on, Frank. Say it!' Mummy sounded rather hysterical. 'Say it! 'You'd think it was because of me'! Well, excuse me, Frank, but the last I checked it takes two to make a baby. You aren't exactly blameless in all this.'

'I never said I was,' Daddy hissed.

'But you still blame me for making me marry you,' said Mummy. 'It wasn't my fault, Frank, my parents were pressuring me.'

'It's not like you investigated any of the other options, though, did you?' Daddy's voice was flat.

'You mean you'd really have wanted to --? Oh, Frank!'

'No, I wouldn't want to now. But I can't believe you were so stupid. You told me you were on the Pill. You lied.'

'I didn't!' protested Mummy. 'I was taking it. But that time we did it in your car, I had the 'flu and was on antibiotics ...'

'Yes, yes, we've been through this,' said Daddy, raking his hands through his thinning hair. 'That's not the issue right now. The issue is that you're cheating on me, again. With Melvin.'

'Yes.' Mummy's voice was very low.

'Why?' Daddy burst out, sounding broken. 'Susan? Before we got married, we loved each other, didn't we? Why do you have to go away from me? And for something like Melvin, too, that slimy little bastard. He -- he wears a toupee!'

Mummy's voice grew defensive. 'At least I don't have to beg for his love. At least he doesn't hold this great big sword of blame over me every moment we spend together.'

'Why don't we just get divorced then?' Daddy said wearily. 'We don't love each other any more. You're sleeping with another man. What's stopping us?'

'Timothy.' Timothy jumped, wondering if she'd spotted him. For some reason, he didn't want to be caught eavesdropping on this particular conversation. He didn't understand any of it, but he was fairly certain that he didn't like any of it either.

'Oh. Of course. I was forgetting.' Daddy pushed himself away from the counter he was leaning against. 'I'm going to bed.'

Timothy crept back into the living room before Daddy could come out the kitchen door and catch him loitering in the hallway. For some reason, he didn't feel thirsty any more.

~

While Mummy was putting on her coat, Timothy crept back to the kitchen and found what he'd suspected would be there; a few biscuits, sitting on the table, designated for the bin by Mummy because they were all broken and had been on the floor. Timothy grabbed them up and stuffed them into the pocket of his raincoat.

Mummy led them a brisk pace to the park, so fast in fact that Timothy was stumbling to keep up and it was only her vice-like grip on his wrist that prevented him from falling outright. As they jogged past two yelling men, Timothy felt a weight in his pocket suddenly lighten and, on glancing back, Timothy found to his horror that all his biscuits had parted company with his pocket.

'Mummy, Mummy, wait!' Timothy cried urgently, but Mummy refused to heed him. They reached the park gates, where a short man with oily black hair and an equally oleaginous face was waiting, wearing a not-very-nice smile.

'In you go, Timmy,' said his mother and Timothy noticed that she had make-up on. He frowned. 'Go on,' she repeated. 'I'll be watching you from here.'

She didn't, though. She was talking to the oily man and flipping her hair. Timothy was pretty sure the man was Mr Melvin. Timothy didn't like him at all, but he provided a useful distraction. Timothy slid through the park fence a little way down from where Mummy was standing at the gate, and trotted off down the road after his biscuits. At the last moment, Mummy looked up.

'Timmy! Where are you going? TIMMY, NO!'

*~*

his

*~*

'Who was that?' Frank's tone was clipped.

'The lawyer. The divorce papers are in the post,' replied Susan, sniffing and wiping the ever-falling tears from her face. Frank curled his lip and went back to his dinner. Behind him, Susan's shoulders started to shake in earnest. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and tried to be quiet.

'Oh, and Susan?' said Frank, not turning around.

'Yes?' Susan gulped.

'If Melvin Hayes dares to come anywhere near my son's funeral I will break every bone in his body. Where's the tomato sauce?'

*~*

Godric's Hollow Police Station

Chief-of-Police Corbett set down his pen with a frown and rubbed a hand over his bristly head. An odd case, no doubt about it. Twelve dead from a gas explosion, in a part of town where there were no gas pipes, in a town which had never experienced problems with gas pipes since they had been installed. Yet people seemed reluctant to talk about it, truculent even. If Corbett didn't know better -- and he knew there had been several dozen eyewitnesses -- he'd have said that they couldn't remember.

It had been a long, confusing day and at eight pm he was alone in the dark office. He didn't expect to hear voices, so his reaction time was a little slower than usual. His ears picked up the 'Ready? On my word ...' and he turned for 'NOW!', so that the 'Obliviate!' hit him directly in the face.

*~*

wand. And the world exploded.

~FIN~