First attempt at writing

Translated from the French

From the chaos of ideas emerges a thread of coherence. A beacon of clarity radiates from within the maelstrom, directed at us, the ignorant mass who term ourselves humanity.

Coburg

Must all of life be nothing more than a series of set pieces? Surely there is more to it than the performance of a shallow ritual, or are we nothing but shadow puppets, mere artifices of paper and bamboo?

From After All Said and Done - du Près

Panel 1: the café

The man at the corner table is an artist. In his cellar at home lies buried a massive portfolio of drawings and preparatory sketches and hundreds of unfinished carvings in wood. People observed in cafés, on trains and buses, fragments of architecture, gargoyles and cherubs, single limbs, eyes, noses, cars, buses, some carefully crafted, others scratched hastily on scraps of newspaper or discarded rolls of wallpaper, restaurant napkins, menus or notebooks, all tossed randomly into the dark cellar to form an apocalyptic image of the city. He aims one day to exhibit his work in a single colossal collage: working title " the meaning(lessness) of life".

The waitress knows him well, although they have never spoken other than to exchange rehearsed lines. Are you ready to order, sir? Cappuccino, please. The bill please. She studies his work in some detail as a matter of fact. He presses so hard on the napkin that an impression of his sketch is clearly visible on the paper tablecloth after he has left and it has become her habit surreptitiously to collect these traces of his inspiration. At home, she rubs them lightly with a soft pencil and fashions negative views of the artist’s work. She pastes them onto a large piece of plywood, which leans against the wall of the bedroom of her tiny flat, not randomly, but after much thought and many changes. It is her opinion that he is far too focussed on the line of his images. If he were to pay more attention to the negative space he would come much closer to reality. She would tell him so if he were to ask. It is the waitress’s opinion that the negative spaces in life are of much greater interest than the solid images. The spaces that separate people from each other hold all the clues. How surprised she would be to learn that the collage she has created almost exactly mirrors – in negative, of course – that part of the hidden portfolio which lies on the floor to the left of the steep wooden steps.

The waitress places his cappuccino on the table and steals a glance at the lines he has sketched. He is drawing the couple at the table in the window. He has drawn the woman staring at the man opposite, her hand reaching out to him across the table.

- No! cries the waitress, blushing as soon as she realises that her thought has escaped her lips.

- I’m sorry, says the artist, looking up at her, surprised at the deviation from their customary script.

- I burnt my hand, she lies. It is nothing, I’m sorry I disturbed you. But to herself she says, he has missed the point. There is so much more separating the couple than the width of the table.

II Rosa

Rosa was a woman who hated novels written in the present tense, so it would have been impossible to write about her in any other tense than the past. As she reached across the table for syrup to add to her citron pressé she studied her own arm, long and elegantly sheathed in the sleeve of a black bolero by Ozbek. She was proud of her slim wrists, long fingers, perfect olive skin, although she was a little perturbed by the appearance of small brown shadows, tiny inkspots bent on betraying her age, sooner or later. The thin band of her wedding ring momentarily caught the sun. She looked up at the man who had placed the ring so clumsily on her hand nearly seventeen years before and her face broke into a smile as it always did when she saw him concentrating. Anyone else would have chosen his meal by now, but Matt would read every word on the menu before reaching a decision. It was not an obsession; that was too unkind a term for the affliction from which Matt suffered. It was a physical inability to allow any word to pass unread. He read the cereal packet at breakfast time, the instruction manual for all the kitchen appliances, every word of every advertising hoarding he passed on the way to work, every unsolicited flier that came through their door. And each day there was more, a newspaper, a magazine, junk mail. When he read, he was deaf and blind to the outside world, imprisoned between the lines of text. Or maybe hiding, mused Rosa, as he put the menu down on the table and his eyes met hers.

- Have you chosen? he asked.

She smiled and folded the menu.

- You choose for me, she said, knowing that he would order the same for both of them. As she watched him motion to the waiter, she luxuriated in the extra minutes she would have to enjoy her own thoughts, as Matt cross-examined the waiter on that day’s specials and the origins of the organic produce. Her eyes focussed on the mirror behind her husband, and she gazed at their images. Matt’s once thick mop of auburn curls now reduced to a gossamer covering, his shoulders and arms set in purposeful pose, her own hair fuller and thicker than for some time. She was quietly content with her looks. It had taken years to create, but this was an image with which she was comfortable, even proud.

Matt folded his hands behind his head and smiled the satisfied smile of a mission accomplished. The waiter lingered a moment, and looked directly at Rosa. He knew her. He knew every inch of her body. He could smell her. Not the faint essence dabbed in haste as she dressed that morning, but her sweat as it stood in perfect pearls upon her shoulders and cascaded in droplets down her back. Matt turned to him, and for a moment, caught his stare. As the waiter retreated to the kitchen, Matt playfully accused Rosa of flirting, and began to recount the tales of his day.

The waitress had caught this silent interchange, as she sprinkled some cocoa on yet another frothy cup. The artist too, sensed something; the waiter’s hesitation had hung in the air like the silence of an orchestra as the conductor's baton is raised. He watched their conversation, Matt in full flow, Rosa nodding but her eyes repeatedly checking in the mirror. He watched for the waiter’s return but another young man brought steaming bowls of mussels, and quickly returned to the kitchens.

III Maria

We can observe everyone around us, but we cannot know what goes on in their minds. This is why we must read novels, to learn who others are and what they think and feel. What lies beneath the exterior may be a realm of calm and quiet, of love and contentment; perhaps there lies hidden a gallery of undrawn images, libraries of unwritten books or scores of unsung symphonies. Or a complete blank. There again, there is always the possibility that each of them is going through his own, private, hell.

Whilst we are looking around the café, I might as well tell you about the Woman in the Other Corner. The Woman in the Other Corner is called, let us say, Maria. She is thirty five, of medium height, not unattractive, but certainly no great beauty either. She might look better if she chose less severe glasses than the heavy black rimmed ones she favours. They only tend to make her sharply pointed nose look rather beaky. The first thing you would notice about Maria, if you should happen to glance across at her from your own table in the café would be that she is painfully thin. Is she anorexic, you might wonder? Well I can tell you that she is not, but then again, she does not eat much at the moment; in fact she has not eaten a meal for ten days because anxiety has created a knot in her throat so constricting that only small sips of coffee and water find a passage into her aching guts. She is wearing unremarkable clothes; beige trousers of an unflattering and unfashionable cut; a black sweater cut square at the neck so that it emphasises the jagged angularity of her shoulders. She sits hunched over her coffee cup, the sagging outline of her backbone telling you, as you gaze over at her, that here sits a woman who is exhausted, drained and hopeless. Just in case you need any further confirmation, take a look at her face. Her eyes are red as if from crying and her complexion is, not pale, but colourless. Her red eyes, floating in the black bags that sit beneath them, are set against the background of her lifeless face: this is a ghastly mask of a Grecian mummer maniacally proclaiming its message to the world. THIS WOMAN REPRESENTS DESPAIR.

Curious that noone seems to notice this, but you.

On the table next to her coffee is a copy of today’s paper – the same one you are reading. You watch as her skeletal fingers claw at the pages. See that? She is trembling; her hands are definitely shaking as she picks up the paper. Oh yes, and look at that! See that tear balancing on the lower lid? The kitchen tap she didn’t quite manage to turn off. Molecule by molecule the water seeps out to form a single drop which seers her eyelid like a branding iron. She’s used to it though, you can tell; the tear perches on the rim and she does not wipe it away. Useless to do so when it will only be replaced by another.

Let’s take a look at what she is reading. FOUR DIE IN WHITE WATER RAFTING TRAGEDY. HOW MIRACLE WORKER HELPED ME GET OVER MICK. WAITING GAME AS WHITE HOUSE STALLS DEAL ON MIDDLE EAST. Somehow I don’t think that any of these are the stories grabbing her attention. Ah! Here we are: on page 6, THE HAYTER COLUMN. Let’s read on

Let it never be said that Hayter household is not up with the times. Just the other week the dearly beloved Mrs. H. asked me to look into upgrading our computer. The old one, she said, was as good as dead. Naturally the smaller Hayters were overjoyed at the prospect. “Can we get the 15/4.37 Dad? They chorused. There’s this wicked version of Death Star Three out now. Everyone at school’s got it!!” It’s at times like these of course that one becomes aware that, according to one’s offspring, the entire world is in possession of cutting edge technology - apart from one household. One’s own. It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I set out………

You may think that this is a rather tedious column, but just take a moment to look at Maria’s reaction. Her breathing has quickened, her heart is pounding in time with the sledgehammer that is beating at her forehead. The tear has left its eyelid post and channeled through the parched skin of her cheek and is being pursued by other, larger drops. She has picked up her biro and is squinting myopically at the text through the filter of burning misery. She underlines words

Let it never be said

the dearly beloved

The old one as good as dead Naturally

wicked Death

cutting

So what? you might think. Can you not see that something rather odd is going on here? It’s quite obvious that you are going to take a bit more convincing. Alright, come with me over to her table. Don’t worry she won’t notice you – and put your ear right up against her head. Not her mouth, it’s not what she’s muttering that we want to hear; it’s what she’s thinking. Preposterous! you huff and puff. Come on, it’s no worse than watching television, just have a quick listen. We’re close enough now to smell her perfume, one of those sickly sweet ones, bergamot, freesias, lily of the valley, but not all the scents of Arabie would be strong enough to overpower the odour that exudes from her. It is the gut wrenching stench of oblivion. The worms of doubt and mistrust are gnawing their way through her guts, munching on her liver, devouring her kidneys discarding slabs of half eaten flesh to rot. And they in turn corrode their way through her entire being.

Okay, you grudgingly allow, so she’s not quite herself at the moment, but I still don’t think we should intrude. You are impossible! You want proof written in blood, I say as I grab you firmly by the arm and lead you closer to her. I push your head down so that your ear is brushing against her scalp and you are resisting, until something suddenly catches your attention and you stop. Just like that, you have forgotten your quarrel with me and you are listening, rapt, to the sound of a thousand voices, talking, whispering, screaming a thousand thoughts.

You are evil and worthless you are causing all your family to suffer you must suffer you have no hope you are evil and wort take charge take care take me take me take that take charge take five take this away take moldskfjaldkfjsaldenioerpbflkgjsufferlsdkfjlkenwideathisstoogoodforhersdlfknHE WILL HE WILL ENSURE THAT ALL YOUR FAULTS ARE EXPOSED never let it be said that syouwed edfehjthdeath to dearly belovedhe is writing messages in his articles and they are directed at me and noone believes me but WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME WHY cutting me cutting you punishmentyoucanrunbutyoucanthidesdogindkeslm4owd;fmoe;lflrandommliveforawhileburtalskenfv

imsosorry i never meant any harm i never meant to criticise him but it’s just not fair to send me all these messages any why does he want everyone to hate me why tell all my friends why put those letters what if they find out what ive done what if thEY FIND OU

You have to admit this is a pretty bad case. Have I got your interest at last? I bet you’d like to know what she has done and who is sending these nasty messages in the newspaper (a neat trick don’t you think?). More will be revealed in the fullness of time, but first the waitress is waiting to get past, so I’m afraid we’ll have to return to our seats.

IV Pat

The waitress put the glass of iced water on Maria’s table without looking at her. It was a mark of professionalism amongst waiters and waitresses, she felt, never to let a customer know that you had seen them crying. The waitress cast a contemptuous gaze into the mirror. Behind her own reflection the customers sat ranged at their tables like chess pieces half way through a game in which strategy has lost out to desperation. Blowing her reflection a kiss she spun round and strode deliberately across the room, collecting a new order along the way. She burst through the wooden swing doors and into the kitchen.

- Cheese baguette and coffee for table 5 Mr. T. she shouted to the cheerful cook

- and I’m going to take 5 out the back, she added for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. She undid her pinafore and threw it on the shelf, her hands moving automatically, repeating the gestures of a ritual performed day in and day out. Her right hand went through the motions of brushing clean the sleeves of her white uniform blouse and she let slip an involuntary cry as she pricked the back of her hand on her name tag which had somehow come loose and was hanging precariously from her breast pocket. She pinned it back on, so that it once again proclaimed her to be Pat Proszic. Good foreign name that, she would joke with her friends. Her grandfather had been an immigrant refugee but had married a local girl as had their own son 30 years later, so that their surname was the only link now with that other country of which Pat knew nothing at all. As she worked her way through the kitchen she looked out for Guy and found him peeling potatoes whilst listening to hip hop music and the inane banter of radio disc jockeys.

- Got any fags, Guy? He tapped his breast pocket with his potato peeler by way of reply.

- Fancy a quick one out the back, then? Cigarette I mean you dirty bastard she added quickly seeing a glint in his eye.

They sat on the rough brick wall which was all that separated the back yard of the café from the service road behind. Guy offered her a cigarette and she noticed his hands tremble with excitement when they brushed hers as, together, they sheltered the flame of the match. She reflected that Guy would not have been bad looking, were it not for his pimply teenage skin. And his teeth. And his appalling dress sense. And his taste in music. Poor old Guy, he’s not got much going for him, she mused and could not help breaking into her melodious giggle.

- What? asked Guy.

- Oh nothing! Guy, do you ever wonder about all those people that come into the café?

- You mean like how much money they got and where they live and stuff?

- I mean and stuff. What’s going on inside, who they are, how we all relate together.

- Oh. No I never done that. Not for the first time Guy felt the gist of the conversation he was having with Pat was drifting away from him.

- I mean don’t you ever look at the distance people sit apart, at the spaces they make around themselves, she continued, as though he had not spoken at all.

- Well I did wonder where that bloke at table three got his shirt, Guy pronounced proudly believing himself at last to have contributed something of value to his exchange with Pat. She rewarded him with a gale of laughter and although he was not at all sure what he had said that was so funny he joined in enthusiastically.

- You really are a thick bastard Guy, she said almost affectionately. - Guy?

- Yeah.

- Do you know what I like about you?

- No. What?

- Nothing! And once more she roared with laughter whilst he grinned idiotically and snorted - Oh yeah that’s a goodun’.

- Fuck off now will you darling and let me think in peace she smiled sweetly at him and he dutifully retreated back to his potatoes. She took a last long draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a stream heavenwards. Grinding the stub out with the toe of her flat black work shoes she leaned on the wall and debated whether to go for a walk before returning to her post. A hunch-shouldered figure hurrying down the road caught here eye as he passed the end of the service road. She looked at her watch and clucked her teeth in disgust. That Vincent is a fucking idle bastard she thought. Knocking off early again; there goes my walk, we’ll be short handed now. Enjoying the feeling of the indispensable martyr, she walked confidently back through to the kitchen.

V Maria

Maria, I just met a girl named Maria. And suddenly I found that I just didn’t tell you enough about Maria, poor Maria. Don’t you just hate a smart arsed narrator? They poke their noses in interrupting the flow just as the story is getting going, - guilty as charged I admit it, but let’s face it where would a story be without us? Especially Maria’s tale, because you’ll get no sense out of her as my old dad used to say. If you have been looking carefully you will have noticed that, whilst she uses her right hand either to clasp her biro so tightly that you fear it will snap, or to stir her diminishing coffee, or to hold her coffee cup falteringly to her lips, her left arm remains all the while on the table and in her left hand there is hidden a crumpled mass that you can be forgiven for having taken as a tissue. Luckily we can simply zoom right in on that hand and crawl inside the creases of what turns out to be a piece of A4 paper. We’re tiny now, shrunken to the size of a flea. For goodness sake don’t look up - the sight of those tears tumbling from her cheeks is truly terrifying in these dimensions. It’s not exactly easy to read the typescript when the letters are so large and the paper is screwed and concertinad almost into a ball inside her sweaty palm. Actually it’s surprising how hot it is inside here since she looks so pale from the outside, but it certainly is warm inside this trembling fist. The movement doesn’t make matters any easier. We really want to shout out - get a grip woman - at least for so long as it takes us to read what’s written here, but I don’t expect she would hear us and even if she did, would she understand? So, let’s take in what we’ve got here. Times New Roman, 10 point laser printer A4 conqueror vellum and now the interesting part

……..only trying to be helpful but you seem to have taken it into your head to manipulate everything…….

…….and since you do not seem to respond to any reasoned plea………

………..hate to become aggressive, but you leave me with no other…..

…………completely unnecessary to drag my wife………….vindictive………..

……….please leave me and my family………….

…no other option but to ……….. hands of………….

The handwriting at the bottom is not easy to make out but I can see an M and a K – oh you see an R in between do you? Well let’s make an educated guess that the author’s name is Mark. That’s it then. That’s all the clues you’re getting from me. Now just watch the drama unfold.

Not that I’m promising to stay completely silent, but I think you can do without me for a bit.

A couple of pages anyway.

VI Christian

The artist has a day job, only he does not like to talk about it. He writes computer programmes for a small firm in the south of town and he is very good at it. So he is pretty well paid, which he finds rather embarrassing as he feels that you are no real artist unless you struggle and suffer as so many of those Bohemian types did in Paris in the 19^th century. On the other hand, he reasons with himself, there were some who were quite well off in their own right. He often considers throwing up his job altogether, but quickly realises the folly in that: his tiny house in the suburbs boasts not only a beautifully light conservatory which is perfect for painting and drawing, but also the apocalyptic cellar. Fail to keep up the payments on the house and then where would he be? And how would he afford paint and canvas and charcoal and paper and fixative and rubbers and pastels and gold leaf and, and, and ?

Still he does his best to live like an artist, or as he thinks an artist should live; he frequents this café, and he wears old and unfashionable clothes. That is the sort of artist he wants to be. He thinks. His name is Christian Kroll.

Pat knows an awful lot more about Christian than he realises. They were at school together, but she is not surprised that he had never noticed her. It was the largest school in town, one of those great educational experiments, doomed to drag on and on until those whose education has been blighted by being forced into an organisation so large that noone would know or care who they were, are sufficiently enraged and motivated to take a stand and campaign to tear down the system and revert to smaller focussed schools. That is what Pat would say when she had had one drink too many after work and if there were anybody willing to listen to her views. Christian is two years older than Pat and at school he was in the clever stream for everything whereas she was a gap-toothed thicko. He was an only child. His father was a doctor – a pompous git who had refused to prescribe her the pill at 15 unless her mother consented. As if her mother gave a toss! He was dead now anyhow. Pat had scoured the local paper at the time of his death and was astonished to discover that she was apparently the only person in the neighbourhood who thought the doctor a self important and blinkered old bigot. She had apparently failed to notice that he was in fact a saint beloved of all his patients, young and old and renowned for his worldliness and bedside manner. Perhaps he did not have many patients, she had mused. Christian’s mother was stiff. At the school fair when Pat and her mother would be working away on the Beauty and Bath stall, selling bath salts and knitted toilet roll covers in the shape of a doll’s dress and vile smelling soap shaped like sea shells and cheap rough offcuts of towelling which Anita’s dad could get cheap from the factory he worked in and Pat’s mum arranged in a pile labelled ‘handtowels’, Pat would watch Christian’s mother standing next to her husband as he condescended to declare the fair open, her gaze fixed on the top of the trees in the gardens beyond the school field. She saw the deep breath and the barely suppressed sigh as the doctor’s wife picked her way carefully down the steps constructed from staging blocks, careful not to catch her exquisitely crafted heel in the cracks between the blocks artlessly shoved together by Mr. Ajare the caretaker. Pat watched the gloved hand brush the wrinkles carefully out of designer linen and the creation of the powdery creases in her cheeks as she fixed her false smile as carefully as her lipstick and commenced her tour of the stalls.

- And how much do you expect to make, as much as five pounds? oh well done you.

And her mother’s fawning left Pat with a sickness that she could not rationalise then, only much later, as she would transfer her glare from the mother to the son, thin, aloof, following in his mother’s wake, eyes fixed on the ground. And she noticed with satisfaction his embarrassment. Good.

Her feelings about his parents are all in the past now, Pat fancies. She likes to believe that you cannot help who your parents are, you just have to be yourself. She has good cause to believe this because she spends her life trying very hard not to be like her mother. It is funny the way that life is, that he should have chosen to make this café his local. Pat relishes her anonymity as far as he is concerned. Throughout the many months he has been coming here he has never shown the slightest hint of recognition; he is one of those people for whom the waitress is invisible, he never makes eye contact, seems to recognise her only by her tone of voice and the outline of her hand, which she knows he has drawn several times curled around a coffee cup or cradling a bowl of soup. It usually makes her angry, the way customers treat waiters as objects rather than people. Studying people and making intimate mental sketches of them has become her defence mechanism as well as her hobby. But with Christian she does not mind his complete indifference to her because it enables her to study him and his work more closely. The curious thing is that this girl - whom the school wrote off at an early stage and who emerged at 16 without any qualifications to her name and who was unable to get work anywhere other than this café where she has been for years and years - this girl is quite a philosopher, a thinker, a creator, a doer. Her earlier lack of self confidence has metamorphosed into a selfish arrogance; the world remains unaware of her depth and her qualities because her thoughts and ideas would be wasted on ordinary men. As she emerges from the kitchen into the front of the café she seizes a dish of Danish pastry from the inept younger waiter and takes it herself over to Christian’s table. He murmurs a polite thank you as she places it carefully in front of him and is oblivious to the fact that her assiduous wiping of the table and clearance of ash trays is only a cover to enable her to take time to look at his sketch. She is amused and impressed. The sketch that he was working on when she allowed herself an uncontrolled outburst earlier has been abandoned. He has turned the piece of paper he is working on – an advertisement flier placed on each of the café tables – upside down, so she can study carefully the rejected image. Just as she thought it presents an intimacy and intertwining of the two characters that is too far from reality. The drawing he’s working on now is much better. The woman’s hand hangs in midair, the man’s expression is a startled gaze. The hand is reaching beyond the man towards an image in the mirror. She laughs inwardly and wonders if Christian is more observant than she has given him credit for.

VII Vincent

Brown leaves were beginning to fall from the avenue of chestnut trees as a gentle wind teased them from the branches. The air was cool but it was still quite warm when the evening sun shone, as it did now. Cocooned in his own thoughts, Vincent did not notice nature’s subtle modifications to the park’s decoration, the brown carpet to complement the green and yellow walls. He slumped onto a bench at the foot of the statue of a proud general. He did not notice the magnificent view of the city spread at his feet, he did not marvel at the beauty of the park or the sweep of the river beyond, but took from his pocket a mobile telephone. With care, as if afraid that the pressure of his fingers on the keys would break the gadget, he punched in her number. Her voice, composed, measured, a little husky made him shiver with excitement. Or fear.

- Hello?………Hello?

He could hear the familiar sounds of the restaurant, the clash of spoons and forks on the white porcelain, the sigh and sweep of the glass and chrome doors, the quiet chatter of the diners, overlaid with her breathing. He felt her breath on his cheek. Her fingers, cradling the mobile phone, were entwined in his hair, gently pulling his head down, down onto her as she lay beneath him.

- Hello?……..

I don’t need to say a thing. She knows it’s me. He waited for a sign from her, sure that she would whisper a message. But the only sound that came was the thud of the telephone as she laid it on the table, still switched on – on purpose surely? – and her voice, shrill and clear. Deliberately speaking to him.

- I really am going to get rid of this bloody thing. It’s just one annoying phone call after another; I think I’m just going to have to accept that having it was just a little fad in my life and get back to the real world. After all, what do I need a mobile for? Noone important ever needs to get hold of me apart from you darling and you’re right here.

Matt took her hand and pressed his lips to the fingers.

- Tell me about your day.

- My day! she offered theatrically. - What a day I’ve had! The Berger job is turning into a complete nightmare. The units finally turned up from the factory and there’s a fucking great scratch right across the top of the central one and the two side panels are in the wrong colour. Berger went ballistic, of course, and you can hardly blame him, and I didn’t like to point out right there and then that I had recommended that I should go to the factory to check the drawings, but he was too much of a skinflint to authorise the train fare. Anyhow, thank God I kept a file note of all my conversations, thanks to your sensible advice my darling. And then Berger says, I didn’t want that curve here anyway, as if it’s just a question of sawing a bit off – oh here’s the next installment….

The roar of a stormy ocean, followed by a forlorn computer-generated beep as the phone was scooped up and into Rosa’s bag. Vincent looked down at his phone. He pressed the last number redial button.

The mobile phone you have called may be switched off; please try later. The mobile phone you have called

Why try later, when you know it is all over.

It rained.

VIII Rain

Vincent’s heartbreak poured from the skies and spattered the plate glass window at Rosa’s shoulder. Just my luck, thought Rosa looking regretfully at her new black suede shoes. Just my luck thinks Pat, reflecting on her rusty Fiat perched dangerously on the twin piers of the inspection pit at the garage around the corner, unlikely to be released until she coughs up a deposit. Just my luck thinks Christian, smiling happily at the knowledge that the rain would cancel this evening’s open air performance in the park and release him from his obligation to his mother. Just my luck, announces Guy to Pat, jabbing his finger towards the door opening cautiously to admit an elderly man.

- I’m thinking of sloping off early and the old boy arrives. Pat immediately puts down the plates she is clearing and moves swiftly to meet the man with undisguised affection and pleasure.

- Carlos! How lovely to see you. Here, just let me clear this table and I’ll get you a coffee. What weather to be out in! You must be soaked.

He returns her embrace with equal affection and rests his hand lightly on her arm as she leads him to the empty table – the only one remaining now that the café is filling with steaming refugees from the sudden storm.

- Guy, she calls, - please bring coffee for Carlos. She is highly amused as Guy dutifully brings the coffee and places it with great care on the table with a deep bow and - Good evening Senor.

- Good evening Guy. It is a pleasure to see you looking so well. Are you taking care of my potatoes? Carlos asks and Guy responds, having missed the irony in the question, that the potatoes are very well, in the circumstances. As he retreats to the safety of the kitchen, Pat and Carlos giggle together.

- And what circumstances do you suppose, my dear, could be bad for potatoes?

- Well I suppose the prospect of pan frying is not too attractive for them. But maybe it’s more sinister than that; for all we know there might be a revolution occurring in the vegetable world – I mean what about all this organic produce?

- I hope there isn’t some sort of potatoes' rights conspiracy afoot in my kitchen.

- Poor Guy, he would wonder what on earth we’re going on about, you know.

- Indeed, he would, smiles Carlos. He drinks his coffee slowly and appreciatively. Pat is confident in the quality of the food and drink in the café, and yet she tenses as Carlos drinks, unable to relax until he utters - Very good! Very good my dear; you know, only my mother made such good coffee as this. Don’t let me keep you on such a busy day. Carlos surveys the full café with pleasure and Pat takes the hint to get back to managing his little business, without resentment, for she loves the old man more than she loves her own father.

IX Maria

Guy has put a tape on. It always make Pat wince when he describes the music she thinks of as the music of youth and rebellion as retro. The Jam, Paul Weller intoning …..they’re all going through their own private hell, private hell…. What a delicious irony which only we can enjoy; Maria's hell is entirely private. She is trying to sort her thoughts over a new coffee. She has pulled from her bag a jumble of papers, letters, newspaper clippings, circulars, junk mail, and her shaking hands are caressing the words and pictures, her lips moving gently as if reciting the rosary while she thinks back. It seems like such a long time ago, but it is only thee months since she won the competition; it was the tie breaker that clinched it in her favour apparently. State in no more than ten words why you prefer to shop at Sainsbury’s. She had written

Convenience+ value for money+ quality+ friendliness+ reliability= Sainsbury’s

- You could’ve ‘ad a job in that advertisin’ said her mother when she read her entry. - They’ll like this girl, she predicted.

And she was right, they liked it a lot. She not only won the prize but also a visit to headquarters to be presented with her voucher for a year's free shopping and a special prize winners' lunch with a special guest of honour. They sat her next to him. Mark Wrotham - Media Personality, short story writer, raconteur and regular columnist in her daily paper. She was not disappointed to discover him to be an arrogant man. Far from it; his arrogance conformed exactly to her expectations of celebrity. She had expected to meet someone flamboyant in dress as in manner and to be treated to a diatribe throughout lunch on the greatness of Mark Wrotham. He scarcely seemed to notice that the woman on his left had spoken no more than two words throughout lunch. As the waiters brought in the dessert course, he leaned heavily back in his chair and ostentatiously levered a little more room in his waistband using his two thumbs, whilst continuing to dominate the conversation.

- Ah pudding! No, better still than pudding - pavlova, my favourite. I'll never forget the time I was at dinner in the tropics - Kuala Lumpur it was - and the Consul General had invited several leading figures for dinner including an extraordinary little man who was a painter or something of the sort, quiet chap, from Newcastle or somewhere - goodness alone knows what he was doing in KL, but anyway there we all were, and the Consul is doing his best to provide this elegant meal when, in comes the dessert and the painter chappy's wife, who turns out to be an Aussie, suddenly shrieks out in this raucous voice - Oh My God, it's a PAV!!

Mark Wrotham led the laughter and the Sainsbury executives joined in robustly, leaving only Maria smiling uncomfortably and wondering why she had failed to get the joke. She declined the plate of frothy meringue with its yellowing cream and tinged fruit and hunched over her coffee whilst her fellow diners attacked their helpings with enthusiasm, none more so than Mr. Wrotham. There was a momentary pause in the booming monologue that had been the soundtrack to the lunch as he shovelled a generous spoonful into his mouth and all at once Maria seized her chance and blurted out her question, whilst managing to catch his eye as his lips smacked around the spoon, like a horse greedily consuming a sugar cube.

- Do you think I could be a writer?

He turned abruptly to look at her, as if she had only just materialised at his side and immediately started to grunt his reply whilst wiping his mouth with the oversized starched napkin.

- Mmm mmmn oh, yes, well, yes you see just about anyone can write. But the thing is not everyone is good at it. But you know I could probable give you some pointers, in fact lots of people send me stuff and I really don't have time to go through it all.

- Must be a dreadful bore, contributed the marketing director sympathetically shaking his head at the terrible lot of the rich and famous.

Maria was oblivious to the flow of the conversation taking place around her, across her and above her head. They were onto golf now and the relative merits of courses in the Far East, but she was still pondering the idea that she might become a famous writer, with the assistance of a celebrity. Unknowingly she cut across a frightfully funny story of what happened on the ninth at Shek-O when she made her second comment of the meal.

- Could you really do that?

- What? asked Wrotham, irritated at being interrupted when he was in full flow of his description of the giant lizard sitting on the edge of the green.

- You know, give me some pointers. On my writing. Help me along. You know.

- Oh! Well I really only speak to my public through the medium of my column, he replied with an airy flick of the hand, dismissing her from the conversation and resuming his thread. - So there it was, huge blighter and Old Percival says, bugger me, it's even uglier than the Commodore's wife, without realising that two of the foursome waiting to come on behind us are the Commodore's wife and his sister. Ha ha ha ha ….

- So he said he'll give me some help with my writing, some pointers like, you know, Maria told her husband as she laid their dinner on the table that evening. And we're going to correspond through his column because that's how he does it, see?

- Oh. Right.

- I've already written my first piece.

- Oh. Right.

- I'm going to send it to him tomorrow. To the address they put in the paper. For people that want to tell him things. For his column.

- Oh. Right.

- Do you think I can do it?

- What?

- Be a writer?

- Oh. Right. Yeah.

- Good then. Well I'm going to send it then. Yeah.

- Right. Good.

She allowed a full day for the postal delivery, a further day for him to read through her piece and a third day for him to compose his response and give his inaugural critique. On the fourth day she scoured the Hayter column which, as she had learned at the lunch, took its name from the first contributor thirty years ago. Six successive columnists had assumed the persona of Mr. Hayter, ending with the ebullient Mr. Wrotham. The article was about chickens and contained nothing relevant to an aspiring young writer.

- He must be busier than I thought, Maria explained to her husband. - Deadlines, you know.

- Yes. Right.

After the weekend she resumed her search for hidden meaning. The Monday piece was about the National Lottery and described the Hayter family's quest to become millionaires, detailing the debate that had preceded the choosing of the numbers and the purchase of a ticket. They had won £10.

It's not bad for a start, but we'll have to keep on trying if we want to do better concluded the column.

- He's says it's not bad for a start! Maria exclaimed eagerly as her husband walked through the door.

- But I have to keep trying if I want to do better. Of course. I know that. I have to keep trying. But it's good isn't it?

- What?

- That he likes it. He likes my piece. Not bad for a start.

- Oh. Yeah. Right. Good.

X Rosa

Just my luck, thought Rosa looking regretfully at her new black suede shoes. They were on sale, yet they had still cost £90. The rain would ruin them and this thought bothered her very much. Not just because she hated the idea of her new shoes becoming tarnished so quickly, but because she felt responsible for the waste of a perfectly good pair of shoes. She should have foreseen that it would rain, she should have looked ahead, but she had not. She was appalled by the senselessness of a life that allowed a person to buy a beautiful new pair of shoes and then have them destroyed by rain the same day. And she was irritated because she could not discuss this with Matt, because he would merely say, don't fret; it's only a pair of shoes. As if that was all it was. She shot him a look of loathing, but it bounced off the top of his head, for he was now scanning the back page of her newspaper, balanced on top of the bag on the chair between them. She redirected her gaze to the mirror just above his head and confronted her own stare. Who are you? she asked the face that looked at her; she searched the image for clues, but found none.

- Should I run away? She asked the face out loud. No answer came.

Matt looked up from the paper, blinking as if emerging from the darkness of a cave into the bright summer sunshine. - Did you say something, Love?

- No. I was just commenting on the rain.

- Gosh. It's certainly pissing down now isn't it? I hadn't noticed.

The rain applauded itself as it reached a furious crescendo; the tall plate glass windows became distorting fairground mirrors, teasing and torturing the images of the luckless pedestrians who hunched past and the patrons of the café who steamed in unison with their food.

Eddie Stobart, Evening Standard, Texaco, 1.5 l, Scenic, 108, 202, BT, Harrods, John Lewis, read Matt, whilst Rosa saw the cars scything past, stopping and restarting at the silent commands of the traffic lights and thought, He reads everything except me. She picked up her bag in irritation and threw the paper on the table to keep Matt occupied. Just going to the loo. He rewarded her with a simple trusting smile and she hated him for his honesty and faithfulness, but forced a grimace in return. In the ladies' room she rummaged through her bag for a lipstick and found Vincent's keys staring accusingly at her.

- Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn she chanted, playing the keys like castanets. She watched her own mirrored image toss the keys on the shelf beneath the mirror and slowly twist the lipstick from its case. She leant forward, close enough to kiss her mirrored lips, and deliberately traced their outline then filled them with sweeping actions right, left, right, left. Another patron emerged from a closet behind her and took her place at the adjacent wash bowl. They exchanged reflected glances as Rosa put her lipstick away and closed her bag.

- Don't forget your keys.

- Oh they're not mine, thanks.

She paused at the door and looked through the porthole window. For several moments she studied the safety glass chequered image of Matt absorbed in the evening paper.

Do I love him? Of course I love him. He's a good man, and he adores me. He's a good father. He's always provided for us. I would never do anything to hurt him.

She returned to her seat and Matt looked up with a smile.

- Anyone else would say, what took you so long, she spat angrily.

- Would they? he responded uncomprehending. Well, what took you so long?

- You didn't even know I was gone.

- I did, you said you were going to the loo.

- That's not what I mean. I mean I could say anything and you would just believe it. You just take everything I say at face value.

- I trust you.

- I know and it's not fair. I hate it. I hate your trust, it's not fair to burden me with it.

- Have another drink, you've had a hard day.

- I have NOT had a hard day.

- But you said you had.

- There you go again, typical, I say I have a hard day, just for something to say, only for a conversation and you believe it. You don't question it, you simply trust everything I say.

- Some people would regard that as a virtue.

- Well not me, I don't regard it as a virtue. It's a fucking pain in the arse.

- Have I done something wrong?

- Yes…No…Why does it always have to be you? Why don't you ask me? What have I done?

- Alright then. Have you done something wrong?

- Yes……….No. Oh I don't know what does it matter anyhow? Does it matter to you?

- It matters to me that you are happy.

- So I'll get off your back, not your responsibility, is that it?

- Have another drink. I love you Rosa. I only want what makes you happy.

He poured the golden wine into her glass and she lifted it to watch the tiny bubbles, clinging to the sides until their grip weakened and they floated helplessly to the surface and evaporated into oblivion. She looked through the liquid at placid, patient Matt silently waiting for her to speak or to act. In her mind she rehearsed the eruption as she tossed the glass in his face, angrily pushed the table onto its side and swept from the café to - where? The park, or the station, or the sordid little flat above the delicatessen where Vincent now sat alone, waiting for her to change her mind.

- Sorry. She said, placing the glass on the table in front of her and playing with the breadcrumbs, teasing them into circles with her forefinger.

- I'm sorry. It's not your fault. It's right. You're right. I have had a bad day.

- The film doesn't start for another half an hour. Do you want dessert?

- Just more coffee.

Cappuccino, espresso, Kenyan, arabica, French, decaff, thought Matt. The words tumbled from his mind onto the table between them. Freeze dried, fresh, Colombian, aromatic, flavour, they piled higher and higher until he could no longer see Rosa's face through the tangle of lines and strokes. Black, white, ground, filter, roasted, roasted, aroma, pungent, bitter, café, caffeine, the scribble obscured her from view completely and he selected from the pile of words his favourite, aroma, and savoured it over and over his eyes closed in ecstasy as the word sashayed through his mind. Aroma, aroma….aroma…A-R-O-M-A.

XI Christian

Christian takes a sketch book from the carrier bag slumped against his chair. He strokes the cover with pleasure admiring the smooth black shell concealing the crisp white pages and laughs at himself and the childish delight he still derives from brand new stationery. From his inner pocket he draws a small tin containing graphite sticks with slick plastic coating as delicious as liquorice. He selects a stick with all the care of a child choosing a biscuit from his grandmother's Special Selection Box, purchased with love to tempt and tease and spoil. Carefully he opens the little book and looks searchingly at the textured paper. He always draws this way, allowing the images to emerge from the paper; gently he brushes the page noting how the crumbly graphite peels away from the point leaving a trail of a million tiny iron filings which he merely rearranges to reveal the images in the page beneath. When he draws, he does not focus on the paper, but looks through it, his hand moving rhythmically in sweeps and curves around and around the white space. He is in a trance; his mind, usually ringing with words and phrases, is silent and empty. All thought and creative energy flow through his body, down his arm, through his hands to the tips of his fingers and into the pencil which, thinking for itself, is distilling his emotions into two dimensional image. It is a process that fills him with wonder and explains things for him in a way for which there are no words.

Automatically he snatches a glimpse of Rosa and Matt, recording the message instantaneously, as the film in his camera when the shutter flickers open. In that split second his subconscious records the image of former lovers divided by a common marriage: two people separated by a tangle of words, strokes, lies and deceits. The image is animated by a burst of electricity which drives it from his brain and sends it coursing through his nervous system, leaping synapses, traversing tissue, until it tingles through his fingers and into the graphite stick and burst upon the pale sheet, a chaos of line and form of light and dark, of space and negative space. Layer upon layer of frantic line resolves itself into clarity, the principal lines proclaim themselves proudly and with a final studied stroke, he finishes.

Christian puts down the pencil and straightens himself, stretching his back and arms as he does when awaking from a deep sleep. He rubs his eyes and focuses them clearly again, then looks at the picture.

Did I really do that? he asks himself, and feels an overwhelming urge to show it to someone else, like a child rushing to its mother after school proudly holding out the day's daubings. Something in his manner as he settles to the drawing has attracted Pat's eye. I've never seen him like this before, she muses as she observes his hand flicking as if involuntarily, pulsating with a creative palsy. Curiosity has prompted her to manoeuvre towards his table, disguised by her usual pretext of attentive servant. She strains to see the page whilst doing her best to look busy and professionally disinterested; it takes all her composure to conceal her shock when he looks her straight in the face. Preparing to speak, Christian realises for the first time that the waitress is very pretty and fleetingly wonders why he has never noticed before. He gives her a broad smile, because he is pleased with himself, and is happy to be about to share his picture with someone who possesses a pretty face.

- Would you like to see my drawing?

Pat, encouraged by his smile, answers

- Yes, very much.

He pushes the book towards her and she takes this as an invitation and sits at the empty chair, resting her head on her hand as she takes in the drawing. She does not speak and he waits patiently for her comment, but growing alarmed at the long silence; perhaps she does not like it. He wis just about to pull the book away, when she looks up.

- It's brilliant.

He cannot suppress another smile and hopes he does not appear smug or self satisfied.

- It's your best so far.

- How do you know?

- You forget, you come in here a lot. I can't help seeing your sketches.

- Of course…. So you really like it?

- I told you, it's brilliant.

- Thank you, thank you…..Pat, looking self consciously at her left breast and reading the name pinned there. He extends his hand. - Christian.

She takes his hand. - I know, Christian Kroll.

- You ….- oh I suppose it's my credit card or a cheque or something.

- Well that confirmed what I already knew, she admits. - We were at the same school.

- Really? Oh, I'm sorry….. he was embarrassed that he did not recall her.

- Oh don't be, we weren't the same year or anything, she says to cover his embarrassment. There was a time when she would have been glad to make him squirm, to get at his father. - And your father was our family doctor, she blurts, and immediately thinks to herself, (idiot! What did you go and say that for? He'll take you for one of the doctor's adoring disciples.)

- Ah. Yes.. Father knew a lot of people of course. The memory of his father wipes the smile from his lips. (Bloody idiot girl that's your fault.)

- Will you paint it? She asks swiftly bringing the subject back onto safer ground.

- How did you know that I paint?

Pat points to his spattered shoes and laughs nervously. - They're a bit of a give away.

He looks down and reddens as he sees the blue and red streaks on his aging trainers. - Gosh I'd never, I didn't….. I must look a bit of a sight. But he joins her in good natured laughter.

- So, will you paint it? She insists.

- I think I probably must. I don't really decide what I draw or paint, it just happens. I'm not really in control you see. Sorry, I must sound awfully pretentious. It's just that, that's the way it is.

- Don't apologise. Anyway I do see, I understand. If I were an artist I'm sure that's how it would be with me too. (Oh God! How patronising is that?)

Looking at her watch, - I have to get on.

- Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you, he says, not realising that he was delivering back to her the comment she made to him earlier.

- Don't keep apologising Christian! It's fine, you didn't interrupt me. I came over to sneak a look at what you were doing anyway.

As she stands up, he half rises from his seat and offers his hand again. When they shake, she notices how his hand, although large and clumsy-looking, is in reality soft to the touch, and the phrase Gentle Giant parodies its way through her thoughts. He, meanwhile, is alarmed at the roughness of her fingers, the product of years spent clearing and cleaning dishes, washing and wiping. And he finds himself imagining what it would be like to kiss the lips of Miss Pat Proszic and whether the skin hidden beneath her uniform would be more soft and yielding than the skin enfolded between his own giant paws.

She takes Rosa and Matt their bill and swept the table clean, stooping to pick up from the floor a long spindly black fragment which she struggles to identify; turning it over in her hand she realises it is a large letter A. She slips it into the pocket of her pinafore.

- Not a very nice evening to be going out in, she comments as Matt fumbles with his wallet for his credit card, whilst scanning the bill. Simultaneously Matt and Rosa turn accusing stares upon her, as if it were her fault that the weather had broken unexpectedly. Without further comment she takes the plate with the bill and the credit card and threads her way back to the till where Carlos is chatting to the barman.

- Domestic on table 6, she remarks to the barman.

- I thought it was looking a bit tense when they ordered their second bottle.

- If I'd had a knife I could have cut the atmosphere with it over there. Come on, come on, don't break down on me.

- It's really no good talking to the machine Pat, it can’t hear you.

- How can you be so sure George? Look, see it's spitting it out now. You're a good little machine aren't you?

Carlos and George laugh at her as she pats the little grey box and gently tears off the printed invoice.

As she waits for Matt to sign, Christian is rehearsing different approaches.

What time do you usually get to knock off? I don't suppose you'd like to join me for a drink later? Do you ever have an evening off? I wondered if you would like to see my other work - God no! sounds too much like would you like to come up and see my etchings. Are you free? Can I buy you a drink? I was wondering if you'd…. I was just thinking…..Please, come out with me. No, too desperate. Would you care to join me? Could you bear to join me? Would you like….. I'd be awfully grateful….. I'd be awfully privileged….

Seeing him staring at her, Pat returns to his table.

- Can I get you anything else?

- A glass of wine please. Would you like one yourself?

- That's kind but I never -

- No, no of course -

- …not when I'm working, I don't mean I'm teetotal or…..

- Of course, silly of me, I should have…..

- …..no, it's very kind of you, but I…..

- ..sorry, no, of course….

- Just a glass of wine then?

- Thank you, yes.

Fool, you incompetent fool, thinks Christian. It's a simple enough proposition, just make conversation, Of course, silly me, what the hell is she going to think of you now? All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go to a film or something and you end up sounding like a teenager asking a girl on a first date.

Wrapping the mantle of misery and humiliation around his shoulders, Christian stops thinking and lets the white of the table cloth obscure everything from his mind.

Matt helps Rosa into her coat then carefully buttoned his own. He picks up the newspaper but his heart goes out as he passed the forlorn Christian, alone and with nothing to read.

-Here, he says generously, and tosses the paper in front of him. Startled and bemused Christian read the banner headline

"JOIN ME IN THE FIGHT" APPEALS BLAIR

-Join me, he murmurs as Pat placed the glass of wine on his table.

-Alright, I knock off in about half an hour. Is that OK?

He smiles in return and the mantle slumps to the floor into a redundant heap as he rises to find a phone box to cancel his date with his mother.

XII Before

In the bright sunlight the mirrored glass frontage of the building shone out over the square. The huge revolving doors sighed and gave way beneath the force of her shoulder and admitted her to the cathedral-like interior, a vast atrium with transparent lift columns soaring up towards the heavens and highly polished marble floors inlaid with geometric patterns of great ingenuity. The clack clack of her own high heels nestled into the white noise of the fountain streaming eagerly and elegantly down a steel pyramid and into a basin lined with lapis lazuli. Affecting an air of more confidence than she felt, Bridget approached the reception console and waited patiently for the girl to finish her, evidently personal, phone call.

- No well, I tell you I can't wait to get out of here…. Yes and the cheek of it…. Yes, well I agreed to stay just one more morning to hand over, but I come in and there's just this bloody note, so I'm off. Yeah alright, yeah ok I'll see you in half an hour then. Usual place?

She slammed her handbag noisily on the desk and started to pack away a pen and pad, and after a moment's hesitation a stack of creamy white paper, a pack of pencils and a stapler. Bridget coughed and the receptionist looked at her angrily.

- What?

- I'm the, er, new receptionist, Bridget offered and the news seemed to amuse her predecessor.

- Well I hope you get on here better than me! Know how to use one of these? she asked pointing contemptuously at the telephone system.

- Oh yes, said Bridget eagerly.

- Well you’d better answer that then, replied the other as the phone warbled into life.

- But what about induction, what about the numbers, what about…..

- Lady Muck'll probably turn up in about half an hour and she can bloody well show you. Good luck girl, you're on your own. As she reached the revolving door she turned and called over her shoulder - numbers are in the….. but the essential piece of information was swept away and out into the glaring light.

- Marchant News Group, how can I help you? asked Bridget, whilst performing an awkward dance as she tried to manaeouvre herself behind the desk without pulling the telephone off the table.

- Could I speak to Mark Wrotham? ventured a small voice, a child perhaps mused Bridget whilst trying to give the impression of efficiency that she felt was demanded of her.

- Bear with me a moment, we've been experiencing some technical problems this morning, I'll try to put you through. She pressed the hold button, and began a frantic search for a list of extension numbers. Women's magazines and letters from recruitment companies, plastic coffee cups, nail polish, a couple of Mills and Boon books -Trying to connect you- new and used envelopes, writing pads, pens, highlighters - So sorry to keep you. A single sheet of A4 paper, ragged on the left hand side, as if recently torn from its binding, with the welcome heading: Senior Staff: Direct Lines. And at the bottom, Mark Wrotham.

- Hello caller, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting like this, but I am afraid that you will have to dial another number for Mr. Wrotham. Slowly she dictated the number, trying not to imitate the lifeless intonation of an automated directory.

Bridget put the phone down and started to settle herself. There was a place to hang your jacket behind a little screen, together with a thoughtfully provided mirror to check your makeup. She opened a drawer which appeared to have a lock and looked like a good place to keep her handbag and there, smiling up at her was the missing directory. Marchant News Group Internal Directory, it said, FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY, added the author, who clearly had a penchant for capitals. PLEASE NOTE, it added at the bottom of the page in slightly smaller print, The Direct Line Numbers of Senior Staff Are Not To Be Divulged To Callers IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

- Oops, thought Bridget.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

- Mark! announced Mark Wrotham as he snatched the received of his direct line telephone from its cradle.

- Oh, er, hello Mark, I wasn't sure you would be in, responded Maria nervously.

- Oh you know me, a slave to my art! he responded with forced joviality. He did not recognise the voice, but did not want to offend by asking who it was. Only close friends or those he judged potentially useful were given this number. It would have to be the terrible line routine.

- This is a terrible line, you know I can hardly hear you, just a second. He rustled a piece of paper next to the mouth piece. - There now, let's try that, hello are you there?

- Yes, responded Maria. - I'm still here. Can you hear me now?

- Oh yes that's much better, but you know I'm afraid I didn't hear who it was when I answered the phone.

- Oh sorry, it's me. Maria.

Bloody hell, Maria. Maria Who? How many people did he meet called Maria?

- Maria!! How lovely to hear from you!! How are you?!!

- I hope you don't mind me troubling you at work, but after you already gave me some pointers on my last piece, I thought you wouldn't mind.

- No no of course not. Think think, Maria. Could it be one of the new girls from features. That pretty blond one he was chatting up at the induction drinks, no, fairly sure she was Susan, and anyhow he never gave any of them his number. Maira Tolbury, she'd hardly be asking him to give her any pointers. Maria Smart had not spoken to him since he wrote that damning piece about her in the colour supplement. Maria…. Maria….

- Well how can I help you now, Maria?

- It's just that I've got this other piece, and although I wouldn't mind if you wanted to pass on the comments same as last time, it would be awfully nice if we could, you know, meet for a cup of tea to talk about it. If it's not too much trouble, you know…

- No, lovely idea, splendid idea. Right, there's a clue there, a cup of tea. Can't be anyone from here they're certainly all coffee types. A cup of tea. Where to meet? How will I recognise her if I don't know who it is? Come on, think, quick solution, ah! got it…

Yes let's meet for a cup of tea - look do you know the cake shop, you know Meddlers in Crown Lane? Splendid, let's meet there then. But look, I have my favourite table in there and it's a bit tucked away so you'll have to ask the girl to show you where to find me. Tomorrow, 11 o'clock? Terrific. Till then, 'bye.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He arrived at 10.15 and slipped the waitress a couple of pounds to direct his guest to the right table. He sat with his back to the door so that he would be spared the embarrassment of failing to recognise her as soon as she walked in. She arrived at 10.30, flushed, smiling, a little breathless, but with excitement, he judged, rather than from exertion. He spewed out pleasantries to the compact woman, late thirties, maybe? complexion a little too red, nose rather too pointed, taste in clothes too outdated, ragged hairstyle, shabby sweater, and was convinced that he had never set eyes on her before in his life. She, on the other hand, spoke as if they were old friends in frequent communication with each other. They ordered tea and she urged on him an exercise book.

- Good grief I haven't seen a book like this since I was at school! he declaimed looking at the dull orange cover bearing the rather obvious banner Exercise Book. He did not notice Maria's embarrassment. In the black outlined panel on the cover of the book a childish hand had scrawled, Maria's writing.

She was saying, - You must get an awful lot of stuff sent to you by young hopefuls.

- Yes and strictly between you and me Maria, I put it all straight in the bin! They laughed together.

- Except for mine, you kept mine. Maria was earnestly studying his face; he felt off balance. There was a wildness in her look that chilled him and he wondered whether she might be serious; he dismissed the idea.

- Yes of course, yours I would not put in the bin, Maria. She must have been referring to the orange book, so he opened it affecting to read with great concentration. The handwriting was so bad that he felt a sudden surge of sympathy for his old Latin master who used to rail at them all in class "Isn't it bad enough that your grammar's so disgusting without me having to decipher your putrid hieroglyphics as well, you bloody shower!"

He struggled his way word by word, line by line, slowly recognising phrases and getting the gist of the text. The piece appeared to be about bonfires, And that, he concluded to himself as he limped to the end, is where this book belongs, right on the top of a bloody great big bonfire. The piece was drivel, an aimless raving about fire and destruction, religion (Guy Fawkes and the Catholics) and war.

He cleared his throat as he placed the closed book on the table in front of him conscious of the expectant look in Maria's eyes. Bloody timewaster, let her wait. Deliberately he poured himself another cup of tea, carefully adding the milk and watching as it swirled a white streak in the brown liquid, gently feathering at the edges until dissipated by his spoon into a uniform brown. He leaned back and slurped noisily from his cup, savoured the chink of china upon china as he returned cup to saucer.

- Room for improvement, I daresay, giggled Maria nervously. Her eager smile revealed slightly yellowing teeth; in her hands she was wringing a greying handkerchief, its fraying lace edging trailed from her fist. He felt a surge of hatred towards the pathetic creature, squirming in anticipation of his critique. Idly he debated which of his most cutting put downs to utilise, when his concentration was broken by a tall slim figure looking down at him somewhat disdainfully.

-Good grief, Mark, I didn't think they served anything strong enough for you in here! Maria Smart did not feel the need to smile at the man who had written of her in such scathing terms, but a smile escaped her lips nonetheless as she pondered what mileage she could make out of finding him in such incongruous settings.

- Ah, Maria my dear, let me introduce you to your namesake. Maria Smart, meet Maria. Maria here is just getting a few pointers from me on how to improve her writing!

- Is she indeed? Well I suppose it makes a change from you inviting the girls to see your etchings, Mark.

- Ooh Miss Smart, I really like your stuff - the term made Maria Smart wince - I'm really only starting out, but - Mark - how reverentially she uttered his name - Mark is just so helpful, I really couldn't do it without him.

- Oh I'm sure he's a positive inspiration for your.. stuff…….

- That's a very nice suit.

- Thank you.

- Is it from Marks and Spencer?

Maria Smart snarled and without a goodbye took her suit back to her office together with her malicious mental notes for the gossip columnists. Maria, perplexed at the sudden departure, concluded that if you were a famous journalist it was embarrassing to accept compliments from your fans.

Mark could not suppress a laugh. - Well done Maria, that's the best put down I've heard on old Smartie pants. Marks and Spencer, what an insult. Clever girl, you handled her really well. My God - looking at his watch - is that the time, I'm afraid I've got to go. Look, lovely to see you. You'll understand if I'm not in touch for some time. My best to……. well, got to dash, deadlines and all that.

- But what did you…..is it……..what should I ……ok….shall we go back to the old way….

she spoke across his platitudes as he put his coat on, checked his mobile phone and hurried towards the door. Her own exit was blocked by the waitress presenting her with the bill.

- BUT WHAT DID YOU THINK? she shouted around the waitress as he pulled the door open and ushered in the bellowing traffic. She could see his lips moving and fragments of his voice rose above the roar.

- Oh give up, he said, definitely give up.

-So he was in a bit of a hurry at the end, Maria told her husband, but he said don't give up, definitely don't give up, so that's good isn't it?

-Yes, right.

XIII And Rosa thought

The Festival Guide. Price £2.50. Box office 047 93 2759 Enquiries 047 93 3976 The Red Lantern Burns is one of the most important offerings to emerge from the People's Republic of China in this decade; social tensions, exclusion and belonging, sturm und drang, the hypotheses and contradictions of politics and love are played out against the background of the struggle for reunification of Taiwan with the motherland. It says.

I hate foreign films. So why did I come? It's Matt's idea of heaven of course. All those bloody subtitles.

The chairs are comfortable, but the room is just a nondescript box. Whatever happened to the idea that cinemas should be picture palaces? Why is there no beautiful decoration or a gilded ceiling? Whatever happened to carpets and usherettes selling icecreams and cigarettes? It's not like me to get sentimental, I must be getting soft in my old age.

It's not like me, but what am I like?

Is it like me to betray my husband?

Betrayal. I don't like the word. It's such a big word to describe something so easily done. Anyhow, don't talk to me about betrayal. Who betrayed who? No, that should be who betrayed whom. Grammar, gells, grammar as Mrs. McPherson would have said.

Look at him. Soaking up the words like a sponge. I wonder if he even knows what the story is.

I never feel more alone than when we're together. It wasn't always like that, not when we met; we used to talk, no, not talk, communicate, yes communicate. I really thought he understood me, I think he really did understand me. So when did it happen, that he stopped connecting with me? Because that's when he betrayed me. That's right, underline it, it's not my fault, all I wanted was for someone to take notice of me, not as a concept, but as a person. It's all I did, just look for a little bit of attention. It's not my fault. He made me hate him, because he withdrew from me.

He still loves me, oh I know that, but he withdrew himself from me. He won't share any more. So why shouldn't I go and have a fling with a good looking man? Why shouldn't I have some good sex? It's not my fault.

Wilt thou Rosa have this man to your wedded husband to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou serve him, love, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?

I will.

Forsaking all other. Including me.

My God I'm so bored, I think I may scream. That would liven this film up a bit. What would happen? Would there be a stampede for the door, fire brigade, police, ambulance. Everyone out on the pavement. In the local news, maybe even the national papers. A public enquiry perhaps: should festivals be allowed to screen films so boring that patrons may scream. A health warning on films: Caution: Boring Content may cause Uncontrolled Screaming. Would all that happen just because of one little scream?

What if I only release a silent scream? Here goes, head back mouth wide open, scream, scream but only a hiss emerging, no noise. Aaaaaaaah.

That feels quite good actually. Maybe I should try it more often. Look around. Noone noticed. A silent scream and I feel better and noone got hurt. And that's all I did with Vincent. A silent scream, a little release. Noone got hurt. Matt doesn't know, won't know, so no harm done. No. Harm done.

XIV Subtitles

What for will you come to the country?

See Xing-mei has brought the can't read it gifts for the mothers.

English subtitles printed on top of Chinese. All muddled up.

Xing-mei, my son. Where have you been so long can't read it

Mother!! It is my duty to return. The day is so can't read it and Po-leung?

can't read it, can't read it for the festivities. You know that we cannot riesk so many.

Fool! How can an old man be can't read it, can't read it.

Chinese words. I can't read them. What are they? Beautiful, but no meaning. White lines intertwined, figures, not words. I can't read them, so they are meaningless.

Po-leung? Take the flowers to the guard room fcan't read it CAN'T READ IT CAN'T FUCKING READ IT.

XV The cherub's view

- Chatting up the customers, Pat?

- I've known him since I was at school, Carlos. He comes in here quite a lot.

- And I don't blame him. He won't find service as good as this anywhere else in town.

- I know what you're insinuating, Carlos, but it just isn't like that, he's just one of my regulars.

- Methinks she doth protest too much, don't you think so George? I saw the way he looked at her…

- Carlos, if anyone other than you gave me such a hard time for being polite to the customers…….

- Ha! to tease you is my favourite sport, besides, it's not every customer that gets the personal service….

As he laughed his stomach pumped in and out, his shoulders juddered and he tossed his head back but no sound issued, other than a bronchial wheeze.

- As a matter of fact, that's the first time I've spoken to him properly………

- ha! George, what did I say……

- and as a matter of fact I've agreed to join him for a quick drink when my shift is over, and…….

- I knew, I knew, I knew. He clapped his hands delightedly, - I cant spot them a mile off,

-…….and………

- didn't I say that our Pat had a suitor, George, look at her blushing now, Ha!, didn't I say……

- I am not blushing Carlos, it's just hot in here. Honestly can't a person do anything……

George smiled, carefully polishing up the glasses, enjoying the sparring, but knowing better than to get drawn into the argument.

- So my dear, said Carlos, his face suddenly grave. - How long has this affair been going on?

- Carlos! It is not …….

His face erupted into a childishly gleeful grin at his success in provoking her indignation. He slapped his thigh, rocking gently as he chuckled.

- Oh you two! She affected an air of mock exasperation, but found herself positively irritated, an irrational emotion, but one which she could not suppress or conceal; her reaction only served to fuel Carlos's sense of mischief. In a display of great industry, she snatched a cloth from the bar sink and set off round the tables.

She deliberately put the teasing out of her mind. She liked to imagine herself viewing the room as if from a great height, as if she were one of the cherubs adorning the gothic building that stood opposite the café. The cherub puzzled over the arrangement of the tables, not in neat rows, but scattered so as to displace the pathways running through them. The customers sat immobile, whilst the waiters and waitress meandered and wove like couples on the ballroom floor, waltzing the plates to and from the tables, forwards and back, incorporating spins and turns, but always treading the same paths, around and around, betwixt and between, dividing table from table. No nevermore shall touch thy face, Nor know the mistress of thy heart. What cleft effect is in mine art 'Gainst youth and beauty driv'n apart!

She held the door open for the latest arrivals.

- Terrible film, we thought we'd be better off with dessert.

For a moment Pat wondered whom the man was addressing, until she recognised the patrons who had been rude to her earlier. And left no tip. She showed them to the no smoking table situated directly next to the smoking area and affixed her slick professional smile. They did not deserve her genuine warmth face.

- And what can I get you?

- Two tarte tatins and a half bottle of the Sauternes.

Matt spoke with the gleeful enthusiasm of a young boy ordering the largest ice cream sundae. Rosa shot him a look which contained all the contempt which Pat felt.

- Right-oh!

She glided back to the bar.

- The domestic's back, George. He thinks he can buy her off with Sauternes. Has he got a surprise coming……Hey Mannie, to the boy backing his way into the kitchen cradling a stack or dirty dishes, two TTs on number 13 - and if they give you a tip later I want half! No, no only joking, she added waving away his objection.

- Right that's me for the day George, and I don't want any sarky comments about me joining my friend, and that goes for you too Carlos, she added, knowing that the old man was listening in to her conversation, although she had her back to him. Carlos gave George an exaggerated wink, which she observed in the mirrored back of the bar. In her little office, she swiftly ordered her papers on the desk, but decided for once to leave the administration until the following day. With slightly more than her usual degree of care, she applied fresh lipstick, squinting to see her lips in her little hand mirror, amused to see her own lips floating in the air against a backdrop of filing cabinets and order pads. Like the Cheshire cat, she thought. Brush down skirt. Roll down sleeves. Change into less comfortable but more fashionable shoes. I'm coming, ready or not. She locked the office door behind her.

XVI

Hello! Only me! Did you wonder where I got to? Let's catch up. When I last left you we were taking a look at Maria's piece of paper. Now you've been doing some of your own research since then, so you know a little bit more about what's going on with poor old Maria Basketcase.

Well, it's no good us sitting huddled here inside this piece of paper, we're going to have to stand back a bit if we want to see what happens next. That's better, now you've returned to your seat you have a clear view of our subject. She's checking her watch and frequently looks over at the door, obviously waiting for someone. She did a double take when Rosa and Matt came back in just then and now she looks agitated. Maybe it is just disappointment that her date has not shown, or perhaps it is something more. Their presence seems to make her uncomfortable. We will just have to see. The rain has settled to a steady drizzle and the cars have their lights on although it is still daylight, just. A wet shoulder is squashed against the door, holding it slightly ajar whilst an umbrella is flapped in out in out to rid it of excess water. She leans on the door and eases herself into the café, holding the umbrella at arms length and treating Maria to a friendly smile.

- Gosh I'm sorry I'm late Maria, I got stuck in this rain; couldn't find anywhere to park. Funny isn't it that as soon as the heavens open every car in town appears on the road? It's just been one of those days. I got all the way to the bottom of the multistorey and then realised I'd left my ticket in the car, so I had to go all the way back up again to get it - lift not working of course, you must have thought I was never coming. Well I could do with a drink anyway, what are you having, coffee? Want another, or fancy something a bit stronger. I think I'm going to have a glass of white wine, how about you?

Maira smiles a watery smile. Her friend chatters easily and confidently, keeping the tone light, the subject matter non demanding, but if you watch her eyes you can see that she does not miss a trick. She has taken in the red eyes, the trembling hands, the unkempt hair. Lucky Maria you think. At least she has a friend who cares.

They have given their orders, wet coats have been hung near radiators to dry, the umbrella is dripping into a corner. Maria's friend folds her arms and settles comfortably on the table.

- So, do you want to tell me what's the matter?

She cannot talk for a moment. Her long bony fingers are wringing at her tattered handkerchief, tears splash on to the table; a melodramatic rendition of Lady Macbeth. Out out damned spot.

- He's telling everyone you see, but I never meant any harm. I couldn't help it if he wanted to tell me things.

- Who Maria?

- He's just out to get me now, to tell everyone what I did……

- Who's out to get you?

- …….but I didn't mean it, I really didn't mean it. And now he's doing terrible things, really horrible things and he's going to take me court, but I never did anything……

- Maria, you really must try to start from the beginning, I don't know who you're talking about.

- Sorry, I'm sorry. He's a journalist, see. He said he would help me.

- Help you do what?

- Write. He was going to help me become a writer. And after I won the competition, we met and he was helping me.

- What competition?

- The competition at the supermarket. I won it and I met him and he said he'd help me become a writer. Only when he gave me comments he'd send them through the paper, because that was how he did it see?

- How? How did he send messages through the paper?

- In his column. It was like a game, he'd send messages telling me what he thought. Like he wrote saying the woman in the house with the red door is a really good friend of his. And that's me, see because my house has a red door.

- But lots of houses have red doors Maria. How did you know he meant you?

- Because, he said that's how he would speak to me through the column. And there were other things, like when I sent him my piece about animals, and then he wrote about his children's play with lots of animals in it, to show he'd read my piece.

- When was this?

- At Christmas time.

- But don't you think he would have written about the animals in the nativity……

-…….and he said that some of it was amateurish and he really liked it…….

- ….but Maria…….

- ……..and that my piece was a sign that I needed to think further about the deeper meaning……

- ……isn't it possible you may have read slightly more into his………

- ……..so he's kept sending me these messages you see.

- I see. And why is this a problem?

- I met him. I phoned and asked to meet him, just to talk, face to face, like instead of just reading his comments.

- So you met?

- Just for a cup of tea. But she was there, and that's when it all started when we got to know each other better, like.

- Who was there?

- The woman he had an affair with and then he fought with her.

- Did he tell you this?

- He didn't need to. You just read his pieces and it's all there in black and white. And I said something to her and he said I handled her really well, like he was grateful. But then you could see from his pieces that he was really troubled, unhappy you know, so I wrote to him, just friendly like to tell him that he had, like a friend, 'cause he'd been nice to me, helping with my work, and that.

- And did he write back?

- Not at first, he just kept sending the messages in the papers, but I could tell that it was helping, because he wrote about how hard life is sometimes, but I knew he just meant that it was his Wife - you see just change the L for a W and it says wife, it was clever, see, so you had to think about it……

- well…….

- and that way she wouldn't know we were corresponding, see…….

- …….have you considered that perhaps you might have made a mistake.…….

- ….and when I saw the bit about his wife, I wrote and said I knew what he meant because, I've had trouble like that too, you know things not always going how you want it to in your marriage, so I understood, see, and I said if his wife was difficult, and I knew she was because he was always writing about how expensive everything is, because she was spending all the money you see, and then the woman he had the affair with was so horrible to him, and I understood, and he had noone to talk to……

- But you never actually spoke to him again, apart from that one meeting for a cup of tea?

- No.

- And you never got any direct communication from him?

- Just when he left a message on my answerphone.

- What did he say?

- He said please don't write to him at the office any more. Of course I understood, he was worried that people at work might find out about his private life. Noone likes that, everyone at work knowing about them. So of course I knew that he wanted me to write to him at home.

- Are you sure? Are you sure he didn't just want you to stop writing?

- Oh no, he didn't want me to stop. He wrote a piece on the joys of receiving letters, so I know he didn't want me to stop. So I got his home address.

- How did you do that?

- I knew where he lived because he's always writing about the area, so I looked it up in the phone book. But that's when everything started to go wrong. She read the letters. She must have, because he never would've stopped everything otherwise, so she found out about the affair, I never meant to tell her, but I didn't know she would read the letters, and then he sent me a really angry letter.

She hand over the crumpled piece of paper, limp from her sweat. Her friend reads:

Dear Maria

I am writing once again to ask you please to stop writing to me and harassing me. I have told you before that I have no recollection of our first meeting or having agreed to help you in your writing, but as a gesture of goodwill I met up with you.

I have maintained all along that I am only trying to be helpful but you seem to have taken it into your head to manipulate everything that I write in my column as if personally aimed at you. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I have tried to take a measured line in this, because it seems to me that you are in need of professional help. However, I am now forced to write in these stronger terms since you persist in pestering me and since you do not seem to respond to any reasoned plea.

Much as I hate to become aggressive, you leave me with no other option than to reserve my legal position.

I may say that I think that it is completely unnecessary to drag my wife into this matter. It is particularly vindictive to go around fabricating stories about an affair between me and Maria Smart.

I am trying one last appeal to your better nature. Please, please leave me and my family alone and seek whatever help or comfort you need elsewhere.

If you persist in writing and hassling me, I regret that I shall have no other option but to place this matter in the hands of solicitors and/or the police.

Yours truly

Mark Wrotham

She has waited for her friend to finish and as she looks up says

- You do see, don't you? She forced him to write it. And now she's punishing him you see. She's gone away.

- How do you know?

- Because he wrote about it - she's gone off to America. He says it's on a skiing holiday with girlfriends, but it's obvious isn't it? She's threatened him, and it's all my fault. So he's really angry now and now he's turning everyone against me. Everyone, even my neighbours. He's spoken to all of them.

- But he doesn't live anywhere near you Maria, how could he possibly know your neighbours?

- I know he does. I heard them talking, one of them. She said to the man opposite that she was just waiting for Mark. And they spill my rubbish everywhere in the night.

- Isn't that just the foxes?

- No that's what he says, come back to bed he says, it's just the foxes, but I know it isn't. I'm not mad you know. And now I keep receiving all these letters, from people that want to give me money. And he poisoned my milk. I opened it and it was sour. Fresh milk and it was sour. You can't do that to a person. He wants me to die, look its here in the paper, he want me to die. He's going to take me to court. Can he take me to court? I've got no money, how can I pay? And it's not fair, it's just not fair to go at me like this, because I never meant any harm.

She is crying now. Weeping. Sobbing. There is no verb that describes the outpouring of desolation, the grief imposed by demons. Her friend looks at the newspaper, the pathetic phrases underlined by an uncertain hand in the Hayter column. She chooses her words carefully.

- Maria, what a terrible time you have been having. I just don't know what I can do to help you. But I wonder, have you maybe thought that you are just very, very depressed at the moment, and maybe that is making everything seem very much worse to you than it really is?

- I'm not making it up. It is real it is real.

- I didn't say that I thought you were making it up. I can see it's real. Didn't you just show me that letter ……..and the article,……only……. No, no, of course it's real. I was just thinking though, obviously you are really depressed at the moment, and if you weren't so depressed, perhaps it would be easier to deal with everything else. So I was just wondering, if you have been to see a doctor or anything?

- Jim. Jim made me go. He says I'm just imagining it, but I'm not. He doesn't know because he isn't there in the day time. But I'm not imagining it.

- So you did go to the doctor?

- Yes. He gave me these.

Fumbling in her bag she pulls out a little plastic pot of brightly coloured pills, as inviting as sweeties in their dear little pot.

- And are you taking them?

- Yes, but then I can't see very well, they just make everything hazy.

- Are you sleeping?

- Yes……….Well, a bit………….a little bit……..sometimes…..

- And did the doctor give you anything to help you sleep?

- No.

- Look Maria, here's what we'll do. Tomorrow you go back to your doctor and tell him these pills make you fuzzy and you just need something to help you to sleep. Any why don't you ask him if he can refer you to someone you can talk to. Because lots of confusing things have happened, and sometimes it's easier to talk things through with someone you don't know, to sort them out and put them into perspective. And you need to see someone who understands how bad depression is and how it upsets everything. OK? Will you do that?

- Yes. Ok. I'm sorry. Thanks for coming and listening. At least he hasn't spoken to you to turn you against me.

- No, and I'll tell you what you don't need to worry about that either, I'll soon send him packing. Now look I'm going to the loo, why don't you order two more glasses of wine?

The ladies toilet now seems like a refuge, a safe haven from the rocks of paranoia. Maria's friend washes her hands and leans her aching head on the mirror.

- Jesus! she whispers. Never mind a glass of wine, I need a bottle of gin!

Splashing her face with water, she imagines herself talking it over with her husband. The trouble with friendship is it brings responsibility, but you have to weigh responsibility to a friend against responsibility to yourself and your own family, she reasons. Poor Maria. Poor bloody Basketcase Maria. What can I do, though? I can listen sympathetically, I can steer her to a doctor, but how else can I help my friend from going insane? I am not my brother's keeper. I am not her sacrificial lamb.

Refreshed and with a new burst of energy, she makes her way back to Maira. You can see what she's going to do; she'll make polite light conversation for the duration of her glass of wine and then plead a dinner in the oven, or a babysitter to release, or a travelled husband not much seen recently and, as soon as she decently can, she will run away from the madness. She is no fool, she knows that illnesses of the mind are worse than cancer, for they consume not only the patient, but everyone around him, enveloping each individual in its corrosive grasp, eroding energy, destroying trust, trampling love, neutering the senses.

Poor Jim, she thinks as she waves cheerily goodbye. Poor Maria. Poor poor bloody Maria.

XVII Vincent

Alex said it would never work. I always listened to im before, so I should of listened this time. Fought I knew better. I mean, e never met er so e couldn't of known. Alex said: it don't matter what she's like, or what she says mate. She's a rich beautiful intelligent bird and in the long run she'll just want her own kind. She's playing wiv yer mate. Avin a fling. She don't really want you - not, you know, - you. She don't want you for who you are. She's just playin, seeing how common people screw. You're best off out of it.

But I told him, no, mate no. You got it wrong. What class you are and ow you talk don't matter. It's me she wants. Soul mates. Can't expeck you to understand that. And he gets all uppity. You callin me fick? he says. No mate no, I'm just sayin that if you aven't met her you just can't understand what she's like. But e don't believe me, and thinks I'm just avin a go at im an e storms off. So I wish I never told im about it cause then e'd still be my mate an I could tell im now stead of just sittin ere talkin to meself like some fuckin nutter on the bus.

She sat here. Right here on this bed and I stood over there by the winder jus lookin at er. An she wasn't like all them uvver girls, them lot from the Borough what sit there pretendin to be coy and pullin the covers over their parts, but everyone knows they'd do it standin up in an alleyway jus to boast to the other girls bout their great conquests, crowing over their babycham and lemonade and snickerin into their rum n blacks. She weren't brazen neivver, y'know not cheap. She never tried to look like one of them tarts at the motor show or on page free. She was just……..comfortable. She sat there, right there on my bed and she was comfortable, relaxed, lookin at me and she told me I've got a beautiful body an she just wants to look at me. So I stand there and we look, just look at each uvver. An I'm not embarrassed it don't feel funny or nuffinck, I'm just comfortable. Happy, yeah that's it, I was just incredibly, unbelievably happy.

And then she says something and I don't really understand cause she's always quotin from stuff I don't know but she says

His silhouette from window frame was carv'ed

And agony was wrought all o'er his heart

For, e'en though each the other's body crav'ed

Their destinies were writ in Heck'be's charts:

Never one. For aye to live apart.

So I said, what? And she said: translated from the French, darling.

And later on when we lay there, like we often done, just lying together real comfortable like, she says, I won't come to you again. And I says you're joking yeah? But she says she isn't and I wonder what I've done and she just says I ain't done anyfink but she just won't come any more. And after that she always ad er mobile switched off and the stupid fing is I didn't even know where she lived. I don't know why I just never asked er, it didn't seem important, I just always phoned er.

We never would of met if it and't been for them roadworks. The road all dug up and signs, so many fuckin signs sayin go this way go that way so you can't see where the pavement is any more and them traffic lights in bins of concrete. Pandemonium. We're standin there in this crush of people trying to cross the road and I saw it comin this bloody great lorry and there's this huge muddy puddle and I can see what's goin to appen and I fink, blimey all them suits is gonna get soaked, but then I saw er and she looked nice. You know, good figure and pretty too. And I felt kind of bad because I knew er nice suit was gonna get ruined and I wasn't goin to do anyfink about it. So I felt kind of guilty. Stupid really, but I did. I felt kind of guilty.

So then, and this all happened in a split second, but it sound like it took ages when I'm describin it like this, but actually it only took a second, so then jus as the lorry's hittin the puddle I kind of threw myself at er, put my arms around er and pulled er back, used my body to shield er. So she only got a bit spattered, but I got a right soaking. All my back, covered in muddy water it was and she's there lookin at me and we're both sort of breathless, from the shock see, but it's like we've just run a mile or something, and I'm lookin at her and I still got old of er and she's looking at me, her mouth slightly open, just a brush of lipstick, no other makeup, and we're just standing there lookin at each uvver and there's an ell of a commotion goin on around us all these other people all soaked and muddy and shoutin at the lorry and the micks in the the ole in the road laughin their eads off at all the toffs. But we're jus standing there me wiv my arms around er like we're lovers or somefink and eventually she smiles and says: my knight in shining armour. And I blush and let her go and I'm kind of embarrassed now and all I can say is sorry, but she's laughing and says how can I thank you and then she sees that I'm all covered in mud and she says, look I was just goin for a drink after work, can I buy you a drink, it seems the least I can do. I know what Alex would say, you got more than your fair share of a reward for savin someone from a soakin. I know what e finks. E finks it's just like, you know pick up the girl in the street and get a shag, but it wasn't like that. It weren't like that at all.

Er old man, see, e reads a lot. Like I don't mean e reads a lot, I mean like e never fuckin stops readin'. And she don't like it, and really I can't blame er, it's enough to piss anyone off a treat, this bloke sittin there with is ead in a fuckin book all the time. And it sort of come out see, when we was talking, that I don't go in for readin much meself, cause I fink taking is more important than readin but I do old that you should just say what you mean, you shouldn't play games with words. And then I got all embarrassed again, cause I fought she'd fink I was tryin to be clever or somefink but she says, no you're right. And she makes me feel like I haven't been stupid or anyfing, but she's listened to what I said, like she cares about what I fink. And noone ever bin like that with me before. And cause it was actually quite a nice evening, though it was still a bit wet on the ground from the rain earlier, I says does she want to take a walk through the park, and so we walked and talked and I don’t really know what we talked about, but she listened to me and I listened to her and when we got to the far gate of the park I showed er. I pointed up and said see up there? That's where I live. And we just come up here. I mean just like that, noone said nuffing, we just walked over the road and come up here.

Just as well Alex ain't ere. E'd ate to see a grown man cry, look at me - sniveling like a nancy boy.

I love er. I fought she loved me.

I love er.

They saw us - the blokes from the pub. Not that first time, but afterwards cause she liked to walk in the park on my nights off and it was the season for the inter pubs friendly league. I used to play, but I give up. Not on account of er, I just don't like it no more. So we was walking in the park and they see us but we never went over and the next time I'm in the pub they're all there givin me a really ard time about my posh bit, and I ad a bit of a laugh wiv em - well you've got to wiv your mates ain't yer, but I never told er what I said, cause I fought she'd be offended like, cause she wasn't like the uvver girls. They used to ask me, when you bringing er in ere then Vince, when we goin ta see this bird of yours up close? An I made excuses but I never took er there. She wouldn't of liked it, I don't fink she would of.

When I was workin the late shift she come ere in the afternoons. Sometimes we just used ta sit and talk. Noone else ever fought I ad anyfing interesting to say, but she did. She listened to me and I listened to er. Sometimes I never understood what she was getting at, and maybe sometimes she dint get me neiver, but it never mattered. When she talked I used to look at er and stroke her back, I smelled er air, pressed my face into her skin. Nuffinck else existed nuffinck ad any meaning, just er and er voice and the smell of er.

We tol each uvver stories sometimes. I use to talk about er an me - me winnin the lotry and ow I'd take er off to a deser island. Ow we'd run away togevver, er and me, away from er old man an is books an words, an we'd be togevver always, jus er an me.

When she come to the caff I fought, this is it. She's come for me. She's come to leave im ere and come away wiv me forever. I fought she changed er mind.

God. It's so quiet in ere. And empty. D'you fink this is what a lion feels like in its cage at the zoo? I never cared bout animals much meself, never really fought about it before. D'you fink this is what they do, pace rahnd and rahnd watching the door, always hopin someone's going to open it and walk in or let them out, but nuffinck appens.

Poor bloody lions. Poor bastards.

XVII

There are three seats to choose from but she has already decided that she will take the one on his right because from there she will have a clear view in the mirror. It is not vanity that draws her to the glass, but objectivity. Nevertheless she feels the need to explain herself.

- I like to be able to see myself how others see me, jabbing at the mirror with her thumb.

- But in reverse, Christian points out and she is crestfallen, as if this point had never occurred to her.

- Does it matter?

- Oh it matters a lot. I mean reflected images show the other side, good and evil, right and left, sinister, you know……

-…….yes, so that means all this time I thought I knew myself and really I didn't?

- No. All this time you thought you knew how you appeared to everyone else. How things or people look and what they are are two very different things.

- That could be why I prefer the spaces in between. In response to his questioning look, she continued. When you draw, you draw the line, the light and the shade, but don't you ever think about what they displace? Look in the mirror here. Look, here's a perfect picture of a room, with people and tables and then, voila, here comes my hand, squeezing its way into the image. You can see my hand clearly, but the rest of the image is clear too. Somehow everything has accommodated itself into the picture. But if more and more hands appear….. she puts her other hand up and he follows suit, waving both his hands in the air........it becomes more difficult to see what is behind, so you have to concentrate on the spaces in between. Do you see?

She allows her arms to collapse on the table and now turns to face him in person rather than through the mirror.

He relaxes his arms and drinks in those earnest grey eyes.

- I mean, is the space in between pushing the hands apart, or just being eroded by them?

Still he says nothing, but relishes a tour of her face. Not a classically beautiful face, but striking, full of life. Her skin is neither pale nor tanned, but lightly flecked with freckles. Her hair is a gingery brown - natural? no: out of a packet he concludes, her dark eyebrows betraying her true colour. Her lips are full and red, teased into creases at their edges as if permanently at the ready to unfold into a smile.

- So you think I'm a nutter?

- Oh no, no not at all! he realises that his silence may have offended her. It's just…….sometimes it's more important to me to concentrate on the person rather than the room around her.

She smiles her easy smile.

- Flattery will get you anywhere. She is pouring the wine before she realises that she is still in waitress mode and that, as his guest, she ought to leave this privilege to him. Too bad. If he wants to get to know me, he'll have to get used to my habits.

He has not noticed the potential faux pas, but cradles the wine glass as he turns over her comments.

- I have always been so concerned with the question of line and form. I've always struggled to project onto the page not necessarily an accurate rendition of what I see, but the feel. I want to portray the movement and the vitality of life - how do you draw a smell? How do you paint excitement or fear? How do you record forever energy, wit, vigour, laughter?

- But that's just my point! You can define what is by describing or portraying what is not.

She reaches into her bag and draws out an object which she balances on the salt and pepper pots in front of them

- Tell me what you see.

- I see a letter A.

- Correct. Now tell me what I see.

His brow creases as he thinks. He feels nervous, like a child in class asked a question by the strictest teacher, eager to appear intelligent, fearful of contempt if he gives a foolish answer. The fog of indecision and uncertainty clouds his mind, only to be suddenly cleared by the sunshine of inspiration.

- A triangle and a trapezium! he declares victoriously.

- Bingo! she laughs. You get a better understanding of the positive by looking at the negative. She thinks momentarily of her collage of his work. - I mean where would the night be without day? Where would light be without shade? What would life be without death?

Their attention is briefly caught as the unhappy woman whose has been looking forlorn since her friend left a little while ago, suddenly leaps up from her chair. Grabbing her coat and bag she blunders her way around the tables, narrowly missing the woman on table 13, to Pat's secret amusement. Pat wonders if the figure standing outside might have been Vincent, but she cannot be sure from this angle. Her professional instincts to the fore, she is about to intervene to halt the rapid departure, when she observes a large denomination note left on the table. More than enough to take care of the bill. The figure outside appears to pick something up, then shouts and runs off. Incident over.

- Christian? she ventures. Would you like to come back to my place and see your etchings?

XIX Matt and Rosa

- You haven't told me about your day. Rosa offered the comment as an olive branch which Matt accepted willingly. He had been struggling to find the right opening line to restore the conversation and, with it Rosa's good humour, but he found it increasingly difficult to judge how she might react to anything he said. He noticed that these days he lingered over words and phrases before opening his mouth to utter them, examining and reexamining them for any traces of contamination with subjects likely to cause offence. Could you line words up on the table and spray them with pesticide and watch all those bad words, the wrong words, the badly chosen words, wither away and die?

- Good, yes it was a good day. You'll never guess who phoned me this morning - Mark Wrotham!!

- Good grief, that's a blast from the past. I don't suppose he's improved at all. More to the point what did he want, I've never known him to contact anyone for love.

- Too right. No he sounded just the same as ever. Matthew, dear boy, he comes on the phone as though we meet every other day, but good lord it must be, what, ten years since we last spoke.

- At least.

- I know it's irrational, but I've never forgiven him for that time he humiliated me in front of all my friends in the college bar. Do you know he called me stupid and an intellectual lightweight. He said I'd never come to anything because I had no contacts and no character. He claimed afterwards that he was just pissed, but I've never forgiven him. It still gets me just thinking about it.

- You shouldn't waste your energy on him, darling.

- No, I know…….So he was pratting on about meeting for lunch and all that kind of thing - asked after you of course, How is the delectable RosaMaria he says, yes I knew that would make you squirm, So I said to him, Look here Mark you only ever phone someone if you want something so what is it?

- Oh Matt you didn't? Don't tell me, I bet he thought you were joking?

- Of course, darling. He has a skin thicker than a rhinoceros hide. Laughed that terrible bellowing laugh of his and said - oh many a true word spoken in jest! But he did come out with it and I'm sure you can guess what's coming?

- He's writing a book?

- Spot on.

- Oh God, not his memoires I hope. Mark Wrotham: one man's struggle with obesity.

- Haven't stopped talking yet: the life and bores of Mark Wrotham. Perhaps I should suggest that to him. No mercifully the great man is not yet ready to bestow his innermost thought upon the world, but apparently he's working on a novel and wants to talk through the structure with me.

- I hope you said no.

- No I didn't, I said I would meet him to talk about it. I thought it would be more satisfying to say no to his face.

- Matt, I never knew you were so callous, that's the sort of thing I would do!

He took such pleasure in seeing her laugh; pleasure multiplied by the knowledge that he was the cause of her laughter. He took her hand.

- Rosa I love you so much. Whatever I've done I'm so sorry.

- You haven't done a thing Matt. I just had a difficult day. I love you too.

Vincent's hands were splayed on the plate glass window, his nose pressed up against the glass like a child ogling the ranks of chocolate in a sweet shop. Rosa looked up, at him and through him; closed her mind to him for good.

She spun round angrily as the thin woman barged past her in a hurry, making her spill wine on the tablecloth. The woman did not look back but half ran half stumbled through door. When Rosa looked back, Vincent was gone.

XX

I ad to see er again. I dint really fink she'd still be there at the caff cause it seemed like hours ago I went off, But I wen for a walk an I jus kind of ended up there. Only it was quite dark by then, and rainin, pissin down. It weren't cold which was jus as well cause I never fought to put me jackit on. The lights in the caff looked bright from outside, reflectin off the pavement like. I tried to see in from the uvver side, cause I dint really wan er to see me, but what wiv all them cars goin by and the rain comin down and the windows bein steamed up from everyone's coats and umbrellas all drippin in rain when it's quite warm inside, what wiv all that, I couldn't see in. So I cross over the road and look in, but the winders are all steamed, so I can't pick er out, and then I realise its not er at the table any more but someone else, so she must of gone. But she adn't. I'm standing there, an I'm still lookin in the winder. Don't know what I fought I might see, but I'm jus sort of in a daze like, and then I see er. She's at a different table now, but its er. An she looks up and I know she sees me, but its like she don't see me. It's like I'm not there, like she can look frew me jus like the winder.

An then this uvver woman, the one what's been cryin all the time since she come in earlier, she sort of pushes past and she's comin to the door like she's in a urry. When the door opens, she's talkin sort of whisperin to erself, but she takes off down the street. An then I notice she's dropped er bag.

XXI

Maria's Good Samaritan has just left. She's looking at the pot of pills clutched in her left hand. Her sweat has dissolved the chemist's ink, her name melting down the side of the pot draining away until only a streaky smudge. Has she taken the right dose today? She can't remember. Her lips move like a nun routinely chanting the rosary, but we can hear her own devotional incantation. Come on, let's edge a little closer.

- take two three times a day before meals take two three times a day before meals take two three times a day before meals take two three times a day before meals take two three times a day before meals

All praise to the Mighty God of Medical Science. Now Thank We All Our God, With Hearts And Hands And Voices, a million tiny voices in fact all shrieking and caterwauling for attention inside Maria's head. Let's listen to her own private soundtrack

I'm not mad I know I'm not mad I'm not mad I know

Bad Maria evil deeds deserve punishment bad women will all die ev

such a lovely day to be left alone staying out of people's lives don't interfere

Come back to bed it's just the foxes, it's just the foxes in your mind, it's just, it's unjust, come back to bed, lie down, lie down and die

Much as I hate to become aggressive, you leave me with no other option I may say that I think that it is completely unnecessary to drag my wife particularly vindictive to go around fabricating no other option b

convenience+valueformoney+quality+friendliness+reliability+hatred+isolation+madness+stupidity

he's out to get you don't let them find you he's going to kill you you are nothing to him but an irritation he's coming for you don't let them get you run maria run maria run maria

All Praise to the medical genius who made sure she left his surgery with tranquilisers as her support. It's too bad she doesn't remember that she has already taken four doses today, only not before meals, because meals are pretty much a thing of the past for our dear Maria. Still how could something so pretty do any harm? As pretty as a picture, as appealing as a Tom Thumb Drop. There she goes, just flip off the top. Oh look, what a kind boy that waiter is, so attentive, he's brought her her own little jug of water. There they go, tick tack onto the table in front of her. Hey what are you doing? You're not going to try and stop her are you? No come back here, see I've got hold of your arm, so there's nothing you can do. Don't you see, there is nothing you can do. Just let things take their course. Besides you can say what you like to Maria, but words are wasted on her. She takes them on her own terms you see. Like Humpty Dumpty, words mean what she wants them to mean and they all speak the same language: CONDEMNATION, ACCUSATION, DENUNCIATION, PUNISHMENT.

Down they go then, gulp gulp, down into that stinking cesspit that used to be her stomach, sloosh sloosh, down they go, slowly disintegrating under the assault from water and chemical, fizz fizz fizzzzzz.

She's waving her hand for the bill. Or is it a distress signal? Not waving but drowning. She has got the note out of her purse, but stowed the purse back in her bag. And now she's waiting, waiting for the bill, the reckoning, the final account.

That couple that startled her when they came back in, and she was looking for her friend, they are on the next table now. The man is looking cheerier than before and now he's talking in a louder voice and two words cause Maria to start.

- Mark Wrotham!

It's a sign, you must see that don't you? It's obviously a sign, well Maria knows that it is anyway. She's looking out for him all the time because she knows he's out to get her. He'll send someone for her you see.

Outside it's raining and the windows are all steamy, but she's straining to see who is out there. Why doesn't the boy come back with the bill? Stupid boy, doesn't he realise it's a matter of Life or Death? How can he be so long? She's gathering her bag and her coat on her lap, those two words reverberating up and down her spine like an electric shock. Mark Wrotham, Mark Wrotham, Mark Wrotham.

Ah good, at last, the pills are kicking in now. Things are not quite as clear as they were before, She squints her eyes closed open closed open, the windows come momentarily into focus, then fade, focus, then fade. But in one of those windows of focus, she sees it quite clearly, that face, the man at the window, looking at her, waiting for her. The woman at the next table saw it too, she heard her give a little intake of breath.

Panic.

Trapped.

Got to get away. Why doesn't the boy come. Run Maria, Run Maria, Run.

She drops the money onto the table. The world is whirling around her, but she's moving in slow motion, wading through treacle to fight her way to the door, mimicking the ballroom dancing steps of the waiting staff. Slow Slow Quick Quick Slow. One step, push chair, coat flies slowly from chair into the air, then sags it's incredible weight presses down onto her arm.

Run Maria Run.

Another step then another, She leans a little too far and her shoulder brushes the woman on the adjoining table, who turns her head, eyes pierce, mouth moves, articulating the words of condemnation that Maria expects but cannot hear because of the chorus of voices in her head.

Step four step five step six.

The clock hands have frozen, time is standing still, the moment is frozen. Frozen in time. The moment of truth. The time of reckoning. Heart pounds.

Run Maria Run.

Step seven, step eight, pull door.

He's there. The Angel of Death. The executioner. Panic. Run.

He does not move, but barely turns his head to see her.

Down, down goes the coat. Goodbye coat. You were good to me, but now I don't need you any more, you only slow me down. Step step.

Down, down goes the bag. Goodbye bag. I didn't mean to leave you, but I can't come back. You'll understand. Step, step.

Run Maria Run.

Escape the demon. Run from him who is out to get you.

The rain is drenching her face, trickling slowly down her neck, bouncing its way over the corrugated expanse of her chest. Pound pound, heart, rain, steps in time.

The angel looks towards her and bellows as she nears the corner. She turns. Her mouth is working, she's silently screaming the words no, no, No, No, NO NO NO.

XXII

She's dropped er coat too, so I spose really I should of picked that up as well, but I fought a person's bag is more important to them than that, and by the time I picked it up she's runnin off dahn the street. So I shouted out. To make er stop. Cause I fought she dint know she dropped it. Well you do don’t yer? I mean everyone tries to elp someone if they fink they dropped somefink, don't they?

XXIII

She's around the corner, out of sight and pressing on. Pressing against the heaviness of her legs, still moving in slow motion. Pressing against the burden on her chest that's suffocating her.

Come on we've got to keep up. There's no stopping her now.

A knife is stabbing her chest. Panic, fear, opprobrium. And still she breathes and forces her way through the leaden rain and the blur of the lights and the sound of the traffic and her heart. Pound, pound.

Run Maria Run.

Step step step, her feet crash onto the paving stones jarring her fetid guts, bruising her brain, tossing it like some cheap football against the wall of her skull. Slam slam slam.

She is beginning to tire - well no wonder, what an effort she's making, so she risks a look over her shoulder and there he is, he's followed her and he's holding something. A club, a club to beat her brains out, a gun, a gun to shoot her dead, and knife, a knife to slash her to pieces.

Again he roars.

Run Maria Run.

And now her scream is silent no more. She spins around, her head thrown back, her face drinking in the driving rain. The single word escapes like the genie released from its bottle and swells in a black cloud above her head.

NO

Step step. She is urging herself forward, like a sprinter going for the finish, the athlete going through the pain barrier forward forward.

The monster rears before her, tall and red. It bears down on her, fiery, raging in the squally rain.

No step further. She stands transfixed by the beast as it rages towards her, driving jets of water heavenward, it's lights burning into her. The great unstoppable inevitability of it all. And she cries

NO.

XXIII

I fought she couldn't of eard me, so I ran to catch er up, and I ad the bag in me and. I spose it was kind of stupid really, but I was sort of waving it about cause I dint want anyone to fink I was tryin to nick it, cause I wanted to give it back see, but you know ow people can be like sometimes.

An when I come round the corner, she was just a bit away from me so I shouted out again like. What? Well I don't know what I shouted. Probably somefink like Stop or Oi you forgot your bag or somefing. I don't know really.

Anyhow, I shouted, but she sort of turned and jus ran out into the road. I don't know why. Praps I frightened er, but I dint men ter, I jus wanted to give er er bag back, see?

She dint stand a chance. It weren't the bus's fault, I mean it was filthy wevver an he wouldn't of seen er till it was too late. She just ran out.

XXIV

- Matt! Splendid to see you old boy. My God you look terrific, you haven't changed a bit! In fact - aren't those the same old trousers, don't remember you ever leading the ranks of the sartorially elite Eh? Wah Wah Wah

Matthew chose neither to get up nor to smile as his secretary ushered Mark Wrotham into his office. Wrotham leaned over the desk, ruddy jowls slobbering like a St Bernard and offered his puffy hand. Matt noticed his third finger curled into the palm, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to convey its clandestine message, and he idly imagined Wrotham with trouser legs rolled up, sporting leather pinafore and no doubt incanting some ancient mystical mumbo jumbo at his secret society for the well connected. The thought made him smile, which Wrotham immediately took as an invitation to sit down, and eased himself comfortably into the leather armchair that stood at the ready to receive both welcome and unwlecome visitors.

- Hello Mark, he said without warmth. His hostility bounced off Wrotham's elephant hide. Settling himself comfortably he launched into his speech.

- Look, old boy, it's awfully good of you to see me, but I know you're going to be thrilled when I tell you all about this little project of mine. Frankly I'm sure that Faber are going to leap at it, but I thought I'd do you the favour of hearing about it first. To give you first refusal. You know for old time's sake.

Matt did not respond.

- So you see, I haven't exactly finished it yet. Well, I haven't really much more than started it if truth be known, but, I thought I'd just give you the run down of the plot, and then we could have a chat about advances and that sort of thing?

Silence.

- Well, here goes, then, I can tell you're just itching to hear the storyline. The main character is a writer, terribly famous, does a lot of writing in newspapers, articles, personal reflections, that kind of thing. No guessing where the inspiration for that comes, eh? Anyhow this chap runs a competition and this woman wins it, and they meet at the awards ceremony and they have a conversation and he talks about reaching his public through his columns. Only she's a bit thick, you see, and she thinks that he means he writes to individuals by actually planting messages in his columns. And then a couple of weeks later, she actually writes to him in the office and says, you've been sending me these messages through your columns. And at first he thinks this is a bit odd, but then he thinks, hang on. Why don't I do a little experiment, and he really does start planting messages to her in the column, to see if she'll pick them up. And hey presto, she does, so then he gets a bit more ambitious and starts to find out things about her and plant more messages. But then something rather weird happens because she starts writing to him and it seems she is able to learn about things he does in real life, just by reading his columns, when he didn't think that he'd put anything in about those things at all. And the more he tries to steer her away, the more she seems to know about him. So he decides the only thing he can do to stop her - oh I forgot to say, he's been having an affair and he's worried his wife will find out - is to make her believe she's going mad. So he starts rooting around a bit more, goes to her house when she's out, plants more info in his column, pays off the neighbours by pretending to be a private detective, nicks the flowers from the garden, that kind of thing, but of course when she tells anyone about it they don't believe her because the idea is so preposterous, and he of course denies everything and instead starts to cut up nasty, sending solicitor's letters that kind of thing and so everyone thinks she's mad. It's a psychological thriller don't you see. Haven't quite got the end sorted out, but that's not so difficult to work on, and anyway that's what you chaps are here for isn't it, to consult on things like that, and then I get to write in the front, never could have done this great work without valuable input of Matt, that kind of thing, eh? SO! What ye say? Old boy?

Matt slowly pushed up his sleeves and eased himself forward in his chair.

Ecstacy, he mused, oh ecstacy, thy name is revenge.