The piece of woodland that I had bought for a song at an auction concealed my cabin, my retreat from the maddeningly chaotic world in which most others seemed to thrive. Just a couple of miles outside of the town, it gave me space, peace, and time. My imagination could wander unfettered before I returned home to write my stories.

I had built the cabin using a rural land exception and my apartment on the ground floor of the Edwardian villa in Park Street ensured that officialdom left me undisturbed. The Spring and Summer were the best time although the addition of a log stove helped to make it cosy the rest of the year.

It was last Autumn when the temperature was dropping daily and I walked to the woodshed to replenish my log basket that I noticed them. Small footprints in the damp soil.

Curious!

Why would anyone, let alone a child be out here?

As I opened the shed door, I heard a slight whimper and in the murky depths, I could see a young girl cowering in the corner.

‘Don’t be frightened. What are you doing here?’

‘H-hiding,’ was her tremulous reply.

She shivered as her soft brown eyes looked me up and down.

‘You can’t stay in here; it’s too cold,’ I suggested. ‘Come into my cabin; there’s a warm fire and I can make you a hot drink if you like.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll send me back.’

‘Back where?’

‘To them.’

I wondered who “they” were.

‘I won’t send you anywhere, I promise, but you must come in and get warm. I’ve got a sweater you can wear. Would you like that?’

She wavered.

‘OK, but you mustn’t send me back.’

‘Come on. Let’s get you warm.’

I filled the wood basket, and she reluctantly followed me to the cabin. The inviting heat drew her towards the stove.

‘Would you like a hot chocolate?’

‘Yes please.’

The kettle on the stove was nearing boiling so I prepared a mug for her and a coffee for me. I gave her the promised sweater and she pulled it on, snuggling into its warmth. One of my prized flapjacks made her eyes open wide and she gobbled it as if she hadn’t eaten for a month.

‘I’m Steve; what’s your name?’

‘Laura.’ Crumbs fell from her mouth as she studied my face. ‘My Gramp’s name is Steve.’

‘Laura, who are “they”?’

‘My Mum and her new boyfriend.’

‘What have they done to make you run away?’

‘They took away my iPad.’

I swallowed my mirth.

‘Why?’

‘Because I was playing a game on it.’

I chuckled.

‘What were you supposed to be doing?’

She gave me a dismissive stare, dropped her eyes to the floor, and grudgingly whispered.

‘Tidying my room.’

‘They’ll be worried about you. Where do you live?’

‘Park Street.’

‘That’s where I live.’

‘We live in part of an old house.’

‘So do I. Where does your Gramps live?

‘Grove Road with Nanna; they’ve got a nice house with a garden.’

‘Why didn’t you go to them? It’s not far from Park Street.’

‘They’re on holiday.’

I studied her. About seven or eight years old, she seemed lost in the world.

‘You know that you’ve got to go home, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but can I stay here for a while.’

She thought for a moment and announced,

‘I’m not warm enough yet.’

Seven years old and already a practised manipulator!

‘OK, finish your chocolate but then I’ll drive you back. They’ll be really worried.’

We turned into Park Street to be confronted by flashing blue lights and a gaggle of police officers. A tearful and white-faced woman was being comforted by a man, his arm protectively around her shoulders as they talked intently to a female officer. Laura was out of my car almost before I had stopped. She ran to her mum’s open arms and the three of them hugged.

I walked towards them, trying to ignore the suspicious looks of the police officers.

Arnold Layne practised his profession with scrupulous attention to detail for more than 20 years.

He lived quietly, his home was an unassuming semi detached house in the suburbs of London, he cleaned his car at the weekends, kept his garden beautifully tended and dressed in an understated, English style. To his neighbours and those he mixed with at the local bowls club, he was an unremarkable man.

To those who sought his professional services, he was known as “The Milkman” a nickname derived from his habit of taking one pint of blood as a trophy from each of his victims which he stored, neatly catalogued in the loft of his home.

Arnold’s intended victims were never aware until it was too late and his exacting attention to detail, insulated his clients from the crime they had commissioned.

His most recent job had gone well, the victim had succumbed in moments and Arnold took his trophy. To guarantee the anonymity of his clients, he had to make the body disappear using a stolen van which would be found later, burnt out on a patch of wasteland.

Mary Symonds was walking home from the Women’s Institute and saw him stowing the body in his van. Had she simply walked on by, there would have been no consequence but as a decent woman, she asked Arnold if the person in the van was unwell.

Her body joined the first victim and Arnold took his second trophy of the night.

The first body disposed of, Arnold left Mary’s body in an open area expecting the police conclusion that she had been killed in a robbery gone wrong.

Weeks of investigation left Detective Inspector Scanlon with suspicions that Mary’s death was the work of The Milkman. The missing pint of blood was the tell-tale clue but there was no conclusive proof.

Mary’s loving husband Geoff, was an ordinary man, an electronics genius with an extensive scientific background whose gentle and quiet life had revolved around her. His deep mourning for her masked the cold anger within, not relieved by Scanlon’s hollow assurance that he would, one day, arrest The Milkman.

Endless hours on the dark web found the references that Geoff was looking for, narrowing down the possibilities to just two suspects. One was ex-forces and lately a soldier for hire but had been on a clandestine job abroad for a City corporation at the time of Mary’s death.

The other was an unremarkable man who played bowls and kept a perfect house in the suburbs. Geoff watched him for weeks, hacked his computer and his phones until an overheard conversation for a new job confirmed that Arnold was his quarry.

The quiet of the bowls club car park gave Geoff a few minutes of undisturbed access to Arnold’s car to install the device but to prevent any unwanted injury to innocent passers by, he waited for a few days until it was parked on Arnold’s drive before remotely arming it.

As Arnold started the car to go shopping, the explosion destroyed the car, flattened the carefully tended garden and removed the services of the The Milkman from the underworld forever.

The sweet and sour taste of revenge filled Geoff’s mouth.

The view in every direction was a desert of green. Andalucia has four million olive trees under monoculture making the scenery devoid of interest.

In the late Autumn, I left our cortijo before the morning sun had risen over the ridge surrounding us and walked in peaceful solitude to the bottom of the dry valley. The dogs loved their daily exercise, stopping to sniff faint traces of nocturnal creatures and disturbing the occasional red-legged partridge which glided noisily through the trees to safety.

The previous evening, whilst enjoying a cool drink as the sun set behind the mountain, we discussed what we would do if we weren’t living in the middle of an olive grove, halfway up a mountainside in rural Spain. We decided that we really should buy lottery tickets to finance our imagined, new lifestyle when a light plane which appeared to be having difficulty, flew low over the valley with it’s engine faltering. Out of our sight, its engine picked up again, it soared and flew on, restoring peace to our little corner of heaven

The next morning, I arrived at the river bed and followed the dogs in their adventure along its rocky path. Spike, our lead dog suddenly barked, his tail vigorously wagging as he looked over the edge of the eroded river bed. At the bottom of the cutting was a man’s body, lying bloodied and misshapen, oddly twisted across the rocks. I climbed down to see if he was alive but he was icy cold even though the morning was pleasantly warm.

Lying next to his body was a small knapsack with one strap around a misshapen arm. Bundles of used banknotes spilled out, a mix of 500 and 200 Euro notes, neatly bound with rubber bands.

Who was he? A drug dealer who had fallen out with his accomplices or was he trying to escape kidnappers?

I couldn’t tell.

A moment’s consideration of the consequences and I slung the knapsack over my shoulder, called the dogs and made my way back to the farmhouse, stopping off at the barn to conceal the life changing treasure in the loft.

That night it rained.

In the mountains of Granada Province it doesn’t shower gently, it pours down like a fireman’s hose. Huge amounts of water are deposited on the hillsides forming rivulets which carve their way through the loose clay soil towards the Summer parched river beds. The gathered water heads thunderously downstream, carrying soil, rocks, broken olive branches and other debris, to be lost in the largest lake in Andalucia nearby.

Two days later the clouds were a memory and the sun had started to bake the hillsides again when I took the dogs on their daily walk down the valley side to the now freshly scoured and drying river bed. There were no traces of its previous, broken occupant.

Months passed watching and waiting for the reaction which never arrived, quiet visits to bankers and money changers, a buyer for our cortijo and eventually, a return to England to start a previously dreamed of, new life in the anonymous surroundings of a Dorset village.

That comfortable life was ensured by regular, guilt free transfers of money from an anonymous, offshore bank account.

It was the fourth year since DNA had been taken from the egg discovered in the Indonesian temple and the new age of the dragons was born.

People generally accepted that dragons had as much right as they to inhabit the Earth and for their part, the dragons only took the occasional cow or sheep, leaving humans to continue their lives, unharmed.

There had been no big fires of dragon origin for over two years so most people felt very protective of them, stopping to stare as they flew overhead or taking their children to see them when they landed in the local park or field.

But Excalibur was different...

He had been born of the Arthurian genetic line at the cloning laboratory in Wiltshire, England. However, one of the researchers experimented with a slight alteration to his genome in an effort to add friendliness, an error which resulted in Excalibur having, shall we say, a mischievous sense of humour.

He would "accidentally" set fire to the odd tree or thatched roof and fly off in exaggerated loops and dives, emitting a pulsating roar like a laugh. It was a problem for fire brigades and insurance companies but his reputation as the lovable bad boy of the dragon world, struck a chord with the public.

One of his fans was George Blake, a special forces soldier who usually executed his orders with cold efficiency. His commanding officer summoned him,

‘Our orders are to dispose of Excalibur and your team is our best hope, Major Blake.’

‘Dispose of him, Sir?’

‘His behaviour has upset the wrong people this time and they want him gone.’

‘Just gone, Sir?’ George asked innocently.

There was a brief pause,

‘My orders were quite clear Major, they state that Excalibur is to be stopped from causing any more damage in England, by any means necessary.’

‘My discretion, Sir?’

’Just get it done, George. As few casualties as possible,’ he winked as he returned George’s salute.

George’s team also agreed with the public's feelings towards their quarry so their simple plan was to trap Excalibur in his lair just North of Swindon and then head West in a covered truck at the dead of night to meet up with some of George’s old friends.

They arrived at the commune in Wales in the early morning and Excalibur was unloaded into his temporary compound. Via social media, they leaked the story of his mysterious appearance on their farm, slyly suggesting that as a dragon, he obviously preferred Wales to England.

For his part, Excalibur seemed very comfortable with his new audience of followers, probably helped by the numbers of Welsh flags flown from the commune’s buildings and it only took a few days for him to settle. Once freed, he flew the skies above Wales and with most roofs covered with slate, his continuing mischief was mainly reserved for the odd tree or road sign.

However, he did like to eat lamb...

Linda looked in the mirror and held her greying hair up above her head. Her lined face was visible proof of her life’s experiences but her fading, blue eyes still had a sparkle, hinting at her defiantly mischievous side.

Never concerned that it would have to end at some time, she still had the desire to live life to the full, to disrupt the status quo, to live outside of society’s expectations. She instructed Alexa to play Led Zeppelin.

‘Alexa, louder!’

‘Alexa, louder.’

The notes reverberated through her body, entering her core, reviving memories of stadiums and muddy fields from another time.

Perhaps just one more festival, she thought.

The ticket, although costly, was easily manageable, the private yurt eye-wateringly expensive but offering her a retreat if she needed it; an island of calm away from the chaos. A long, hippy dress recovered from an almost forgotten box in the attic along with some hand made jewellery she had received as a tribute from an aging, Californian artisan many years before, combined to enhance her fading beauty.

The festival goers gave her admiring smiles. The young women striking up conversations, perhaps seeing their future selves in her outward expression of freedom and hope, the young men regarding her with suppressed desire and longing, fearful of her experience but intrigued by her abandon and playfulness.

The music was loud, very loud and mostly not to her taste. She needed the driving bass and the soaring virtuosity of past rock gods who knew how to play, even when chemically enhanced. She wandered from stage to stage until at last, there they were playing her music, as old as she and with their silver hair flowing in the wind from the cooling fans.

She lost herself in the moment, resurrecting the young woman who danced as if nobody was watching.

But someone was watching.

The young man also appreciated 50 year old rock played by practised masters from a time before he was born. To him she wasn’t an anachronism, she wasn’t even old, just someone who loved the music he adored and who wasn’t scared to lose herself in it. He danced over to her, laughing, not at her refusal to accept her years but, at her ability to ignore how others saw her.

Exhausted from their exertions and high on the atmosphere at the end of the set, they sat under a tree and shared an overpriced beer.

‘You’re not sleeping in the open, are you?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘I have a yurt,’ she said. ’Do you want to see how old people sleep at festivals?’

He grinned sheepishly. ’You can’t be old because you like the best music.’

‘Right answer,' she said emphatically as she took his hand and led him towards her island of calm.

Why does a car always break down in the rain and at night?

How does anyone manage to live without a cell phone signal?

Thankfully, there was a row of houses up ahead so, crammed under our only umbrella, we made our way up the drive of the first. The bell was an old fashioned ringer which we could hear clearly but failed to raise anyone in the house.

Down that drive and up the next, getting more and more soaked as the water ran off the umbrella and down our necks. We laughed at each others discomfort.

The next house looked more promising with a porch light and a bit of cover as we pushed the button. The chime played the intro to Nocturne 2 by Chopin. Very classy but not the right music to wake anyone, apparently.

And so it went on, six houses and nobody at home. Why have a house if you aren’t going to be in it on a wet and windy night?

Number seven looked a bit down at heel with peeling paint and neglected plant pots. A traditional, 2 tone bell chime got a response from a geriatric, female voice behind the door,

‘Who’s there? What do you want?’

‘Our car has broken down and we need to telephone someone to fix it.’

‘I don’t know anything about cars.’

‘Have you got a telephone?’

‘Haven’t you? I thought that everyone had phones these days.’

‘There’s no signal.’

‘No what?’

‘Telephone signal. We can’t make a call and it’s raining really hard.’

‘It’s raining until the morning according to the television. Be careful that you don’t get too wet.’

We looked at each other, giggled and said our goodbyes to our unseen conversationalist.

Two more houses to go so we hoped for more success at the penultimate.

A big porch to shelter us as we operated the old fashioned bell pull. The sound was a foghorn, very Addams family and we laughed out loud as the door opened with a creak.

Expecting a giant butler on the other side of it, we were presented with a dimly lit but empty hall and no sign of anyone to help.

My “Hello?” seemed to echo around the house but there was no movement or sound except the squelch of our soggy shoes on the tiled floor.

‘Is anyone at home?’ was met with a deafening silence.

‘I wonder if they have a phone?’ was my companion’s question. I looked around and on a narrow hall stand was an ancient device with a dial. I’d never used one before but seemed to remember a YouTube video which showed how. All we needed now was a number to call.

We hunted high and low and eventually found a list of names and numbers, one of which was Jimbo’s Garage. I vaguely remembered passing it earlier that evening.

‘Got to be the one, hasn’t it?’ I asked pointlessly.

I lifted the handset and dialled the number, a bored sounding voice answered, ‘Yes?’

‘We’ve broken down by a row of houses on the main road. Can you come out to see if you can help?’

‘Probably, where are you calling from?’

‘Well, we are in a big old house but there is nobody here. The door just opened when we rang the doorbell.’

‘Is it in a row of nine houses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Exactly which one are you in?’

‘The last one.’ shouted my sodden companion incorrectly.

‘No, that’s not right, it’s the last but one, with the big porch.’

‘Was the doorbell a foghorn?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

The voice at the other end of the phone whispered slowly and emphatically,

‘GET OUT OF THERE, NOW!’

He said that it might be hazardous but I needed the money. What’s a few long range photos of a celebrity anyway?

The two goons dragged me out of the hedge and frog marched me into the brightly lit kitchen where they zip tied me to a chair and left me to contemplate my immediate future.

She sashayed into the room, hair bouncing above her fabulous body, 

‘Did those naughty people at the studio send you to take photos so that they can get out of the contract?’ she breathed.

I stammered that I was just asked to get some photos of her and her live-in, female companion.

She came right up to my face, leaning forward and giving me a view down the front of her gown. My heart nearly stopped. I had never been this close to fame before or indeed, any woman this stunning.

‘Surely they told you what they needed them for,’ she whispered. She smelled wonderful, like the flower house at the tropical gardens on a warm day. I stared blankly back at her. 

Had she just asked me something?

‘O.K., who at the studio gave you the job?’

My attention was suddenly back in the kitchen and I truthfully told her that I wasn’t given any names but that the retainer had been in cash. In the world in which a second rate private eye operated, it was best not to ask too many questions as long as everyone paid in cash.

She pulled up a chair, placing it in front of me, turned so that the back was between us and sat astride it to look me straight in the eyes. I couldn’t concentrate, those beautiful green eyes were mesmeric but the possibility of seeing those fabulous legs parted across the chair was just too tempting for a loser like me.

‘My eyes are up here!’ she suggested.

I felt embarrassed but my curiosity was trying to see around the uprights of the chair back so she reached out and gently took hold of my chin, moving my head to look at her face. Her skin was so soft, her slender fingers so strong and her highly polished nails so sharp.

‘Tell me everything about this job that you were asked to do?’ she coaxed.

My private eye’s resolve melted. The words tumbled out about the sharp suited young man in the expensive limousine who said he needed some special photos for a piece he was writing about a celebrity and that he would pay cash plus a bonus if I got photos of another person living in the house, particularly if they were of this goddess and her companion together.

‘That little weasel,’ she cried out, ‘Not happy that I dumped him, he has to make something up about a dear friend who is living here until she gets her life straightened out.’

At that moment, another attractive, barely clad woman appeared in the kitchen, looked at me with a quizzical expression, shrugged, walked over to the subject of my fantasies and kissed her gently on the lips.

The box was very ordinary.

Made from teak with metal bindings and a lock of old brass.

He turned the key in the lock and opened the lid.

The smell of cedar wood and dust assailed his nostrils.

The inside of the box was plain, no dividers, no ribs and no marks to suggest previous contents.

His scientist’s mind considered the box for some time until the sound of his housekeeper’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

'Is the cat upstairs with you, Mr Schrodinger?'

It was the trip of a lifetime but they had doubts about spending all of that money on a holiday?

The journey to the cruise ship had been easy and stress free even with his constant references to the cost of the trip. Their cabin, with a veranda, was luxurious and far exceeded the simple furnishings of their small, terraced house in the suburbs. The cabin steward was friendly and solicitous although they were glad that the awkwardness of tipping him had been removed by their option to prepay gratuities.

The first night’s meal was adventurous for their palates and they tried little samples of each plate so as not to offend the catering staff or reveal their simple tastes to their fellow passengers. Emboldened by a couple of glasses of wine, they danced clumsily together for the first time in many years and eventually retired to their cabin, well after their usual bed time.

He slept fitfully, obsessing over the cost of unaccustomed indulgences they had experienced so far.

She slept deeply, dreaming of being swept off her feet by a lithe, Latin dancer.

The following morning with the ship well underway, she awoke refreshed and ready for an adventure whilst he lingered in bed with an uneasy feeling of sickness in his stomach.

‘What do you think has caused it?’ she asked.

‘It may be the food from last night. It was too rich.’

Any further discussion was brought to an abrupt end by his panicked retreat to the bathroom.

‘I’m staying in bed today’ came the muffled announcement through the door.

She smiled to herself and left for the new experience of having breakfast served to her table.

Later, the concerned cabin steward called the ship’s medical team who took their new patient away to the infirmary. On investigation, isolation was the only safe option.

She walked away from the infirmary, guiltily relieved that he was in good hands and that she could relax to enjoy the rest of her trip.

Her day was spent exploring, meeting new people, being pampered, having a massage and after a delightful evening meal, she returned to her cabin relaxed and looking forward to the next day.

Deciding on a cup of tea, she discovered that the morning’s disturbance had overlooked restocking of essentials so she summoned the cabin steward. He apologised, quickly restocked and asked,

‘May I make the tea for you?’

She looked at his deep brown eyes, dark hair and the image of the Latin dancer flashed across her imagination. She sat calmly on the edge of the bed.

‘Yes, thank you.’

Tea expertly prepared, he went to leave but,

‘Could you stay a while? I’m so grateful for all that you did for my husband this morning.’

‘It’s my job to look after my passenger’s every need. Is there anything else I can do for you, now?’

Irises widening, the new experiences of the day flooding her mind and emboldened by the wine from dinner, she asked him for one extra favour.

I’ve been growing slowly in this peaceful churchyard for a long time now and, with the help of the birds and animals, casting my offspring into the world so that they too, could find a quiet, undisturbed place to establish and grow.

We don’t get many visitors, mostly sad and preoccupied people who don’t pay much attention to the trees growing here. One summer’s day with the warm air cooling my leaves, a small girl about 8 years old, came through the gate, walked around me touching my trunk with her outstretched fingers and sat under the shade of my branches.

She spoke suddenly,

‘How long have you been here?’

Was she talking to me? I thought.

‘You are very big so it must be a long time,’ she persisted.

‘I have been growing here for well over a hundred years,’ I confirmed.

She didn’t seem surprised at my response.

‘That’s a very long time, when were you planted?’

‘If you look at that gravestone over there with the cross on top and the ivy growing at the base, you can read the date that Albert William George Hancock died. I was planted about the same time.’

She scurried across to read the stone, tracing her fingers along the numbers and called back,

‘It says 8th March 1844 so that makes it,’ she paused thoughtfully, ’180 years. Have you always been this size?’

‘No, I started off as a tiny acorn which sprouted a shoot. I was found and grown in a greenhouse of a big, old house. The gentleman who lived there brought me here to be planted.’

‘Is he buried here?’

'No, he has a special place inside the church because his family and ancestors owned all of the surrounding land and were wealthy enough to have this church built nearly 400 years ago.’

‘They must have been very rich.’

'They were and the church was built to help the local people who worked for them to keep their faith.’

‘Do you have a faith?’

‘I believe in a greater good that looks after all of us. Some people call it Mother Nature but as a tree, I am just a small part of it.’

‘Not just a small part, you are huge and my teacher says that trees are our friends because you take the bad air we breath out and turn it into oxygen that we can breath in again. You also store the carbon we produce and use it to grow. Teacher said that you provide food and shelter for the birds and animals. You are providing shade and company for me at the moment which is very nice.’

‘Your teacher seems very wise.’

‘She is and that’s funny because her name is Miss Wise.’

I chuckled and the girl leaned back against my trunk, stretched and then asked,

‘Am I the only person that you have spoken to since you were planted?’

I had to think.

‘There was a young girl well over a hundred years ago. Her name was Lillian and her parents were local, tenant farmers. She was a lovely girl, about your age.’

‘Did she go to school?’

‘Well, the village school wasn’t built until after she had grown up but she did attend Sunday school at the church. She used to visit me afterwards, before her mother came to collect her.’

She pondered my story in silence for a while until a woman’s voice called out.

‘Suzie, where are you?’

‘I’m here Mummy, in the churchyard. This tree has been talking to me.’

‘Of course it has darling but it’s time to go home, now.’

‘Goodbye Suzie,’ I whispered as she stood up and walked away.

Her mother turned and stared suspiciously into the empty churchyard.

The train arrived at Barnehurst Station and he started the long, wet walk home. He’d had another weary day in the City but now, the buffers of financial reality loomed.

‘What is the balance in my current account?’ The teller’s answer meant that bills would soon be unpaid.

“I could deal with the bills if you let me,’ his wife had proposed one evening but he was fearful of giving her access to the bank account and being found out.

His breadwinner father’s view of life weighed heavily on his mind,

“Work hard, take pleasure from being with your family and don’t worry them with your problems.”

Following his father’s advice was difficult without the hoped for children and his life had settled into a dreary routine of commuting and work.

‘Perhaps I could go out to work, get a little job, earn some money for a holiday.’ his wife had once brightly suggested but his pride always found a reason to dismiss the idea.

     If she does that, I will have failed.

 •••

For over 20 years he had kept his safe and comfortable job with the marine insurance broker, near to Lloyds of London. The same colleagues, the same work, the same chair, the same window, every day. He smiled abstractly when the younger staff made incomprehensible jokes about him, he loyally accepted that he should train a new, young person as his deputy and his added responsibility for the document duplication machine seemed a promotion of sorts even though he relied on others to operate it correctly.

But the young typist who he thought was being friendly and to whom he had made some off-colour suggestions in the duplication room, had complained.

‘I was just being friendly,’ seemed a reasonable explanation but ignored his increasingly eccentric and disruptive behaviour in recent months.

The office manager was positive and encouraging,

‘You will have an enhanced pension starting in 10 years, a month’s pay in lieu of notice plus the directors have granted you a lump sum which they hope you will use for some specialist help.’

The wet pavement of St. Mary Axe at the foot of the office steps couldn’t tell him which way to go. Left to London Bridge for the mid-afternoon train home to his wife or right towards Bevis Marks and the sweaty café run by the Greek couple who sold horse flesh as best steak?

    It’s too early to go home and I had steak yesterday.

Over the days, he whiled away the time by standing in office doorways.

‘Will it be difficult for a policy manager to find another job,’ he asked a passing broker who suddenly became engrossed in the contents of his slip case as he quickened his stride.

‘Do you know of any marine brokers who are looking for a policy manager?’

The suspicious office cleaner hurried on her way.

Kindly faced employment agency staff offered no interviews and meetings with old colleagues who had contacts, evaporated like smoke in the wind. In the little cafes which served the constant ebb and flow of city staff, the tea was no longer refreshing.

And so the days turned into weeks.

 •••

He walked up the path of his comfortable, semi-detached home in Erith to be greeted by his loving, tear stained wife.

‘I rang the office today, you weren’t there,’ she said quietly.

He gently touched the buffers of reality,

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’