Dreamboy

Flying along and I've only just begun. Out from the West Brompton Underground station exit and peeking sideways at the shops opposite, edging out along the Great Brompton Road … Before I can even gulp down fresh lungfuls of breath I have reached the massive wrought-iron gates with their spear-pointed tips dipped in gold paint. The night-time air is clear and crisp and the whitish full moon is hanging suspended in the night sky like a giant cardboard cut-out, illuminating all and making everything appear as if we are indeed in full daylight time.

Standing right now before these Brompton Cemetery gates and the sheer size of them is frightening. There doesn't seem to be anybody around on the road … Can I climb them? I have never, ever tried to scale anything quite as daunting. Yet there is no obvious other way in … Make believe. That's it! Make believe that these gleaming gates are that old oak tree you climbed last summer in Richmond Park … Inch up now to the first foothold. This iron is cold and chilly to touch … Inching, inching, up and up, getting dizzy with the height of the climb. Mustn't look down. What my brother, Nick, said last summer as I climbed that old oak tree, whatever you do, never look down. It's fatal and you start to get scared of your own ambition … Aching and chafed hands scraping now against the golden spear tips … Why do they so want to keep us out? Aren't cemeteries meant for all! Don't the dead want visitors as well … Now is the really difficult part. It is always easier to climb upwards than to get down … I'm slightly dizzy, excited, anxious and scared all at the self-same time. My legs keep rubbing and chafing against the railings … I'm going to jump now. Half way down. That's it, pitch forward and take a flier. It seems such a long way … Ouch! Have I broken my leg? Crikey, it hurts, but heh, I can move it. Rub it hard. Really rub it hard like Tony Curtis in the film 'The Vikings' when he's been out at sea all that time. I bet he would have scaled those giant gates without any problems. But then he's a man. Much bigger and stronger than I am … The left leg is moving again. Nothing really broken, just sore and bruised, that's all, and a cut. That's torn it! My trousers are ripped. I'll get hell! … I don't care, it's worth it! …

This is a huge, wonderful and strange place. I can see Bell Towers shining in the silvery moonlight. What was that noise? Quick! Hide! …

I'm peering out from between two gravestones down along this wide pathway. It's amazing, I can clearly see everything. There are masses of animals gathered in a group. They look like a motley collection of rats, squirrels and something else besides. Are rats and squirrels animals? I'll have to ask Miss Parker … It is a fight they have all gathered to witness. It seems to be a bout between a large brown-looking rat and a grey, fluffy squirrel. The squirrel looks like a pygmy next to the brownish rat. Another type of animal seems to be conducting affairs. There is much screeching and scuffling and skirling among the packed crowd of onlookers … Hurrah, the grey squirrel hasn't waited for the signal to begin. It's gone straight at the brown rat and looks to have bitten him … And again … The noise seems very loud and not for human eyes and ears. I must be extra careful and keep very quiet and still … This brave grey squirrel is darting back and forth. Trying hard to bite the rat quickly then retreat before the big rat can lay a whisker on him. This massive brown rat has huge whiskers. I hate rats. He, or she maybe, is biding its time … Oh, but this squirrel is so cute and brave. Undaunted, he attacks and retreats. The crowd of onlooking squirrels seem mesmerised by his courageous efforts. Nobody looking my way. Good! Must remember to keep my head down. Don't let this fight affect me. I can feel a rush of hot blood rising to my temple … Miss Parker would approve of me using the word temple … The giant brown rat is just biding his time, then suddenly, with a show of fantastic speed, strikes straight at the throat of the retreating squirrel and sinks his deadly teeth right in. The squirrel can do nothing before this calculated onslaught. I'm trembling just watching from afar. This battle in the moonlight in Brompton Cemetery is over. The grey squirrel's fluffy tail is drooping now. Half of the watching crowd have gone deadly silent. The large brown rat has released its remorseless grip and now just stands over the poor, brave squirrel who is writhing on the promenade floor in death throes of agony, oozing orangeade-coloured blood. The rat just watches as the grey squirrel somehow manages to slide to a nearside gravestone. Slithers across the pewter-grey marble slab and stops. Silence.

I am wiping away a tear. Silly. I must have made a noise, rustled a leaf, dislodged some sacred stone, for literally hundreds of ferocious little pink eyes are cast in my direction. I'm running now for my life. I can hear plainly the scratching patter of a thousand tiny feet let loose in my direction. They smell the blood of a human being and I'm it! The high-pitched screeching of wild banshees … Nowhere for me to run to under this full, raging, moonlit sky … Where to hide? I can't hide from rats and squirrels and the other things … Quick, go to the left. Hunker down by this gravestone … They're all rushing helter-skelter down the main promenade pathway … This makes me think of the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, only I'm the sacrifice. Bitten to death by a thousand deadly rat and squirrel bites … Well, at least I'm in the right place for it … I thought these animals had an extremely acute sense of smell. You would think that they would nose me out in a second. But no. On they rush, leaving that poor dead squirrel behind on the grey, marble gravestone. One squirrel remains flitting to and fro. Keeps going and touching the dead lips of the other. It must have been its mate … Do squirrels mate for life? Doesn't it know its mate is dead? … Strange, isn't it. Animals with their keen sense of smell and me a human pig and all, and the mate not realising that the poor, battling grey squirrel is dead. Kaput. Finished. Still keeps going back to it and nuzzling it in the full moonlight glowing over these burial grounds … Maybe it's some clever ruse to draw me out. Get me in the open where they can attack me in force … I've gained a minute of respite. I shouldn't have come … What is this gravestone? Where have I landed up? … It's getting very cold. Should have worn my duffel coat … What does this say … Joseph Bonomi the Younger. The dates are fading here, trace them with my finger. Seventeen Ninety-Six to Eighteen Seventy-Eight … Crikey, he lived a long time … Must stop saying crikey, it sounds so corny. Try something else like gee whiz or gadzooks, or maybe make one up. How about jumping fleabags? Right! Jumping fleabags, where are they now. I don't have long left before discovery, I'm too young to die! … I bet the Jewish kids in Germany all thought that … Mister Joseph Bonomi the Younger was an Egyptologist. He copied out hiero … hieroglyphics from the Valley of the Kings … Jumping fleabags, I bet they had a lot of rats there. Maybe not cute-looking squirrels, but certainly rats and those other deadly-looking things … Are they coming back? Maybe, they are very quiet. Circling me without me knowing it. I should make a run for it, but I'd never get up those wrought-iron gates without a pack of rats and squirrels clinging to me. Nipping at my heels. A plague on rats! They will probably give me the Plague and I'll wind up being found dead by one of the cemetery keepers tomorrow morning. Headline news. Dead boy bitten to death. Face unrecognisable … Mister Joseph Bonomi the Younger became the curator of the Sir John Soane's Museum. It's amazing how all the years and years of rain haven't washed away the grave markings … I can hear that screeching patter coming back down the promenade pathway … If they can't smell me then I can sure sense and smell them … I'm stupid! Crikey, they know exactly where I am. They are toying with me. Letting me think I'm safely hiding when all the while they rush around in a scuttling pack, preparing to attack and kill me. Leading me on and letting me think I am safe and can outwit them when all the time they have me on toast. Rat toast … This is very sad. This could well be my gravestone. One Easter the four children of Mister Joseph Bonomi the Younger all died a tragic death. Crikey … Must stop … If they all died at once what could have happened? … Fire? Drowning? … No, not drowning. The Father would have dived in and saved at least one child. Maybe he couldn't swim. But a Mother or a Father might try all the same perhaps? I don't know … I'm worried it's all gone quiet out there. Like that moment before the Red Indians attack. Just the call of an unknown bird. I love that scene in 'The Searchers' when it all goes deathly quiet. The parents tell the oldest daughter and she screams with naked fear at the word Comanche … Crikey, no, no, jumping fleabags, these rats, squirrels and the other ghastly things are my Comanches, except I won't end up like the little girl with her doll in the graveyard and taken as a Comanche prisoner. I'll be dispatched with a thousand bites on me just as if I'd been skewered with arrows … Listen hard. That heaving, scuttling sound is close at hand. I'm a goner. I'm surrounded by a savage band of Comanches. What can I do? I'll die a sudden death like those four, poor children of Mister Joseph Bonomi the Younger … Maybe it was a train crash? The engine plunged off the tracks, carriages spilling down an embankment and the children and other passengers all died … The Plague! Jumping fleabags, that's better! I'm so stupid tonight. It would have had to have been a disease. Probably Rat Plague or some such contagion. Miss Parker will give me a gold star for using the word contagion. Say it again quickly before my time's up. A contagious disease carried by those other ugly creatures I don't rightly know the name of … It's all gone quiet over there. I can hear the soft whistle of a night bird in the trees. The silvery full moon is everywhere and the Comanches are getting ready to launch their attack. Hell …

Crikey, I can see them now, they are everywhere. All around me. Like one slowly moving giant grey and brown mass creeping up on me. Gee whiz, it makes my very skin crawl … Grab a weapon. Pick up a heavy stone. Take a few of them out with me like that General Gordon fella at Khartoum … No, I can't quite rightly remember … They're here nibbling at my feet. Arrh! …

“Come on, little man. Time for you to move!”

“What?”

“Follow me quick whilst I disperse this unholy tide of vermin scenting your blood, Young One!”

This weird-looking ghostly figure stands tall beside me, extending his white-sleeved arms outstretched and the crawling grey and brown creeping mass surrounding us suddenly stops moving. A screeching and a scratching and what must pass for coded signals and communication takes place amid this writhing pack on the prowl and instantly, as if by magic, in the full moonlight, they disperse. Scuttle away in all directions and, within seconds, nothing can be seen or heard. All that remains is the one solitary squirrel that keeps returning to its dead, battling partner and trying to nudge it awake … I'm impressed, in awe and slightly afraid all at once. What can help you can sometimes turn out to be the bigger enemy.

“How did you manage to do that? Are you a magician?”

“Ha-ha, Young One. If only, if only. If I possessed some of the truly great power that you so innocently refer to then yes, I could rival Hermes Trismegistus!”

“I've never heard his name before.”

“Sssh, Young One, you have to be extremely careful what you say. What names you invoke. Hermes Trismegistus was the great mystic and magician. He worked his divine powers in the Lands of the Pharaohs. I, Young One, used one of his magic chants last used on Egyptian rats, back in the Valley of the Sacred Pyramids. It seems like only yesterday. Yet, as always, conceit is my Achilles heel … An early lesson for you, Young One. Human beings are not nearly careful enough with the words that they choose to use. Sounds and their intrinsic meanings are very powerful things. A certain sound has its own tone and resonance and can conjure up strange gods and demons that can be for good and also for evil, just by being called forth at certain times and auspicious moments.”

“But I thought you had to possess power to practice magic. Most people don't have that kind of power.”

“True, true, but then the history of the human race is one of accident rather than design. Odd moments in history that have brought us right to this very point in time, Young One.”

“I have a teddy bear called Odd … Are you going to spend the whole time calling me Young One, it will drive me crazy! … What do I call you?”

“I am Eldritch, Young One … I seem this bright, full, moonlit night to have been summoned forth to be your Guardian! Would you prefer it if I called you Angel? How about Young Angel? Or maybe Little Boy, would that please you better!”

“I didn't mean to upset you. Really I didn't. I hadn't realised you were so precious and touchy. I'm happy even being noticed, let alone called by name … I'm sorry if I offended you. Thank you for saving me from being bitten clean to death. Young One is fine. Anything will do.”

“You see, you are so very young to me. Merely the click of my bony fingers could cover your lifespan. A star bursts in the night sky and bang that was you. Did you see it? Open your eyes. Become aware. Don't just stand trembling, you there. I am brought here to help you. Have I not already given you ample proof of that! … All unresolved and uncompleted forces of energy are touchy as you so quaintly put it, Young One. The constant need for completion sows deadly seeds of self-doubt. Oh, to be the glorious butterfly. The perfect Imago and live those final few short days in complete realisation where all hopes and fears have been resolved. But for now, we have to develop a relationship. You do not know it yet, Young Angel. I shall switch your name accordingly so as not to irritate you unnecessarily. Modern humans seem to get irritated far quicker than their predecessors in the Lands of the Pharaohs.”

“Maybe we are just more sensitive and intelligent.”

“Oh, if only that were true, Young One. If only … ”

“But we are much cleverer, aren't we. We have invented and developed the Atom Bomb. We've just recently put a Sputnik in space. We have produced cars and planes and boats and trains. We have guns and tanks and peni … penicil … ”

“Penicillin. Yes, you are so very clever. But you have forgotten the older ways that led you here. The design of prayer and belief … Enough of this. We will have other opportunities to talk and discuss. Now, you follow me and I shall show you something of this cemetery to help that burgeoning awareness of yours.”

As I follow on this trailing figure in a flimsy, billowing, white-type cloak, I realise that I can't really mark his face or his body. It's as if a presence inhabits a space before me yet I have no clear or defined picture of what is there. Very scary and also very exciting all at the self-same time.

“Where are you leading me? … What does the name Eldritch mean? … Who exactly are you?”

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Questions! Questions! Questions! Will the answers mean anything? If you have to ask the question, Young One, then the answer is already inside you. True knowledge is perceiving for oneself. But what do I know. I'm stuck … Stuck with my Being taken from the Lands where the Pharaohs died … We head, Young Angel, down what used to be the avenue of lime trees and pines long since dead and stunted by the many graves. Clinging on now as a relic of a bygone age. We head on to the Anglican Chapel. You see that splendid, domed building rising up before you in the full moonlight. It is an octagonal-shaped building which should impress your Maths teacher if you say that. See how it glints so pure, bathed in wondrous light. That is honey-coloured bath-stone, for your information, Young One. Much of this death-laden land has been desecrated by successive generations … I find this particular spot by the Chapel a power position where I can glean what is to be done. Help organise you into a positive and active young human Being and seek solace from the concept of an omnipotent energy line.”

We seem to walk and walk forever towards the oct … not easy to say. Oct … ag … onal building looming up at us in the full moonlight. The shadowy white-cloaked figure of Eldritch calls me onward down one side of the Chapel, down along past some tall stone columns … I must be mad to follow this ghostly-looking white-clad figure. He has bewitched me. I should burst free and make a run for it. But heh, he saved me from being bitten to death therefore I am beholden to him. He is so very powerful or so it seems. He can probably read my mind and my thoughts, yet he looks like some ancient white scarecrow that has been left out in all weathers far too long … If I run hard I will never make it to the wrought-iron gates with their gold tips. This Eldritch character will declaim with some dreadful curse and I will be turned into stone or worse, end up as a rat or a squirrel or one of those other ghastly creatures … He is deliberately leaving me free to try and escape, then maybe whatever he did back there by Mister Joseph Bonomi the Younger's graveside will become undone and all the creeping, horrible grey and brown mass will reappear and hunt me down and bite and bite me 'til I twitch to death like that poor, brave squirrel … I suddenly feel hungry, tired and cold. My legs hurt. I seem to have walked such a long way tonight, following this Eldritch forever … Mum always says that I am susceptible to sweet-talking folk. Anybody could capture my attention and bear me off. But he did save me. But wait … It pays to be suspicious. Maybe this Eldritch character is in total control and the rats and squirrels and the other ugly-looking things are under his very power. This was all carefully pre-arranged. I have been lured here into a trap. For what? Some deadly deed that will change my life and ruin me forever. I should have listened to my Mum. But then, that is never really safe and not nearly so exciting. Fear and excitement make you come truly alive … He is stopping again and signalling to me. Better do what he says. These old power types can get easily upset. Humour him, run and hide, then make a dash for it …

“Here we are at last. The energy spot. This will do very nicely, Young Angel. Now, sit yourself down and get your complete breath back. Do not be afraid. I repeat, do not be afraid. Remember, I have been appointed your official spiritual Guardian … Peculiar, being by this Chapel, dear boy, isn't it … There, I have consciously used another term of address for you and you are a dear boy. Peculiar, is it not, to think that every creature is born for death, dear boy … ”

“What do you want with me, Eldritch?”

“Stop fretting so, Young One, and come and sit down next to me … That's it. Good! You are shivering with the cold … You have to keep remembering that I am on your side. Don't attack the very people who look out for you. The energy they radiate towards you will turn negative and rebound on you … Everything is about energy, dear boy … I do so like calling you that … Frequencies and signals borne on the tide of constant, flowing energy. The Universe is energy unchained … Is not this Chapel beautiful in the sumptuous moonlight? Of course, as with many of the buildings and land plots in this cemetery, it has been de-consecrated at some distant date to allow for nonconformist use. As if it really matters, Young Angel. Why should humans care so much about their individual creeds when all beliefs are one. They seem to me to use their differing religions like tribal gang warfare, ever ready to go into battle because of some perceived slight … ”

“'Ere you! Push off! What you doing in my fuckin' spot! This is my bloody space, see!”

Crikey, that made me jump. A bearded man with long straggly hair and shabby clothes has suddenly appeared along the column arcade. Angrily waving and gesturing at us.

“Now, now, Jonah, calm down, we mean you no harm. Do not startle the boy, remember, you were once like him.”

“This is my fuckin' spot, see!”

“Of course it is, Jonah, of course it is. We are just resting here awhile. We will be on our way soon.”

“You two get away from me. Clear off! You're not real. You're unearthly ghosts of the night. Now leave me in peace. I ain't scared, see! You can't touch me. Now fuck off!”

“Come, Young Angel, let us start walking towards the Western Bell-Tower. Do not be afraid, he is harmless.”

“That's it, you effin' go!”

Eldritch seems to take my left hand, but I can't feel anything, so I quickly withdraw it and put it in my trouser pocket. Pretend I'm doing it because my hand is cold. Don't want to offend him.

“Just who was that terrible old man, Eldritch? Why was he screaming and swearing at us so?”

“He meant us no real harm, Young One. He is Jonah the Hermit Tramp. This is where he sleeps. He has no home, no family, so this is as good a place as he can find. We scared him and, like all humans, he is extremely territorial. This is his land, his Cemetery, his special spot in the graveyard if you like, and he doesn't want us messing around and upsetting him.”

“But isn't there enough room for us all, Eldritch … I mean, I'm exhausted just walking in here. This Brompton Cemetery is massive. Look, thousands and thousands of gravestones and monuments.”

“And many, many more that you can't see, Young One. There are also many pauper graves in here without any markers or headstones to signpost a departed.”

“But that's so sad, to die and be buried and nobody even knows your name. It must be like you never existed or something. I hope that never happens to me!”

“Does it really matter if you are dead, Young Angel. It is only flesh and blood sustained by breathing. You desire a gravestone to signify the site of your rotting corpse. Look, see, here marks the spot where the rats and squirrels are gnawing your dead, putrid flesh. Nibbling off flakes of skin and licking on the decaying bones.”

“Don't! You are scaring me!”

“Good! Tonight's first lesson is that under this glorious full moon you have to learn to conquer your fears. You nearly jumped out of your young fresh skin when Jonah the Hermit Tramp rose up to defend his keep. When you show such obvious fear it encourages the aggressor to be more demonstrative and martial. Remember, human beings are only animals who have invented the Atomic Bomb as you so delicately put it … ”

“'Ere, I told you two to fuck off! Now get! I know you're gibbering ghosts, you're all as mad as a bag of hammers, now get, before I turn nasty, see!”

“Alright, Jonah, alright. We shall be moving right along.”

“An' my name ain't Jonah, see, now scram!”

“Why did he follow us, Eldritch? We're not ghosts and we are certainly not mad.”

“The territorial possession. I told you before. When a human has no impedimenta of their own, they contrive to seek a secret spot in the knowledge of belonging to a space or a place. I know it sounds strange that a Tramp Hermit such as Jonah should be so possessive. You would think that Tramps, by their very nature, would have no need for possessions or property. But the reverse is true. The ultimate aim to some of life. Helps keep the deadly spectacle of death at bay for a while, I suppose.”

“Hang on, Eldritch … What are impedi … impedimenta, when they are at home, as my Nan says? And why does he deny his name is Jonah? Isn't he afraid to sleep here by night in a cemetery? … And why does he then continue to think we are ghosts? … And, if we are ghosts, why don't we scare him? I thought people were supposed to be scared of ghosts!”

“So many, many questions, Young Angel. Think for yourself, I told you before … As regards impedimenta, not easy to say, I grant you. Baggage, luggage, one's personal possessions … Names are power sounds. If you do not know my name then you cannot conjure up harmful magic against me. You understand, Young One … Ghosts are nothing to be afraid of … Well, most ghosts.”

“What do you mean, most ghosts?”

“Well, you have to be careful sometimes. Demons and Demonesses can sometimes masquerade as ghosts and cause untold injury and evil. The malevolent dark influences who so viperously penetrated the hands of the Pharaohs and initiated their ultimate destruction. But that story is for another time … Why should our friendless Hermit Tramp be afraid of a mere cemetery. This is his land. This is all he has … Now, has that satisfied your human inquisitiveness for one night! … Now, no more questions, if you please. I find it quite tiring to have to continually explain the so very obvious, even if to a bright Young Angel like you … Yes, yes, even I can get tired sometimes. No rest for Eldritch, not even in this burial place that offers the eternal long sleep.”

“Thank you, Eldritch, I didn't … I mean, I hadn't meant to tire you out. I just … ”

“That is better, dear boy. That is the first time tonight you have shown me any real respect. Now, you can't demand respect, I understand that. But as a Being from the Lands of the Pharaohs, I may be worth a certain regard.”

“You're getting very touchy again, Eldritch … No, I didn't mean you're like Jonah the Hermit Tramp or whatever he's called. It must be this full moon secretly driving everybody crazy. It is so very beautiful you would think it would make people happy just to see it.”

“Arrh, a touch of wisdom at last from the Young One. I wondered when it was coming.”

Sorry to say I'm thinking again that I might just make a run for it to the gold-tipped Cemetery gates before any other bodies or animals appear to terrify me …

“You are so very funny, Young Angel. As naïve as the day that you were born. Which, of course, is why I am here to offer protection.”

“You can read my mind, Eldritch?”

“It is not that difficult in your case, Young One. Now, in the case of some of the Pharaohs, well, Antef the Feudal Lord of the Valley of Thebes, the be-getter of the Eleventh Dynasty, was inscrutable, as was the Great Imhotep, Chief Architect to the King … ”

“I've had enough of Pharaohs and Kings of Egypt for one night … Why am I so funny then?”

“Well, Young Angel, I must confess that I too am falling under your innocent, child-like spell. You keep pretending to yourself that you can run and reach and climb those cemetery gates to break free and get away from me and leave Brompton Cemetery altogether. When all you have to do in reality is realise that you are awake in a dream and tell yourself to awaken and you will be free … Until next time, Young Angel, until next time.”

The playground is covered in puddles of rain and the other children keep standing on the edge of them, searching for their reflection then stamping hard with a foot to see if they can splash another child whose attention they have caught … I've already been splashed twice. Once by Janice May who smiled in my direction for the first time this term then proceeded to shriek with laughter when she splashed me right up to my knees. The price of love, I guess. I'm spellbound by her. I can't help it. She never leaves my waking mind. If only … Danny O'Shea took great delight in kicking puddle water at me. If only he could kick a football half as well we might win some football matches for once. I'm now wet and cold.

“Heh, Bobby Clayton, come over here.”

“What for?”

“We want to show you something.”

Tricksy couple, Brian Holt and Stuart Spear. Inseparable like Siamese twins. The largest and some say cleverest boys in the school. Holy Cross Primary, more like Holy Cross War Crusades. Even our Patron Saint Catherine was done to death on a wheel of spikes in Alexandria … Do you have to have been martyred to become a saint?

“What is it you desperately want to show me then?”

“We have developed a new type of wrestling hold. Let Stuart show you.”

“Well, I don't know … ”

“You scared, Bobby Clayton? A scaredy-cat! We won't hurt you. Just want to see if it really works, that's all. Go on, it won't take a second, Bobby.”

“Well, if you promise not to really hurt me.”

“We promise, don't we, Stuart.”

“Sure, sure.”

“What exactly do you want me to do then?”

“Good. Get down on one knee, Bobby … That's it. Now let Stuart take your right arm up your back slowly … Good! Good! … Don't pull a face, it won't hurt. Now push up, Stuart. Push! Go on. We are calling it the Holt Arm.”

“Ouch! That is hurting. Stop it!”

“One more push, Stu, go on, all the way. The Holt Law of Wrestling Holds begins right here.”

“Arrh! Arrh!”

“You're such a cry baby, Clayton. That's what you are. A sissy and a cry baby. Let him go, Stu, go on, you can release him now … You alright, Bobby?”

“I can't move my arm properly, it's hurting. You've gone and broken my arm, you bastards!”

“Don't be such a little Drama Queen. You're always pretending you're hurt. Play-acting like that in last week's match because you said their centre-forward kicked you hard on the kneecap deliberately and you complained to the ref. Fat lot of chance we had after that, with you whinging on. Now a sore arm and you're at it again. Come on, Stu, let's go in before our useless right-half floods this playground with his tears. That Janice May ain't gonna be impressed with you, Clayton. She'll want a real man, not a softy poofter like you!”

Stuart Spear points his right hand at me, making the shape of a gun and stupidly shouts “Bang-bang, you're dead, Clayton!” Very childish. Laughing like a hyena as they take off.

Crikey, my arm hurts, I can't move it. I only said it was broken, but now I feel that it might be …

“What is it, Bobby? What is the problem now!”

“I can't move my right arm, Miss, I think it may be permanently damaged!”

“Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Bobby Clayton. You're not auditioning for the school play now, you know. And anyway, all the girls' parts are taken. Ha-ha … Go and sit down again.”

“Yes, Miss.”

I like Miss Parker, but she can be a right bitch sometimes as my Nan would say.

“Why aren't you writing, Bobby Clayton? I told you, we have all the actors we need, thank you. Now write!”

“I can't move my fingers, Miss. I can't feel my hand.”

“Right, I think we have all had just about enough of this, Class, haven't we?”

A great chorus of 'Yes's' rents the classroom air. Tears are starting to well up in my eyes. Brian Holt and Janice May seem to be shouting the loudest … I hate this Stuart Spear, if I had one I'd drive it straight through his rotten heart.

“You are now going to work, Bobby Clayton! … No? … Well, you can take that hangdog expression and go and stand outside Miss St Helene's office. Go on! I will not have disruptions in my class.”

“What shall I say, Miss?”

“Well, I will leave that for you to work out, Bobby Clayton … He seems good at acting and making up stuff readily enough, doesn't he, Class?”

Another great, exuberant chorus of 'Yes's'. Janice May might as well wave her knickers in the air for all she cares …

“And what exactly are you doing outside my door, Clayton? Have you been sent here on report again?”

“I think I've broken my arm, Miss St Helene.”

“Don't be ridiculous! You look perfectly sound of body and limb to me! Stop pretending to hold your arm as if it is some damaged bird. We all have to suffer bumps and bruises every day. Now, if you had shown more fight and gumption in last week's football match, we might have won!”

“I can't bloody well feel my arm! It's broken, I tell you!”

“How dare you swear at me! How dare you!”

Miss St Helene, the Headmistress, takes me firmly by the right ear and leads me down the school corridor, all the while muttering under her breath about rude, inconsequential little boys who have no manners. Meaning me, I guess.

“Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do, Bobby Clayton … Have you any money on you?”

“Thruppence, Miss.”

“Well, that should be enough. I want you to walk on through Parsons Green to the Fulham Road and get on a number fourteen bus to St Stephen's Hospital. Now, you can manage to do that, can't you? Your injured arm will not stop you from walking, will it? … No? … Good … When you reach St Stephen's, should you manage it, go and wait in the Accident and Emergency department and have that arm looked at. Now, when you have discovered that it is only bruised for your troubles, you can jolly well walk the mile and a half or so back to school. I am personally going to give you detention after school this afternoon for wasting my precious time!” …

“What about my lunch, Miss? I've already paid my dinner money.”

“Well, you will just have to go without, won't you? Teach you not to cry wolf in the future. We will see later just how damaged that right hand of yours is when I give it three good, sharp smacks to teach you a lesson, Bobby Clayton!”

“That's not fair!”

“Life is not fair, Clayton. Nobody ever said it was going to be … We shall donate your dinner money to a good cause. St Catherine's Home for Orphaned Children so that next time you will be more cautious before you try and get out of class by feigning an injury … Now, go on with you and tell the Doctor and Nurse that attend to you that I want some kind of written note to prove that you have been there and that you have no real lasting damage to that right arm of yours. Is that clear, Bobby Clayton?” …

I do so hate sitting in hospitals. I remember when I used to go and visit Pop, my Mum's Dad. All the other visitors coming into the ward laden down with grapes and oranges. The Ward Sister and Nurses insisting on taking all the assembled flowers away. So tempting to eat the sweets and chocolates that you've brought. Encouraging the patient to open a box. They can't really say no, can they, before the hungry eyes of family and friends. Everybody trying hard to look cheerful and tell useless jokes. “Have you heard the one about the she-goat and the sexy octopus, Pop? … ” He smiles weakly and waits to be told the terrible joke for the umpteenth time. Then all the false family news. All about my young cousin, Dora, and my mother saying for the umpteenth time again that she's a right little monkey, that one. Pop seemed more exhausted by all his visitors than the illness. Avoiding giving me any eye contact. Then I'm sent forth to wait outside while some privileged information is shared by the remaining adults left with Pop. As if we are far too young to bear bad news. Keeping us separate makes the adults feel more powerful. Then, when we finally leave, having kicked my heels for ten minutes against the ward door, my mother puts her left forefinger to her lips to demand my silence whilst taking my right hand and gripping it like she's holding onto a pair of pliers, and we march out with all the other visitors who seem gloomy now, with lips stained purple and brown from grapes and chocolate … My right arm doesn't just hurt sitting, waiting here. It's killing me! …

“Right, Robert Clayton, is it?”

“Bobby, sir. Folks call me Bobby.”

“Alright then, Bobby it is … Well, I have some good news and some bad news, Bobby, which would you like to hear first?”

“The bad news, sir.”

“Well, I see … Pessimistic by nature, are we … Firstly, you do not have to refer to me as sir, Bobby. I am a doctor and, as far as I am aware, I have not been knighted yet! Who knows, maybe sometime in the future if I can fix your arm then Her Majesty the Queen may bless me with her shining sword, but until then, I am Doctor Bennett or, if you would like to be a little more friendly towards me, Bobby, you can call me George.”

“Yes, sir … sorry … yes, George … I don't feel quite right calling a Doctor like you George. It feels like I'm taking liberties.”

“Ha-ha … Well, young Bobby, firstly the bad news as you requested and Nurse Rachel here can hold your good hand for comfort. Yes, you have sustained a broken arm. Now, it is not a fracture, but a clean break. If I hold up these x-rays, you can see it clearly. Yes? … How did it happen exactly, Bobby? I have to make a note of all accidents.”

“We were practising a new type of wrestling hold, sir … I mean, George … Still seems funny me calling you George, sir … Anyway, that's when it happened.”

“That wasn't very clever, Bobby, was it! How many other boys were there, Bobby?”

“I dunno … maybe three or four, sir … George … It still won't come out right … ”

“Umm, I see … Okay … Well, Bobby, we are going to reset that arm of yours, nothing to look worried about, routine little operation in the case of young bones like yours. We will then encase it in plaster … ”

“Plaster, George?”

“That's better. Plaster of Paris, Bobby. Your healthy, young bones should take about eight to ten weeks to heal properly … If you grip Nurse Rachel's hand any tighter, Bobby, she will faint clean away … As I say … ”

“Will it ever be the same again, George? Will I be … crippled … ”

“No, no, Bobby, in fact, quite the reverse, unless you go playing at fresh wrestling holds with your aggressive, young friends with the plaster cast on, it should heal up just fine. In fact, the good news is that in many cases the bones strengthen and the arm becomes stronger. You are young, Bobby, and, as I showed you, it is a very clean break … Now, I have a few serious questions for you. Firstly, would you like Nurse Rachel here to fetch you something to drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“And what would you like, Bobby?”

“Do you have any Tizer?”

“Well, I do not think that St Stephen's Hospital runs to Tizer just yet. Tea, lemonade, are you allowed to drink coffee, Bobby?”

“Rarely. I'll have tea please, if I may.”

“Good. Well, in a moment, our hard-pressed Nurse Rachel will get you a cup of tea … Now, I would like to know how come you came here on your own? Why didn't the school send somebody along to accompany you? You said you came by bus. You could have further damaged that arm of yours. Unwittingly knocked it as the bus suddenly lurched as you were preparing to get off … ”

“I have been asked to produce a letter or a note from you to my Headmistress, Miss St Helene, to prove that I have been here … You see they, she, doesn't believe that I've broken my arm. She thinks that I've been play-acting, sir … I mean, George … ”

“Well, I can certainly provide you with a note if that is what you want, although just what a Headmistress would know about medical matters is beyond me. Was she a nurse or some such during the war, do you know, Bobby?”

“I think she just carried on teaching as usual, Doctor … George … ”

“Do you take sugar, Bobby?”

“Two please, Nurse.”

“Well, in my experience, teachers are not medical experts. I guess you have no school nurse or medical staff. Your parents should have been informed and someone should have come with you!”

“Please don't say anything, George! Please, I beg you!”

“Why on earth not, Bobby. You deserve to be treated accordingly like everybody else.”

“I'm in the doghouse at school, sir … ”

“Ha-ha, the doghouse, is it … What have you done exactly?”

“Well, I didn't play very well for the school football team last week, George. We lost six-one and I was to blame for at least two of the goals.”

“Now, now, Bobby, we all have our off days. Sporting prowess is a transitory business … ”

“What?”

“You cannot always be at your best, Bobby. Football is a team game, is it not. Eleven versus eleven. You cannot be held responsible … ”

“But you can't afford to make mistakes, can you, George. If you don't treat my arm right and I'm crippled for life, well, that would be even worse than conceding an own goal, wouldn't it!”

“I cannot argue with that, Bobby, your logic is faultless … We doctors make mistakes every day that we practise. Work, life, sport, the games and tasks we strive at are our learning procedures … Sorry, I caught myself lecturing there, Bobby, getting ready for my new weekly training sessions, I guess … Now, drink that steaming cup of hot tea Nurse Rachel has so kindly brought you … I am going to give you two envelopes, Bobby, and an appointment card, alright … Good … One letter is for your school Headmistress. You see I have marked it … Right! The other one is to give to your parents. Now, I have made an appointment for you to come back to see us in one month's time unless, of course, something untoward should occur in the meantime. I have written the time and the date quite clearly for you. When you go to leave I would like you to show it at Reception … Good … I suggest very strongly that you do not return to school until the plaster cast is removed, probably in eight to ten weeks time. You are right-handed, Bobby, aren't you? … Yes, I thought so … ”

“How did you know that, George?”

“From the way you keep spilling that hot cup of tea over Nurse Rachel's foot though she keeps pretending that it doesn't hurt so as not to offend you in case you have some delayed shock from the wrestling accident, as you politely put it. Our nurses are that well trained, Bobby, or Nurse Rachel here has taken a special liking to you … No need for you to blush, Bobby. Even nurses have their special favourites, you know. Right, I think that is about it. I must move on, other patients to see … By the way, Bobby, do you have a favourite footballer and, if so, who?”

“Jimmy Greaves, sir.”

“Arrh, that new, young Chelsea star … But I see from your address that you live in Fulham, Bobby. Surely you should support them?”

“Chelsea Football Club is in Fulham, George, by a couple of feet.”

“Well, I never knew that, Bobby. You see, even doctors learn something new every day … But now we should telephone your family and get someone to come along and collect you.”

“We don't have a telephone, sir … Sorry, George … I'm quite alright really. I can easily make my own way home, thank you.”

Walking slowly, carefully along the Fulham Road, making my way back home. It's so lovely not to be in school. Crikey, this arm still hurts … What was it last night? … Jumping fleabags. That's it! Jumping fleabags, no school! I'll take this small amount of pain so as not to have to go to school for ten or so weeks. Can't write so no point turning up then. That's what the Doctor, George, said … Maybe I could learn to write left-handed and not tell anyone … Keep having to avoid the herds of people rushing past. They all seem so preoccupied then, at the last moment, see me. You can witness them taking in my white plaster cast and this bad arm, then making a wide circle around me, and giving a sorrowful look as if the bottom has just fallen out of my life … Heh, there are the iron gates to Brompton Cemetery. They're not as attractive or as big as the ones on the Brompton Road side. No gold-tipped paint … That Eldritch is a character. My Guardian Protector, he said. When he finally told me I was dreaming, he made me dance right out from my sleep. Strange that I could never really see him clearly. We never found the catacombs. They say there are vaults and catacombs and hidden underground tunnels right under the cemetery. Errgh! I suspect they are infested with rats and squirrels. Eldritch called them all vermin … I like that word … Vermin … Heh, look out! Gee, that lorry nearly mounted the pavement and ran right into me in this afternoon sunshine. Roads are for traffic, pavements are for pedestrians. Pedestrians … Miss Parker was so unkind to me this morning. I know she secretly likes me … That ghostly figure of Eldritch never told me the name of those other hideous creatures. Maybe he doesn't know? … That's wrong, he knows everything. I hope I can get back to see him again. Trouble is that when I try to sleep into a certain dream it never happens. It's puzzling, that. As if, when you try, it never happens, only by chance … Why do some people think it's hilarious that I have a teddy bear named Odd? And why do I have to give him up? Mum said last week she was going to throw him away. Get rid of him. Cluttering up my bedroom. I am too old to keep a teddy bear. Mad! Why discard your best friend because people think it's childish … The Black Bull pub. I bet some of the Chelsea players are in there drinking and playing snooker or billiards about now. My Uncle Charlie says they live in the Black Bull. Do all their training at the bar which is why they never win anything. He knows things does my Uncle Charlie. When some smarty-pants asked him who 'they' were, he gave them the hard, glinting eye and said that 'they' were all of us. I like that. We are all 'They', we make up everything … Past Sloane Grammar School on my left and soon at the main entrance on my right to Stamford Bridge. It's so funny to see it deserted. No horses and their mess littering the ground. No queues running into the Fulham Road to get in at the turnstiles. No smell of hot-dogs with onions … “Do you want some mustard, young 'un?” … The Rising Sun pub across the way. I love that name. The Black Bull charges down the Fulham Road straight into the Rising Sun. The players don't go in there because it is too obvious said my Uncle Charlie and besides, they don't have a billiards room up above … Crikey, there's a fire! There's a fire on Moore Park Road in one of the houses. I can just about hear the sound of the fire engine bells on their way. Must go and have a dekko. Poor people! I do so love looking at fires. So exciting, so frightening … If I just stand on the edge of folks like this nobody will bump into me and bang my plaster-cast arm or notice me … Jumping fleabags, some old lady is being carried out wrapped in a blanket. She's moaning and crying … Two men are trying to get other people out … All the passers-by are stopping and watching like me … Why are fires so fascinating? … That mongrel dog is barking wildly … Arrh, good, they've got a child out. The flames are really starting to lick. Those fire engines can't get here quickly enough … Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire and your children are gone, all except one, and her name is Ann and she hid under the frying pan … Arrh, the fire engines are here. All red and gleaming like breathing monsters come to save the day … More people congregating. Firemen asking the eager watchers to stand back … Golly, the flames are shooting up above the chimney tops … Wow, the firemen are so brave. They've got to find a hydrant nearby so they can run their hoses and get water from the mains supply. By the time they do it anybody left in the flaming house will be burnt to a crisp. Dead as a dodo …

“Stand back, everybody! Stand back! Make way and let the firemen do their work!” … A policeman's turned up at last. Always too late on the scene, as my Mum says. What else is it she says? They always appear after the event. Like that man shouting at the football match the other Wednesday night. Having a right go at John Sillett. Always chasing, never catching. True though, John Sillett is useless. I do wish they'd give young Ken Shellito a chance … Arrh, they've started to get it under control now. The hosing water is damping the spurting flames down … People are hysterical! Someone is left inside … The whisper through the crowd is that it is a young child … I don't like that. That could just as well have been me with my broken arm unable to get out … The fire is dead now. Gone to sleep. It is like a fire is a real, living, breathing Being. Has a mind of its own. Then whoosh, the water comes along, douses it and says “That's enough for one day, you've done enough damage, thank you. Take that!” … Move on now. Nothing else really to see …

“Mind my foot, will you! You've just trodden on it!”

“Well, you should watch where you're bloody well going! Jus' 'cos you've got a broken arm in a sling, kid, don't give you no privileges, see!” … Cor, he was friendly. Some grisly Old Timer. Probably been drinking. Can't he tell the difference between a sling and a plaster-cast … Mind you, could I before today … Funny, isn't it. You don't know something. Then you find out and, all at once, you're an expert, like you've known it all of your life. Yet only yesterday you had no idea. Then you find yourself ridiculing … Miss Parker would give me a gold star for using the word ridicule, only I'm in her bad books and hopefully I won't be seeing her for at least ten weeks. I can't believe that. Ten whole weeks seems like a lifetime to me … Walk away quickly. I have no right to glory in a fire and a poor, young child dying. That could easily have been me when I was a young kid … The crowd whispered it started with a cigarette, then some murmured about a frying pan. Some man went on about it being deliberate and how the Irish aren't liked around here … Well, here is Dino's Restaurant on my right, tucking in next to Fulham Broadway Station and now the Hibernian Club. Curious they don't like the Irish around here. How come they have their own club and half the pubs seem to be Irish. Don't make no sense to me …

Just for a few minutes, that's all. I can get home quickly enough down Harwood Road in a minute or so. Time is my own, after all I do have a broken arm. My little treat. My compensation for those bullying idiots, Holt and bloody Spear … If I just slip to the right, past the Lewis Trust estate, I can quickly see what is showing at the Red Hall this week … I just love looking at film posters … “Passport to Shame” starring Eddie Constantine and Diana Dors. I've never heard of Eddie Constantine that I know of, but I love Diana Dors. She's no Marilyn Monroe, but I do like her. It must be an English film, I haven't heard anyone mention it. English films are never as good or as great as American films. It's like they are trying too hard and they're always in black and white. Shortage of money, I guess. I mean, I've never seen an English Western. You just can't imagine it, can you. A shoot-out in Woking. Indians attack Red Hill and scalp the local inhabitants. Wyatt Earp cleans up Tunbridge Wells and they make him Marshall of Kent. Not the same, is it … “Passport to Shame” … I'll give it a miss … And back now down Harwood Road. The sun has gone in. About this time they'll be coming out of school. I bet they are still moaning about me as they push and shove out through the school-gates. Miss Parker bitching about me again. What was it she called me the other week? A child out of time … Yes, that was it. A child out of time.....

“Well, you certainly picked a fine time to appear! … What the devil have you gone and done to that arm of yours, Robert Clayton?”

“It's broken, Mum. Though George, Doctor Bennett, said it's good news in that it's a clean break … Here, I have a letter for you and one for the school.”

“Arrh, well, more trouble … You're always getting into scrapes, Robert Clayton … Now, does it hurt? That's a very heavy-looking plaster-cast.”

“What's the letter say?”

“None of your business. If you were meant to read it the Doctor would not have sealed the envelope, would he … Well, I suppose I'm now going to have you under my feet as well as her upstairs. If you think I'm going to dance attendance on you, Robert Clayton, you've got another think coming!”

“Oh Mum!”

“Don't you 'Oh Mum' me. Your Father acts like this house is a hotel. Your sister, Maggie, is in trouble with her marriage. I've got her upstairs playing up all the time and now you with a broken arm and this Doctor Bennett is telling me about special precautions I have to take with you. As if I haven't enough to do already. No wonder that Missus Andrews went and put her head in the gas oven. Even I can understand that. Nothing but a blessed release from stress and pain … Now, I suppose I'd better make you a cup of tea and fix you something to eat. But if you think that I'm going to spoon-feed you, watch out. No eating with your fingers. You can jolly well learn to use a fork with your left hand, young man, and what exactly am I supposed to do with this letter for the school? I haven't got time to deliver it. You'll have to take it yourself tomorrow morning.”

“No.”

“What's that!”

“I don't have to go to school. In fact, George, Doctor Bennett, said … ”

“Very pally with this Doctor fella, aren't we.”

“He stated very clearly that I am not to go to school for at least ten weeks or until my arm heals properly. I might injure it badly again and make it worse. You wouldn't want a permanent cripple on your hands now, would you!”

That worked. She's raising her eyes to the skies as if helpless before the tide of events.

“Well, you can make yourself useful while you're at home. Go and sit with her upstairs. You can still do things with that good arm of yours and yes, you can take this letter to that Holy Cross School of yours tomorrow and give it to the Headmistress. Alright? Good. Now that's settled. Whatever next!”

I've finished my tea and retreated to my room. I don't like baked beans on toast, but what can I say. If I complain I only get a lecture about how half of the poor people of the world are starving and you wouldn't have made out very well during the war what with rationing and the like. I'm always hearing about the war. The Second World War to give it its proper title. People all talk about it. So much so it makes you think that they must have enjoyed it. I know that sounds crazy to say, but if folks keep going on about something, telling all those exciting stories with scary moments. What it was like then, well, it must have been some kind of fun … My Mum is always telling the same stories, they all do it. Half a moment and then out they slip. Like the one when she was working in Victoria. Went out for a bite of lunch with her friend, Di. German bombers attacking London during the day. The Blitz wasn't all at night, Robert, for the zillionth time. Just nod and smile. Much easier that way … Anyhow, these bomber planes are flying low over Victoria. I always want to ask about air defence systems. You would have thought they would have had machine guns posted along the rooftops, but not a bit of it. Keep shtoom … Along comes this attractive young Canadian guy and I never find out his name. Her left eyebrow shoots up in the telling. He grabs them both and they dive for safety and huddle together as the bombs fall all about them … This attractive Canadian, she never says what he is. I guess he must have been in uniform, it always makes them look good. He's got an arm around both waists and they are both giggling and scared and flushed and all of a dither with this man. They sound the all clear signal. A siren, I guess. She never says exactly what. And, what do you know, they fall about laughing when they suddenly discover that they have been sheltering beside some petrol pumps. “We could all have been blown to smithereens and you would never have seen the light of day, Robert Clayton.”..

Well, that's true, Ma. But then, of course, I wouldn't have to keep listening to these war stories. Having to pretend I'm hearing them for the first time. The implication … Miss Parker, I love you. Please be good to me next time. I shall avoid seeing her tomorrow. Unless … The implication … The Canadian guy must have liked Mum best. I smile and nod and show sufficient alarm in all the right places. Then she goes and does me up like a kipper one day. Stitches me up right in front of her long-time friend, Missus Shilling. As if Missus Shilling hadn't heard all of her war stories before. “What are you listening so intently for”, she says to me, fixing me with that look of hers. “You've heard this before. Go and run outside and play or whatever it is that you get up to!” Missus Shilling looks right at me like I'm related to the Beast of Belsen. But to be fair, Mum only does it when certain people come around. It's the pressure. She's just got so much to do. I can't excuse Miss Parker because she probably goes home and has everything done for her. But my Ma is constantly under enormous pressure and it gets to her. I understand that I'm the only person she's got that she can truly have a go at … It's all making me giggle. That Nurse Rachel must have slipped something into my tea … Everything is out of balance. The weight of the plaster-cast feels as heavy as all of my body put together. But heh, I can still get my shoes off, it just takes a while longer, that's all, and I've broken a shoelace. How am I going to tie my shoelaces in the morning? How am I going to button up my flies? I can't go delivering that note to Miss St Helene, with my flies all undone. Hell, I don't want to go into school at all. I can feel the whole of Holy Cross School laughing at me. All those Roman candles, singing and praying in Assembly. Making their peace with the Pope's God then laughing at me. Especially Janice May and Miss Parker … Why do your favourite people always take it out on you? … Right, I know what I really want to do. I've been longing to do this. The librarian with the horn-rimmed, black spectacles said I was the youngest person ever to order a book from Fulham Library. She then smiled and said something to the effect that I should really still be taking books out from the junior library. Having her little dig at me then smiling serenely. They give you a sweet with one hand and then a gentle cuff with the other, just to remind you not to take liberties, I guess … The book was in anyway. The junior library is for the birds. I was waiting and waiting for weeks and weeks or so it seemed for this book. Someone kept renewing it until the librarian with the black specs told them it had to be returned … Returned for me … I can prop up a pillow and read with my left hand turning the pages, no problem. 'Riders of the Purple Sage' by Zane Grey … Great! … But you would think they would have a better-looking book cover than this, wouldn't you … I'll read a bit in then go back to the beginning. I love starting a book a little way in at first. It's the same with films. I like to go in when they have already started. The beauty of a book is that you can go back and read what you missed. I like not knowing. Not being quite sure what has happened and having to work it out. Sort of testing myself really to see if I can sense what is going to happen …

“Are you alright in there, Robert? Do you need any help? … Would you like another cup of tea?”

“I'm fine, thanks, Mum.”

“Sorry if I was sharp with you, Boy.”

“I'm alright, Mum, really.”

Always at the wrong moment. Now I feel guilty because she thinks I've turned her away. But heh, 'Riders of the Purple Sage'. Great title.

“Jane, I only heard things, rumours, stories, most of which I disbelieved. At Glaze, his name was known, but none of the riders or ranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stone Bridge I never heard him mentioned. But at Sterling and villages north of there he was spoken of often. I've never been in a village which he has been known to visit. There were many conflicting stories about him and his doings … ”

“Robert?”

“What now, Mum?”

“Don't talk to me like that, you're not ill, you know, you've just got a broken arm. Your Gran is upset about it and wants to see you.”

“Presently, Mum … presently.”

“What shall I tell her then?”

“I'll go to her room in a while, Mum, when I've had a much-needed rest, okay!”

“Well, just make sure that you do!” …

“Some said he had shot up this and that Mormon village, and others denied it. I'm inclined to believe he has, and you know how Mormons hide the truth. But there was one feature about Lassiter upon which all agree – that he was what riders in this country call a gun-man. He's a man with marvellous quickness and accuracy in the use of a colt. And now that I've seen him, I know more. Lassiter was born without fear. I watched him with eyes which saw him my friend. I'll never forget the moment I recognised him from what had been told me of his crouch before the draw. It was then I yelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull's life. At any rate, I know this, between Tull and death then there was not the breadth of the littlest hair. If he or any of his men had moved a finger downward.”

“Robert!”

“Yes, Mum.” …

Gran's rooms are at the very top of the house and the steps are quite steep. I have to be extra careful so as not to bump this plaster-cast. Having to ignore the pull of the weight. At first I'm being really careful with it. Imagining that if I knock into anything I could damage my busted arm. But now, as I slowly wind up these stairs, getting smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter like a lighthouse, I realise that the reverse is true. This plaster-cast is, in reality, a weapon. It is weighing me down just thinking about it. Holt and Spear would duck and weave and run a mile if I started wielding this plaster-cast as a type of bludgeon … It's annoying how people like Holt and Spear can play on your mind … Careful, I nearly slipped down on that worn piece of carpet … Never leave you alone. The damage is in the action, I guess, but the after-effects keep lingering and agitating …

“Who's there?”

“It's only me, Gran.”

“Who's me when he's at home? The Devil's Disciple, I shouldn't wonder!”

“Gran!”

“Well, you are a fine one, aren't you, Bobby Clayton. Come here and let me have a look at you … Stand in the light … That's better. My, my, you've gone and hurt yourself good and proper this time, dear. I've warned you before … ”

“But I was attacked, Gran … ”

“Now, now, Bobby, none of your stories, if you please. Sit yourself down over there … There's a good lad … You're lucky to get such treatment. When I was a young girl a nurse would have put your arm in a makeshift sling and you would have had to make the best of it.”

“All bread and dripping and making do, Gran.”

“That's right, you go and make fun of an old lady! I suppose I'm going to have to give you something to make you feel better. Would you like one of my extra strong mints?”

I cannot say no. She always offers me one of her mints. They almost take my breath away. I think she tells herself that they help with her breathing and ease her continual coughing. It must be awful to have to cough all the time. Why, when I had a bad cold as a young child, I never stopped coughing for weeks. Drove my mother real mad. I used to lay in bed at night and try desperately not to cough. It would well up in my throat and you try so hard not to cough. Fighting and fighting, but in the end you cave in. It's like you can hear people's annoyance in your head going round and around. Fixing on the cough, that's what happens. People penetrate inside your head and never leave you alone. Like Holt and Spear. Heh, I've just realised that if it is true for the people who attack you then it's also true for the people you really like. Janice May and that Miss Parker just won't leave me alone. Will they ever fade from me? Right now it feels like I'm stuck with them all of my life. Even as I was thinking that, the idea of Miss Parker giving me a gold star for using the word penetrate was trying to pop into the front of my mind … Gran is very old and I just don't know how she manages the stairs. Whisper it quietly, I like Gran, but I really prefer my Nan. Gran is the secret power in this house because she owns it. My Mum and her are often at loggerheads. When Mum is really upset at her she shouts 'There goes that old bitch, dragging her life across my head again!' I like that. Not the nastiness, but the idea of someone, Gran, dragging her life across your head …

“Have you heard the dreadful news, Bobby?”

Always bad news. Old people always seem to pick up on life's disasters. They never start talking about new inventions. Fresh delights. The Russians' Sputnik going into space. All doom and gloom. Oh woe is me and the world too. I suppose that's just a symptom of getting old. Moaning …

“I've been preoccupied, Gran, what with the hospital and everything.”

“You're a right little lexicon, Bobby Clayton, and no mistake. What are you practising to be when you grow up, a journalist maybe?”

“I'd like to be a sports reporter.”

“Well, keep getting into scrapes and damaging yourself and you might not live long enough to achieve anything.”

“What news? You were going to tell me something.”

“Sorry, I forgot, Bobby. When you get old the mind starts wandering. One moment a complete blank then the next instant you can't move for the flood of memories.”

“Mum never said anything.”

“She was probably too upset at the sight of you looking like a boy veteran from the Crimean war.”

“They never used ten year olds, Gran!”

“That's as may be. Young Buglers pleaded to have a position, I gather.”

“You're not old enough to remember the Crimean War! That was ages and ages and ages ago. And you said there were no plaster-casts!”

“Well, it's good to hear you didn't damage that brain of yours when you broke your arm … Another extra strong mint, dear?”

“Alright.”

I could audition as a fire-breathing dragon in this year's school play at this rate …

“I met Missus Gumby in the post office at the top of Wandsworth Bridge Road this afternoon. She told me that the police were combing the Eel Brook Common … !”

“Go on.”

“Don't interrupt me, it's rude!”

“Sorry.”

“Apparently, at about two-thirty this afternoon, a postman was cutting across the common, he must have stopped for a jimmy riddle. They never mention details like that, do they! Anyways, it was really terrible. Horrible to contemplate!”

“What, Gran? Please don't keep me in suspense!”

“Didn't I say? He found the dead body of a young girl, woman, hidden in the bushes. God, he must have pissed on her!”

“Gran!”

“Well, the truth is hard to take, Bobby. Can you imagine the fright the poor postman must have got.”

“Who did it, Gran? Was she strangled? Were her clothes ripped? Who was she?”

“Hold your horses, firing questions at me like that. I'm not some speedy answering machine … Missus Gumby says, and she always knows everything, that the police are trying hard to discover the identity of the poor, young girl. Asking for information on the wireless, going to put up posters, I shouldn't be surprised. You do want to know a lot. You've got a ghoulish side to you, Bobby Clayton. Too many books. You're always reading. I've said it before, you've always got your head stuck inside a book.”

“Gran, please.”

“Missus Gumby said that the police think that it must have happened late last night. That moon was full, wasn't it. Shining right through my bedroom curtains like a white beacon. What my father used to call a junk-yard moon.”

“I like that, Gran. What does it mean?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe the moon is so strong it shines on every bit of scrap metal in the junk-yard and they all gleam back. How should I know. It was just one of his favourite sayings. Probably didn't mean anything. Just something he picked up and stuck to. Folk are like that, Bobby, they don't all go knuckling their foreheads like you and trying to think too much. They settle on a few pet phrases and trot them out at the appropriate moments. Most folk are far too busy in life to think, you see. You'll understand when you get older.”

I hate it when she says that to me. My Nan would never say that. She treats me like an equal … You'll understand when you're older! When I'm older it will have all passed me by and I won't understand anything …

“I hope they catch this bugger real quick. We don't want this killer on the loose, do we. There's a black sheep in every flock. As Missus Gumby said, he could have been stood in the post office right amongst us all and we wouldn't know. It could be Missus Gumby or me next!”

“How do you know it's a man, Gran? Might have been a woman escaped from Banstead or somewhere.”

“Don't be silly! When was the last time you ever heard of a woman strangling another woman to death out in the streets. I may be old, Bobby Clayton, but if I've learnt anything in this life it's that men are the murderers. You never hear tell of armies of women pillaging and looting and raping all the men and killing all the children now, do you! You know why, Bobby?”

“Why, Gran?”

“Don't get smart just cos' you've got that broken arm of yours … I'll tell you why! Because women are too busy making homes, raising families and keeping the communities together with their good deeds, that's why!”

“What about that woman, Ruth Ellis, that they hanged when I was a small child?”

“That was a crime of passion not a cold-blooded murder in broad daylight or under a full moon. This murderer needs to be found very quickly so we can all sleep soundly in our beds of a night. Missus Gumby says they should double the police patrols on the streets and make Eel Brook Common off limits to the public 'til he is found. Apprehend him fast, that's what the police should do, isn't it, Bobby … Here, let's have another extra strong mint, shall we … I'm getting quite worked up just thinking about it. Poor girl. But I tell you what, Bobby Clayton, this killer will have his day of reckoning. Because, in the end, every tongue shall have to confess to God.” …

“What are you doing back downstairs, Robert? I thought you'd gone to bed.”

“I forgot to feed Sunshine.”

“A likely story. Just look at him, why, he's probably the fattest budgerigar in the whole of Fulham … Who's a pretty boy then … I can never get him to talk. I tell Doris Shilling that he talks and she just looks at me like I'm plain stone-bonkers. Well, he never talks when I'm here, Joan, says she, and that's a fact. Well, he talks all the time to our Robert, I say … Leaves me looking foolish … Well, I tell you, she, Doris, says you make things up. That you're a fantasy child, that you live in your own little world, according to Doris … Why that bloated-looking Sunshine should just talk to you, I have no idea.”

“Maybe I've got green fingers.”

“Ha-bloody-ha. Very funny. Green fingers is for plants not animals as you well know.”

“Well, what is it for animals then?”

“There you go again, asking questions. Your guess is as good as mine. All I ever get from you is questions, questions. I suppose that now you're going to be under my feet for these next few weeks that's all I can expect from you. Well, for a start, no more questions. It's depressing you keep asking me things that I don't really know. Doris Shilling says you spend far too much time on your own. It's not natural. You should go out and play more.”

“What does she know anyway! I can't now, can I, what with this broken arm … It always make me laugh that they call her husband Bob.”

“Now, don't you go being sarky about the Shillings. Bob Shilling drinks with your father and is a good man. Are you listening to me, Robert!”

'A British soldier from the Royal Engineers has been killed whilst on patrol in Cyprus. The soldier died in a suburb of Nicosia during an attack by local resistance on Monday. His family have been informed … '

“Turn that wireless down, Robert. Go on. There's nothing wrong with your other arm … There goes that bloody Archbishop Makarios again killing one of our brave boys. It never stops, does it. You'd think … ”

“Archbishop Makarios didn't kill anyone, Mum.”

“You don't know what you're talking about, boy. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he will have ordered it, that's for sure. The sooner we pull out of Cyprus, the better, I say. And him supposed to be a man of God! It never ends, this killing. We always seem to be at war somewhere … Just who the hell is that a-hammering at the front door! Go and see to it, Robert … Oh, for Christ sake, put that Sunshine back in his cage otherwise he'll fly clean out the front door and you'll be upset again … Stop bloody hammering, I'm coming, alright! … Oh my God! What are you doing here? Put me down, you don't know where I've been … Come in … Look, Robert … Look what the wind's blown in.”

“Well, hello, brother.”

“Nick!”

“Good to see you. What have you gone and done? Been fighting demons in your sleep again?”

“You can see.”

“What brings you home, Nick? Sit yourself down and let me make you a cup of tea.”

“It's good to be back. I've got a few weeks leave while the ship's laid up in dry-dock.”

“Why didn't you let us know you were coming?”

“Just one of those things, Mum, you know how it is. Anyway, I'm here now. Where's the Old Man?”

“I'll give you one guess.”

“Like that, is it … Well, brother, is it alright with you if I share the bedroom? I promise not to break that other arm!”

“Sure, Nick, sure. It's really great to see you.”

“We got your card from New York. Look, it's on the mantelpiece. Doris Shilling said she's never had a postcard from America.”

“Fuck Doris Shilling!”

“Nick, don't. She doesn't mean anything … I see the Merchant Navy is doing you good, improving your industrial language!”

“Everyone swears, Mum. Anyway, that Doris Shilling has always got an opinion. Always did have … Here, let me go get my bag from the front door.”

“I told you to put that bird away and turn the wireless off, Robert. We don't want to hear any more bad news today, not now that Nick's back.”

“Surprise, surprise. Shut your eyes. Go on, no cheating. Now, open your hands. Go on.”

“Oh, Nick!”

“Now, open it. Keep your eyes shut. No peeking.”

“What is it? Feels like a bottle.”

“You can open them now, take a peep.”

“A bottle of perfume. Chanel Number Five. Well, I never. When will I ever get a chance to wear this. Oh, you are a good boy, Nick Clayton!”

“You can wear it when you go dancing next.”

“I haven't been out dancing for years.”

“Go on, open the bottle. Live dangerously. Splash some behind your ears. Play on that dial with your good left mitt, brother. Find Radio Luxembourg. Go on. C'mon, Mum, let's dance.”

“Shriek! Put me down!”

“Come on, don't be shy!”

Hello, Mary-Lou, goodbye heart, sweet Mary-Lou, I'm so in love with you

Nick and Mum are dancing around the kitchen to Ricky Nelson and 'Mary-Lou'. She's so happy, she's giddy with excitement. Like a young girl, all made up and smiling. Nick makes her so happy. He always did. He has always been her special favourite. But heh, I don't mind that because I really like him as well. When he's around the house becomes alive. It's like the difference between a British black and white film and an American movie. When Nick arrives he brings great splashes of colour in with him and we all seem to come alive at once. Mum suddenly looks ten years younger and she's laughing which she never does with me. I don't really mind. It's nice to see her happy. Must stop using the word nice. Miss Parker said it's a nice day outside with a nice blue sky. We are all nice children and if we are really nice she'll let us go home early. Fat chance of that. Miss Parker ain't that nice to me, but I get the point.

“God, stop, Nick, I'm exhausted. Stop! I've got a hot flush coming on.”

“Well, brother, it's your turn.”

“I can't dance with a broken arm, Nick.”

“Very droll … Here.”

“What is it?”

“Well, open it and see. Be careful, they might bend … Here, I'll help you.”

“Oh, thanks, Nick. Thanks! They're great!”

He's gone and bought me two records. I can't believe it! First of all it's my favourite, Eddie Cochran single 'Twenty Flight Rock' and Chuck Berry's 'Sweet Little Sixteen'. I'm in seventh heaven. No more Radio Luxembourg late at night with the radio under the bedclothes hoping the chatterbox DJ will play them. Once in a blue moon if I'm lucky. Well, not any more. I can play them whenever I want now …

“I thought that Chanel was a French company?”

“There he goes again with his bleeding questions. All the time, Nick. Drives me plumb loco!”

“Heh, brother, Chanel are worldwide. Probably even bigger in New York than Paris. You like that Marilyn Monroe, don't you. Well, her face is everywhere in New York promoting it.”

“That's all she ever wears.”

“Robert Clayton, be ever so careful otherwise you can go straight to bed!”

“Let's have a drink, Mum. I've got a bottle of old Kentucky bourbon here especially for us.”

“Oh, it's so good to see you, Nick!”.....

I feel myself slipping into a dream and I can't stop the momentum. There's supposed to be a long, long trail a-winding into the land of my dreams, but I get there instantly. I covet my dreams. I cannot resist them though they scare me and thrill me at the very same time in equal proportions … I seem to descend into other people's lives like an invisible watcher. I can observe, hear, see, smell, taste, only the sense of touch is something I'm not aware of … I find myself floating into a public house. This is very exciting to me. Adult land. Above this public house is a great, big, white lion looking towards the south and Putney. So I know from the lion the name of the pub and that I must be in Walham Green … I'm immediately transported into the saloon bar area … Now I seem very conscious of the state that I call dreaming. That breathless dreamland sequence where you just materialise through doors and houses and buildings. Appear at will as if bricks and mortar are materials you can just sail straight through at random … Hey presto and I'm on the edge of a conversation. Three women, young girls in their late teens or early twenties, are laughing and joking at a table situated some way down from the bar. They seem to be enjoying each other’s company yet at the same time their mascara-lined eyes are slyly casting around, noticing the young men situated around the bar … I’m drawn towards one in particular. I can almost reach out and touch her lovely face with its dark-brown hair all carefully combed in a wave that flicks when she talks excitedly to her two friends. Her eyes are almost black and they shine with merriment … Taking a sip from her drink. I just know it’s a gin and tonic. Puffing endlessly on a tipped cigarette between her spoken words. For some reason I’m entranced by the smear of red lipstick on the tip of her cigarette. It appears as if she is pulling on dried blood … I catch her name. Her friends keep calling her Charlotte. That name of hers makes me smile and think of apples. She has on a smart black jumper and a row of white beads on a necklace around her pretty neck. Her friends are teasing her as a man appears at their table. He’s youngish and asking them some useless questions. Bending his crew-cut head forward so as he’s on a level with the girls’ faces. I immediately feel on the defensive about him. Maybe I’m jealous. You can still feel sharp emotions in dreams, but they can fade quickly and dissolve. Also, you can observe your own feelings and get an understanding straight away of why you feel the way that you do … It’s so lovely being aware that you are dreaming … In waking time you just cannot watch yourself, you’ve already reacted before it is too late. The words and emotions contort and come spilling out before you have any time to think. Then it really is too late. You cannot claw back what is said. You sense and know despair at how you feel, the modes of operating and emotions that are set in motion. That flat feeling of regret when it has all gone too far … This boy man with the brush-like crew-cut hair has gained their confidence. Insinuated his way into their conversation and evening. He keeps going on about something called a Moriarty. I don’t know what that means and keep looking at the girls for guidance. Charlotte seems to be the one he is aiming at. She is the most attractive and lively of the three … I can only think of Sherlock Holmes. Then, a flash, as if Sherlock has come to my rescue. A party. Of course! A Moriarty is a party. He is inviting them all to a Moriarty in Golders Green later on that night. It is a long way to go. They are not sure. Undecided. Crew-cut is asking one of them to look through the White Lion pub window at his car. But you can’t see properly through the frosted pane of glass I yell. But all to no avail. They cannot hear or see me. I am invisible. That’s great. I’m so helpless when in disasters … This crew-cut fella is talking fast and pointing to his Triumph Herald. His friend, Alan, arrives. Now insisting Crew-cut can drive them all to Golders Green … But how will they get home? Is it safe to go to a party, sorry … Moriarty, with two complete strangers? Young men with intentions … The other two girls are giggling and nudging each other. Egging one another on to say yes and comply and go with Crew-cut in his cream and green Triumph Herald. But Charlotte won’t agree. In fact, she strongly says no. Crew-cut is not happy. She is the one he wants … Now Crew-cut is offering to buy them all a drink. The other two girls, I don’t gather their names, immediately say yes, but Charlotte puts her hand with her red-painted fingernails over her glass and firmly says no. She’s quite clearly the strongest of character of those three girls, besides being the prettiest … I can’t help thinking that her lovely hands, painted with crimson-red fingernails, look just like Miss Parker’s. My Gran says only tramps paint their fingernails red. But Miss Parker is definitely not a loose woman and anyway, all attractive young women under the age of forty are tramps to my Gran … What I love about being awake in my dreams is that secrets are plainly in sight. Motives and reasons are so easily read. In daytime waking, everything is a complete mystery. Movements and meanings are incomprehensible … In dreams, these words appear and I have no trouble pronouncing them to myself. What is really lovely is that my slight stutter on words that I’m not sure how to articulate disappears altogether … Charlotte’s two friends now seem to have withdrawn from her. They are laughing and joking with Crew-cut and his mate, Alan. Drinking their freshly purchased drinks while Charlotte seems isolated … Crew-cut will not let it go though. He keeps on trying to draw her back into the conversation, but Charlotte’s having none of it … It’s getting very late. A barmaid is shouting ‘Last orders please!’ … The time has just flown by in the wink of an eye. Passed in a flash … The two young girlfriends of Charlotte’s have stood up and Crew-cut and mate, Alan, have got their coats for them from the wooden coat-rack across from the fireplace and are helping them put them on. Touching their shoulders. There seems something unseemly in the way Crew-cut and mate, Alan, take every given opportunity to touch arms, brush against shoulders, bump hips. I am so pleased Charlotte has declined the invitation to go to a Moriarty in Golders Green … But heh, Crew-cut won’t let up. He keeps coming back for more. Pursuing Charlotte all the way to her final no as she blows her blue-tinged cigarette smoke in his direction which seems to settle the matter … It’s funny, in dreams cigarette smoke doesn’t make my eyes water and I don’t get that horrid stale smell. I like the smell of cigars, but cigarettes smell revolting … They have all suddenly vanished and left Charlotte to retrieve her own black coat and go home alone …

With dream-like magic, we pass out from the White Lion public house and are walking towards Parsons Green … Past some drunks stood loitering on a street corner. They yell and wolf-whistle after Charlotte, but she moves on quickly. Clip-clopping along in her black, high-heeled shoes. It must be so uncomfortable to try and walk in such shoes as those … Cutting left off the Fulham Road and down to Parsons Green, heading it seems for the Eel Brook Common … Easing under the railway bridge by Parsons Green tube station. That full moon is so bright it is casting shadows along by the train tracks. Charlotte walks very quickly in those resounding high-heels, it is as much as I can do to keep up with her. I am out of breath in a dream and am falling behind … She has reached the entrance to Eel Brook Common by the asphalt football pitches and the tennis courts. Some of the tiny floodlights from the pylons overlooking the playing area have been left on. It all looks rather cock-eyed. Bulbs missing in the minimal floodlights. Some switched on, others apparently sleeping with that January full moon glaring forth … Charlotte has got too far ahead of me. I can still hear her footfalls. Now the clacking sound of her high-heels has stopped. She must have gone on to the grass so as to cut across the common to the New King’s Road, much quicker than following the pathway bending its spiralling way around … I stand frozen in time under the full moon and watch, horrified, as a man rises up from the bushes and makes a grab at Charlotte. She screams and makes to run. It is no good. She’s slipped over on the damp grass in those high-heels and this shape of a man is on her. Tearing at her clothes. Straddling her back. Now punching her sideways in the head to stop her screams. I cannot move. I am helpless for Charlotte. Trapped in my own fear. The man has mounted her the way I see dogs in the streets sniff another dog’s bottom then mount it from behind … There is nothing worse than this feeling of powerlessness. Forlorn and lost. Unable to move or scream or show any energy or be heard. The man is powering up and down on poor Charlotte. Bucking to and fro. Shouting, shouting, roaring … Why is there no one else around? Why no drunks, no tramps, no night-time lovers, no police when you most need them? No stray stranger lost on the common looking for a way home. Nothing! Just the empty night under the gleaming full moon and a vision of horror … He’s throttling her. She’s gained full consciousness once more and is fighting for her life as he chokes her with his bare hands. Wringing the very life out from her body. Her legs are kicking under him, but he is far too big and strong for her … I feel the wet trickle of tears running down my cheeks. I am crying for Charlotte, crying for myself. Crying because I cannot see who this killer is and am helpless before him … Her legs have ceased kicking. The very life has been choked out of her beautiful, young body … This frightful man is dragging Charlotte’s falling body across Eel Brook Common into a dense section of bushes … He is now retracing his steps to retrieve one of Charlotte’s high-heels that has come off … A bird has flown up from the bushes where Charlotte’s body has been hidden. I can only think of a sweet soul bird. Poor Charlotte. Birds embody the souls of dead people … I still cannot move and feel wretched. I so want to be sick. The killer man has pushed poor Charlotte’s lifeless body deep into the bushes. Cursing as he scratches his face on a bramble. Wedging her shoes in after her … He’s now loping off across the Eel Brook Common towards the New King Road. He’s looking all around him as he goes. Once, twice, now looking straight at me. I cringe with fear even though I know he cannot see me. I am angry at myself for feeling so afraid. Helpless before this heartless monster of the night. Just killing a beautiful young woman for his dog-like gratification. What is worst of all is that I just cannot see him. Cannot make out his features. Could not describe his clothing. Cannot see his shoes. His head and face are a blur to me. That is the most frustrating part of dreaming. Even when you come awake in a dream not everything is lucid and clear. It is as if it is a deliberate distortion. You are allowed to see only so much and not any more. I so desperately want to see this killer’s face before it is too late, but I am not being allowed to … Is it for my own protection? Or is that just the nature of this dream world. Not everything is shown to us. We can only guess at certain parts and despairingly seek to find answers …

The killer has gone and I can move again. I am trembling all over with fear. I just cannot go and look and try to see poor Charlotte’s dead body. If only she had gone to that Moriarty in Golders Green she might still be alive right now. A fat lot of use I was to her. I feel like I let her down. Disgraced myself before this hideous act of brutal murder … I’m slowly walking across a muddy section of the Eel Brook Common. Two young men have appeared walking along the winding pathway. Heading towards the half-lit football pitches. I can see the curling, grey smoke of their cigarettes catching on the light of the moon. I want to scream, “Look, she’s over there under those bushes, see! Look, the poor bushes are still shaking with dread at what they have been given to hide. Look, go and see, please! Stop! Please! Her body is … ” But no, it is useless. I expend all this energy to no avail. The two young men drift right through me, the cigarette smoke and their words hanging on the night air behind them. I run and stand in front of them again and wave my arms, shout through the tears and they walk straight through me again. “This is no late-night game,” I’m crying. “This is a matter of murder. A killing. Please … ” I try a third time. I am mad and I know it, but I have to attempt for Charlotte’s sake. It eases my sense of helplessness before her fate. I could not come to her rescue though I liked her so much, having watched her all evening. I could not even see her killer and describe him … Over in those shaken bushes, death lies on poor Charlotte like an untimely moonbeam flicking across her once lovely features …

“Why are you crying so, Young One? It is only the hourly events of humankind. Charlotte rests in eternal peace now, of that you can be sure.”

“Where have you been? You are supposed to be my protector, aren’t you! A fat lot of good you did. I could have been killed myself by that murdering monster! … You saw it. You presume to see everything. Well, answer me that, Mister Eldritch!”

I still cannot see him properly. He hovers like a greying, white shadow and seems ever more elusive through the filmy veil of tears wetted against my eyelashes …

“No harm could possibly come to you from an outsider. Remember, you are dreaming, Young One. The power resides with you.”

“But I could not help poor Charlotte. You could have. You could have saved her precious life, Eldritch!”

“Even I, for all my gifts, cannot interfere with the Fates. There are many lessons for you to learn this night. The first is that everything is decreed by the Fates. We are all powerless before them. Remember once again that you are dreaming. You will discover that you do possess special powers, but they do not include saving that lovely, young girl, Charlotte.”

I look down at my right arm and see that it is not broken at all. A jumble of conflicting questions are pushing for explanations in my brain. I feel angry, upset, powerless, strange and forlorn all at the selfsame time …

“How come the beaming moon was full again tonight? I heard that a girl had been murdered on Eel Brook Common, but that was yesterday? How can I be in Brompton Cemetery and then here a day later at the exact selfsame time? It just doesn’t make sense, Eldritch. And why can’t I see you clearly and also why couldn’t I see Charlotte’s killer? What was the point of me seeing anything? That killer will strike again and I will be powerless … ”

“Enough, enough. My head is going dizzy with all your questions … Humans today seem to have forgotten their own origins, Young One. Time travel exists and is postulated in many of your current weekly comic books as if the impossibility of it was fit only for pictorial representation in a fantasy story. Human beings all time travel.”

“Wow! … How?”

“Good. You are feeling better. Forget poor Charlotte, she cannot be with us now … How? Well, in their dreams. People travel back and forth in time every night and greet and meet the dead fathers, uncles, mothers, sisters! Most sleepers never wake up correctly and hardly ever remember their magic encounters … You look at me as if I am mad, Young One. Well, consider this. The human race spends a third of its time asleep … Travelling into the future to discover tomorrow’s dream. You can be in two places at once. Your spirit form is not determined by a material body … Do not worry about that killer. Only a word of caution. What I can tell you is that the bone-yard beckons to him and he will be called to answer.”

“Thank you, Eldritch. I do feel a bit better. But all this talk of time travel. I’m stood talking to you on Eel Brook Common, complete strangers walk straight through me as I yell at them. I’m really here yesterday and I’m still confused by that. Did I have to see Charlotte’s murder? … But heh, I can’t really time travel. I ain’t no Dan Dare or Buck Rogers. I can’t time travel backwards and get a ringside seat and watch ‘The Gunfight at the OK Corral’, can I! Why are you laughing at me so? You’re supposed to be my protector, Eldritch, not some ancient, old, white-haired comedian laughing at my pain. There’s a poor, bloodied, dead girl called Charlotte if you can but remember her, laid prostrate over there in those bushes and all her dreams are vanquished! Gone clean up in smoke … ”

“Now, now, Young One. Sit tight and just follow me and I will show you the truth of time travel. Firstly, just remember this. What I tell you three times is true … ”

Suddenly, I am transported with Eldritch and find that we are gazing on scenes depicted on tombs. Reading the inscriptions. Sometimes horrible details of murder and carnage, other times fragments of ancient lore and legends … Then the great city of Memphis is conjured up before us. Its gates lie open and armed guards permit us to enter … I walk in wonder through the crowded streets with Eldritch … Now we are entering a spacious square in the centre of which towers a sublime statue of the Pharaoh. We then pass a stone temple dedicated to the God Ptah … Eldritch beckons to me and we seat ourselves here on a stone bench and watch the crowds pouring forth from the streets. Memphis is a wonderfully quiet city. You can hear a constant hum of voices. It murmurs like a giant beehive. But there is no clatter of traffic, for the streets are empty of vehicles, and horses are as yet unknown in the Lands of Egypt … Everyone is scantily clad. Men in loincloths or a sort of kilt with the beautiful women gowned to the ankles. I’m amazed at the politeness of the pedestrians. Age is highly honoured. Young men stand aside to allow their seniors to pass …

We are up and moving again in the heat of the day … Now we turn swiftly down a narrow, twisting street. Houses are lower here and some are built with brick, most of the others are clay-plastered wickerwork. We can see a man and his wife labouring in a potter’s yard. The furniture consists of one or two rough stools, a low bed over which hangs a gnat-protecting net and there are a few jars and pots of coarse pottery. Within the window lattice, a bunch of lotus leaves are drying in the sun; a cut of salted fish hangs on the wall, a flint knife lies on the floor … Eldritch tugs at my sleeve and I walk on in a splendid daze. Past brickyards with labourers at work mixing the clay. Further on in a stone-worker’s yard under an awning squat several skilled artisans who are making vessels of alabaster and porphyry … We enter another street and our ears are assailed by the clamour of metal workers. It is a very noisy quarter. Bang, bang, go the hammers on a large sheet of copper … Here are goldsmiths at work. A man is weighing the precious metal in a balance and a scribe sits in front of him making careful records on a sheet of papyrus. We turn away and through the maze of streets catch a soothing glimpse of the broad blue River of the Nile. We turn towards it for the streets are dusty and very hot and we just know that the air is cooler by the quayside … We pass by piled up cargoes of unloaded boats … Here come half a dozen foreign sailors, they are going sight-seeing. You can tell by their pants and characteristic ‘wasp waists’ that they are Cretans. They are short of stature and slim and have sharp features like the Delta coast dwellers. Their dark hair is pleated in three long coils and they wear coloured turbans. They are all wearing armlets … A company of Pharaoh’s soldiers are marching past us. They are naked except for a loincloth. About half are archers with the others spear-men with wooden-looking shields … Eldritch grips me by the arm and leads us away from the quayside and the advancing soldiers …

“You see, you can witness Memphis in the Lands of the Pharaohs, Young One. Is this not truly time travel. Is this not yesterday or last week or ‘The Gunfight at the OK Corral’.”

“It’s OK … ”

“Just remember, Young One, and you will be safe. The Great Pharaoh is the protector of all his subjects, both great and small. All subjects have a right to petition the Pharaoh in the Hall of Justice for major, perceived wrongs, but if the Great Pharaoh is appealed to, he will prove to be no respecter of persons and visit the wrong-doer with punishment of great severity. Unlike your greedy society of today, Young Angel, the Pharaoh must espouse the cause of the humblest person in his kingdom over his richest subject.”.....

The Masked Rider

“Wake up, Bobby! Wake up!”

“What is it?”

“You were shouting loudly in your sleep … Be careful with that arm … I tried to wake you, but you were soundo … You alright? … Must have been some dream. Who's the lucky girl then?!”

For some reason, I always blush when folks talk to me about girls like that. I can feel my face going beetroot red. Nick knows this very well and is doing it for his little bit of early morning pleasure.

“Look on the bright side, brother, no bleedin' school for you for a while.”

“You promised to take me down to Greenwich and go on the Cutty Sark next time you were on leave.”

“Do you know where the name Cutty Sark comes from?”

Ask a question and soften the no.

“A tea clipper in Chinese.”

“Very funny … The Cutty Sark was a sort of witch in a Robert Burns poem … Never Bobby, always Robbie … ”

“I take it from that we are not going to Greenwich today … My arm still hurts, I'm sure it's not right … ”

“Look, Bobby, I'll come clean with you, okay.”

“You're being evasive.”

“Been at that dictionary again since I've been away, have you … Look, see, I've not really got any shore leave. I've just taken off. Don't look at me like that. And don't go telling Mum, she'll only fret and worry and don't go turning into some kind of hypochondriac, it's only a broken arm. Worse things happen at sea, of that I can definitely assure you.”

“Tell me.”

“You like secrets, don't you. You've turned into a proper little conspirator, Bobby Clayton. Storing other people's stories and dark secrets for further use down the line, I shouldn't wonder. I'd better watch you!”

“I'm not like that!”

“That's what they all say at first then the power takes over, see … ”

Nick is standing over my bed motioning with his hands like a magician summoning magic powers … Laughing now and getting dressed. He looks fitter and more muscular than any current Chelsea footballer …

“A little spot of bother, brother … Do you remember the last time I was home on leave?”

“How could I forget … Ouch!”

“A pillow ain't gonna hurt that broken arm as much as you becoming a sarky little shit!”

“Sorry.”

“Did you meet me with Sandy?”

“Sandy gets her man.”

“No, this ain't no laughing matter, brother. No family-style comedy to keep the old folks happy … Well … She's up the plum duff.”

“What?”

“In the club, brother. In the club.”

“Oh … How long then?”

“That's a very good question, Bobby, I see you're finally starting to wake up this morning … Two months nearly and we've got to do something. I've taken French leave to try and set up an abortion.”

“You're not going to marry this Sandy then? You don't want the child?”

“Don't be silly. What would I be doing with a wife and child at my age. I'm not twenty-one yet. I don't want to be like the old man and be spliced at nineteen and regret it for the rest of my born days. Only happy when I'm stood in a pub drinking with my so-called mates.”

“But Bob Shilling's Dad's friend, isn't he.”

“Sure, sure, they're all your friends when you're standing at the bar with them, Bobby Clayton. You'll find out when you're older the truth of it all.”

“I hate that! People are always saying that to me. When you're older. When you're older. I like it just fine right now except that adults keep things from me by mystification.”

“You're right, it's a crappy thing to say to someone though, funny, I can't ever remember anyone ever saying it to me when I was your age … You see, no Cutty Sark today, I've got to locate my own witch, Sandy, and sort it out. Borrow some money … Say, you haven't got any, Bobby, have you?”

“I've got five pounds from Gran in a post office book and you can have that.”

“That's good of you, Bobby. I may yet take you up on it. But I think I may need quite a bit more than that.”

“What's the going rate then?”

“I dunno … Some say fifty pounds, sixty pounds, even a hundred quid. But we've got to do it quick!”

“How does Sandy feel about it all?”

“She wanted me to marry her and keep the baby. Got hysterical. Now she's resigned and will probably end up hating me. Anyhow, to be honest with you, Bobby, I met this girl, a real American lady in New York called Peggy. I'm really stuck on her.”

“Does Sandy know?”

“You've still got a lot to learn, Bobby Clayton. Well, you see my plight. I've got to skedaddle quickly. Go and see a man and arrange for Sandy to get rid of this baby, pronto … Gee, young brother. Now, really keep shtoom, okay. No one, and I mean no one. I know you … You always tell every little thing to Nan, don't you. She lies in wait for you and drags it right out of you, easy as pie. If you tell her, Bobby Clayton, I'll break that other arm and maybe a leg for good measure! … Don't look at me like that! I fucking mean it! This is my life on the line and I'm in a big enough jam as it is without you up and yapping off! Promise.”

“I promise, Nick … I promise, Nick … I promise, Nick.”

“What did you do that for?”

“What I tell you three times is true.”

“Where did you learn that kind of stuff?”

“Some old Egyptian guy told me.”

“You be very careful around old Arab men. Before you know where you are he’ll be a-trying to get inside your pants, brother. Watch out!”

“He's not like that … And anyway … ”

“That's what they all say, Bobby. I must be off now … Just remember … ”

He's gone and I can't stop thinking about that unborn baby. I mean, it's none of my business, but I'm its uncle, that must give me some rights. It's always like this with him. Underneath all the warmth and fun and smart quips there is always a huge problem lurking that needs sorting out … I'm starting to think about how they do abortions and it's depressing me … What if the police found out? They could all be locked up … I need 'Riders of the Purple Sage' to take my mind off matters …

“Are you coming down to breakfast today, Robert Clayton!”

“In a minute, Mum. In a minute … ”

Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sagebrush. But, guarded as his action was, the first horse detected it. He stopped short, snorted and shot up his ears. The rustler bent forward, as if keenly peering ahead. Then, with a swift sweep, he jerked a gun from its sheath and fired -

“Robert.”

“Yes, Mum. In a mo, in a mo … ”

“Don't you in a mo me, Robert Clayton. You come and get your breakfast right now or I'll come up and get you!”

“Alright.”

The bullet zipped through the sagebrush. Flying bits of wood struck Venters, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in one leap. Like a flash, the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level and he shot once – twice.

The foremost Rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from his saddle, to fall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse snorted wildly and plunged away, dragging the Rustler through the sage -

“Robert! I won't tell you again!”

“Coming, Mum!”

The masked rider huddled over his pommel, slowly swaying to one side and then, with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the saddle -

“And I thought you'd clean given up on the idea of breakfast for today, Robert Clayton. You are a sight for sore eyes with that plaster-cast. Talking of eyes, you read too much, Boy. Before long you'll need glasses, then how will you feel having to peer at the world through glass lens and pretend it's wonderful … ”

“Well, it's better than no glasses available at all. Just think, it's not that long ago that the average poor person just had to suffer bad eyesight … These are cornflakes. Where are the Coco Pops?”

“I couldn't find any on the shelves in the shop and didn't have the time to ask Miss Mason to order some, alright. I can't go a-pandering to your every whim and wish, Robert Clayton!”

“But Frosties. You could have got Frosties.”

“For Christ sakes, boy, what's the big deal! Cornflakes, Coco Pops, Frosties, they're all the same with a different name, that's all. Just be thankful you've got … What the hell! Always someone knocking on the front door as if World War Three has just been declared. You'd think we were the Salvation Army Centre of Fulham for stray wastrels … ”

As I'm mouthing my milk-soggy cornflakes the voices of my sister, Maggie, and shrill squeak of niece, Susie, reach me … No difference between Coco Pops and cornflakes! She must be mad. I bet she didn't think to ask that Miss Mason for the special gift offer of a submarine. If cornflakes are truly that good then why do they have to give away submarines to entice people to buy them … No difference! … It's quite easy using my left hand with a spoon. Makes a new experience of it …

“Move over, Robert, and let little Susie sit down, please.”

“Oh Bobby, what have you gone and done?”

“Broken arm, Sis.”

“That's not like you, you're always so careful.”

“Well, he wasn't the other day, Maggie, was he. What brings you round so bright and early like this?”

“I've come to ask you a favour, Mum.”

“I've no spare cash 'til Friday, girl.”

“No, no. I've left Tiggy in a basket in the hallway, I wonder if you could look after her for awhile?”

“Sunshine won't like that.”

“Well, of course we can certainly look after Tiggy, dear. You'll just have to keep that Sunshine or, as I call him, Maggie, the fattest budgerigar in all of Fulham, in his cage, Robert. Take him upstairs with you at night. Anyway, maybe they will become firm friends.”

“Who ever heard of a cast and budgie being best mates!”

“There's always a first time for everything. Now, eat your cornflakes and shut up! … Now, can we talk openly, Maggie, or do we need to use a code in front of you-know-who?”

“It's alright, she doesn't really understand. Say what you want in front of her.”

“I reckon she understands more than you think, don't you, Susie?”

“I said eat those goddamn cornflakes, boy! A broken arm don't give you no power of attorney in this family … Would you like some cornflakes like your Uncle Robert, Susie?”

“No.”

“I bet she would say yes to Coco Pops.”

“Mind your own bloody business!”

“I tell you what, Mum. Why don't you put the wireless on. We can talk better then. Susie's had her breakfast, but maybe a drink of orange juice.”

“Well now, Susie, how about a nice glass of orange juice like your good Uncle Robert?”

“No.”

“Oh god! Robert, put that wireless on, will you, and keep that Sunshine in his cage … What are you smiling at with that Cheshire Cat-like grin? … What?”

“Sunshine will only come out of his cage for Coco Pops. I bet that if you put cornflakes in a Coco Pops packet and showed it carefully, in an elaborate-like manner, to Sunshine, he still wouldn't shift from his perch. You see, he knows the difference.”

“Just what are you two going on about? Whenever I come around here, you two are always bickering.”

“I'm sorry, dear, you know what a cantankerous little sod he is and now I'm stuck with him under my feet for the next ten weeks or so. It will drive me clean out of my mind and so it will … Go and get Tiggy … Would you like some rice pudding with jam on it, Susie?”

“No.”

“Go on, Sis. Go and let that useless cat out of the bag.”

“I see you haven't lost your terrible sense of humour with that plaster-cast on … ”

It has been reported today that more than one hundred and fifty supporters of the former regime in Cuba have been executed by firing squads -

“I just had to get away, Mum. Look at my eye.”

“Once they start hitting you they never stop, especially when they've had a drink or ten. Where will you go?”

“We can stay with my old school friend, Sue, for a few days 'til we get ourselves sorted out. You remember Sue, don't you?”

“The one with the curly blonde hair and fat legs?”

“Milk bottle calves.”

“Finish your cornflakes and, I say again, mind your own bloody business! … Would you like a chocolate biscuit, Susie?”

“No.”

“You must be loco, Susie. Everyone likes a chocolate biscuit, even Sunshine.”

“I don't!”

“She's upset, that's all, Bobby. Let her calm down in her own chosen time, you know she likes you a lot. Just let her be for a while.”

“Does he know that you've left?”

“Well, that's the other thing, Mum, when he finds out, he's bound to come steaming round here, looking for us. I don't want you upset.”

“Don't worry yourself, Nick's home, he'll deal with any problems … ”

It's as much as I can do to restrain myself from bursting forth with Nick's desperate news. Just why is it so hard to keep secrets? I suppose we all have a need to constantly chatter information like demented birds and monkeys. I just have to bite my tongue and think of other things. Little Susie looks like she's been up crying half the night.

The new President, Fidel Castro, said the executions in Cuba would continue … The French government has announced a reprieve of two hundred Algerian terrorists under death sentence and release of about seven thousand suspects from internment camps in Algeria -

“I just had to make a decision, Mum. I'm left with no other choice and, to make matters worse, I think I may be pregnant again.”

“God, it never rains, but it pours. Always in this house! Always this bloody house!”

“Chocky, chocky, biskit. Chocky biskit.”

“And about time too, Miss. And don't you go a-poking at your Uncle Robert's bad arm, it might bite you back!”

“No, it won't! Chocky biskit!”

My mother, bless her, raises her eyes to the skies with a mixed expression of shock and resignation. She loves it all really. Wouldn't be the same without disasters and problems every day, would it … I've got it. All secrets are plainly in sight, but we choose to ignore the tell-tale signs and look the other way. I must ask Eldritch about this if I ever see him again … After he left I had another, smaller dream. Fuzzy-like. My broken right arm was separated from my body and was laid on a kitchen table and Miss Parker and Janice May were arguing over who was going to have it except that Miss Parker was much younger in the dream.

The Sierra Leone government in a statement on the growth of illicit diamond gangs said that the country's whole future was threatened by them. Armed gangs were flouting authority and had had many clashes with police who had made two-thousand, five-hundred arrests in the last two months -

“Chocky biskit, Tiggy-Tiggy, chocky biskit.”

“Well, that's gone and put that Sunshine right off his birdseed. He nearly fell clean off his perch at the sight of Tiggy. He's so fat he'd probably go straight through the floor of the birdcage … Ha-ha.”

“He will only eat Coco Pops, the rest is all for show so that you think he's a normal budgerigar.”

“How do you know this, Bobby?”

“Because he sort of tells me, Sis. Not directly or in so many words, but I understand him.”

“Another big whopper. Maybe you can tell your Uncle Robert to stop telling such fibs, Susie. Doris Shilling believes your Uncle Robert here lives in his own sweet, little world. Makes it all up as he goes along and expects us to believe it. That fat Sunshine has lived here for some two years and I've yet to hear him utter a single word. A shrill whistle sometimes, but that's about it. Doris Shilling says … ”

“What does she know anyway. She probably thinks that Sunshine is a parrot!”

“Now, don't you go disparaging Doris … ”

“Stop it, you two! I've heard enough arguments and fights to last me a lifetime! Please stop!”

“I'm sorry, dear, but he gets my goat.”

The third Test Match in Sydney between Australia and England -

“You can turn that wireless off now, Robert.”

“Not yet, Mum. Not yet. Just let me hear the score.”

A fourth wicket stand of one hundred and eighty-two by Peter May and Colin Cowdrey meant that the Test Match ended in a draw. Australia go into the fourth Test Match leading the series two nil -

“Off now, please, if you don't mind. Men and their sport. All I ever get around here from Robert is football, cricket, boxing, then boxing, cricket and football. You would think the whole world revolved around men and their sport.”

“But I quite like football, Mum. I used to go to Fulham, remember?”

“Don't set him off, Maggie, otherwise we'll be here all day while he lectures us on the reasons why he supports Chelsea and not his local team, Fulham, like his father and his grandfather before him. Has to be different does our Robert … Now, let us go into the front room where we can talk plainly and in peace. Bring your tea. Robert, entertain little Susie and keep Tiggy in. We don't want to lose her before she's even settled in and don't you go a-shooing her out the back door to protect that fat budgie friend of yours, you hear!”

“Yes, Mum.”

“More chocky biskit. More chocky.”

“I forgot to tell you, boy, your Uncle Charlie should be round shortly to do the rewiring.”

“What else! I suppose Jimmy Greaves will turn up in a minute and ask for my autograph and then sign my plaster-cast. All these visitors are giving me a crick in the mind.”

“In the neck … ”

“What?”

“Don't say what just like that … In the neck. It's a crick in the neck and you damn well know it!”

“I like saying a crick in the mind, it fits so well.”

“Well, I can't abide people who deliberately alter well-known phrases and sayings … And since when, young mister, are your brother Nick, sister Maggie and little Susie classed as visitors!”

“Have they found Charlotte's killer yet?”

“Who?”

“Charlotte. The girl who's dead body was found on Eel Brook Common.”

“Just where did you get that name from? I was listening to the news on the wireless earlier on this morning, while you were still deep in the land of nod, Robert Clayton, and the newsreader said quite distinctly that the police were following up inquiries and would anybody please report missing persons so that they could identify the poor young thing and, there you go, christening her Charlotte. She's only been dead five minutes and you go making up a name for her. Show a little respect for the departed please!”

“I bet her name is Charlotte and she was murdered. I tell you, I saw … ”

“Enough of that! I've just about had it up to here with you and your make-believe. It's not funny when you start including poor, dead girls in your fantasies. That is where I draw the line, Robert Clayton! Doris Shilling was right about you. Your own little world, she said. Well, I've got no real problems with that. But when your fantasies stray to dead girls on Eel Brook Common, there I draw the line. You're going to have to pull your socks up sharpish. It's about time you grew up. I never put up with behaviour like this from your brother, Nick! Never!”

“But I tell you, Mum. I'll bet you whatever you like that the poor, dead girl's name was Charlotte … I tell you what, I'll even bet you your bingo money.”

“And just how come you're so flush with money right now, Robert Clayton? Have you been a-raiding that piggy bank of yours!”

“I haven't got a piggy bank as you well know and anyway, I don't particularly like pigs that much.”

“You like pork sausages well enough, don't you.”

“That's different … Pigs smell foul.”

“I know where you keep your little bit of spare cash. You can't hide anything from me, boy … Think I don't know … Wouldn't let me throw that teddy bear of yours out, would you. When I shook that Odd of yours, he jingled and jangled with the sound of change … So, where did you get it? C'mon … ”

“You already know … Every time I go and visit Uncle Ted and Auntie Lucy. When I go to leave he plays this game whereby we shake hands and say goodbye and he palms a half-a-crown into my hand and winks at me.”

“Your Aunt Lucy met him on a bus, you know. Upstairs on a number eleven.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was with her you silly, little fool. I don't rightly know who's the bigger fool in this family, you or your Aunt Lucy … That Ted never gives me anything. Hardly the time of day. Only seemingly interested in young boys and girls!”

“But he's my Uncle!”

“Only by marriage. Now, I'm not suggesting anything untoward, see. Just you go careful around him, alright … Good, there's that bitch dragging her life right across my head again. And, of course, now she'll knock down. Wants me to run an errand or ten for her, I suppose. Well, that's where you and your busted arm can come in handy, boy. You can take that note to your Headmistress, Miss St Helene, and, whilst you're there, ask for some school homework. You've got your Eleven Plus coming up shortly. We don't want you going to any secondary school, Robert. You've got that look of a grammar school boy about you. They all make things up a-plenty when they're older and get well paid for it!”

“But all the grammar schools around here are boys only and hardly any women teachers at all … ”

“Right! Firstly, don't be such a sissy. I can't ever imagine your brother, Nick, saying such a thing. Secondly, go and get that note and don't forget to ask her for regular school-work you can do at home, then go see what that bitch upstairs wants … Help me out here … God, there's your Uncle Charlie at the front door.”

“We're all going to be rewired and anyway, I can't write with a broken arm.”

“I haven't got time to argue … Coming, Charlie, coming … Your eyes and mind aren't busted, are they! If that bitch hammers down one more time! … I'm coming, Charlie! And you can stop referring to that poor, dead girl and making up names … ”

“I bet you your bingo money, one and sixpence, that it's Charlotte!”

“Yes, if I must and now, go and see what that bitch upstairs wants and no more names, alright.”

“Yes, Mum.”.....

Both a gift and a curse

Weaving my way out from Studdridge Street and heading for the New King’s Road. Dreading having to go into Holy Cross School today. Try and time it so that everybody is in class. I can slip up the back stairs and get to Miss St Helene's office without being noticed. Just imagine an hour's time when it is all over. Think positive, magic it so to happen … I shan't have to go back to school again 'til after Easter-time … A treat. That's it. I will buy myself a treat. What is it that Gran always says when she's upset or hears some bad news? She goes out and buys herself a brand new hat. That hat can be anything. Takes herself off to High Street Ken and the big department stores. Goes with Missus Gumby and they go into Derry and Toms and Barkers. Gran makes me laugh. Folks are so conscious of other peoples' opinions. Last time a new hat meant some new material she bought at a discount price in Barkers, but when she came home she'd put all the material in a large Derry and Toms bag. I suppose that must be some kind of snobbery or one-upmanship … Doesn't really work if you try and say one-upwoman … No … My new hat is going to be a Wagon Wheel. Must try and get the one with the picture and history of the Springfield Rifle or the Ned Buntline special … Crikey, I'm at the school gates … Jumping fleabags, jumping fleabags. If I keep saying it, sooner or later it will become second nature and crikey will sound odd to my ears. Sound teddy bearish to my lugholes … Quick, slide in past the girls' toilets. Not mid-morning break-time yet … I'd love to see Janice May today. Not close up, but if I could just watch her from a distance. She's a right little minx, I know, and treats me badly … Minnie the Minx … Well, I like her. If she was called Minnie that would probably make me Dennis the Menace … I adore the way Janice May does things. The way she opens her pencil case. The way she walks. The way she tosses her long black hair back … Up the back staircase. No one about. Oh! …

“Well, Bobby Clayton, what a surprise! Skulking up the back stairs, are we. Afraid of what we might find?”

“Hello, Miss Parker … You look nice. Sorry … well … ”

“Getting very personal, aren't we, Bobby. Is that the effect of your broke arm. You should be more careful.”

“But Brian Holt and Stuart Spear, they … ”

“Now, now, Bobby Clayton, haven't I told you before not to tell tales … No good ever came of it.”

“Yes, Miss Parker.”

“Now, when you have seen Miss St Helene I want you to come to the Teachers' Study Room and see me.”

“Do I have to, Miss Parker?”

“I insist, Bobby. You can still read with a broken arm, can't you?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“I don't want you reading trashy Westerns and thrillers all the time you are off school.”

I feel sick inside. It's like Miss Parker can see right through me to my very soul. I can feel myself blushing when she looks into my eyes. I wonder just how many boys have been in thrall to her before me. Hundreds, I guess. She would like the use of the word thrall. But I'm not going to get off lightly. She's going to load me down with boring books I just don't want to read. Ten pages of Mickey Spillane, Zane Grey or Harold Robbins are far more exciting than any English book I've ever seen. It's the same with American books as with American films and music. They are just so much better. Even the books read like they are in full technicolour. I just want to lay on my bed like Burt Lancaster in 'The Killers'. I love that film. Listen to Chuck Berry, talk with Sunshine, help Nick out if I can, dream of Janice May …

“Come in.”

“I have a note as you requested from the Hospital Doctor, Miss.”

“What did you do, Bobby Clayton, get that friend of yours, Rick Maghoo, isn't it … ”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“To break that arm good and proper. Just like the conscientious objectors and dissenters during the Second World War.”

“You mean like my Uncle Bill, Ma'am.”

“Well, I am all ears, Bobby Clayton. I cannot wait to hear about your Uncle Bill. Running this Holy Cross Primary School does not take up much of my precious time. I've got this segment of the morning left to just sit here and listen to you and your quaint little stories!”

“Sorry, Miss.”

“Well, make up your mind. Is it Miss or Ma'am? … Well, go on if you must, explain how your Uncle Bill and the War have a connection to us and conscientious objectors.”

“He shot his right toe off, Miss.”

“Really. Go on, you have my interest.”

“Well, apparently, so my mother says, he was called up and joined the Army. During training he decided that if he shot his right toe off it would get him out of the war.”

“Well, don't keep my in suspense, boy, did it?”

“No, Miss, I mean Ma'am, crikey, I'm sorry, Miss St Helene … He spent the rest of the war on Cook-house duty peeling potatoes.”

“Well, it certainly goes to show that self-harm does not pay. Acts of cowardice were plentiful during the Second World War … 'No coward soul is mine, no trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere' … ”

“Pardon, Miss?”

“Emily Bronte. Not everybody was a hero, Bobby, like they try to make you believe in all the films and books today.”

“But I don't believe my Uncle Bill was a coward, Miss.”

“Explain why?”

“Well, it must take an awful lot of courage to shoot your right toe off, Miss, mustn't it.”

“Fear, Bobby. Fear of the unknown and not prepared to do your duty properly. Fuelled by Dutch courage most likely which brings us back neatly to you … A clean break, I see, well, that will keep you away for a while. Now, I want you to go and search out your Form Mistress, Miss Parker, and … ”

“I've already seen her, Miss St Helene.”

“Well done and make sure you work while you are away. I want you to come in every two weeks to see me on a Thursday morning.”

“Do I have to, Miss?”

“Yes, if you don't want to end up like your Uncle Bill, Bobby Clayton … By the way, what does he do now?”

“He's a night-watchman, Miss.”

“Well, you see, that is what can happen to you in life if you do not face up to your responsibilities. Now, you do not want to end up working as a night-watchman, do you, Bobby?”

“No, Ma'am.”

“Good! I am pleased to hear it. Now, you go and see Miss Parker and ask her to give you some course books to read … Now, even though it may not appear like it to you, Bobby Clayton, I have work to do and a school to maintain so you run along now and, Bobby … ”

“Yes, Miss?”

“I am truly sorry about your broken arm.”

“Thank you, Ma'am.” …

North End Road market on a Thursday lunchtime shouldn't be too busy, should it. So far this arm has been fine. No gyp or aching at all. But a busy marketplace and I might just knock it. Funny, I feel like a crippled bird with this broken arm yet the plaster-cast feels like a lead weight strapped on to my body …

“Bobby, Bobby, over here!”

Across the street by Fulham Public Baths my friend, Rick Maghoo, is waving at me frantically. You take your life in your hands around here just by trying to cross this street. Stall-holders' vans whizzing about. Attractive, dark-haired women in scarves with woollen gloves with the finger ends cut off all seem to be beckoning to me all the time to approach their stalls … I eventually get across the road.

“'Ere, watch where you're bloody well going, will you! I could have run you down!”

“Keep your hair on, Mister.”

“For twopence I'd knock that grin off your face, you little bugger, if you didn't already have that broken arm!”

People are so unfriendly around here today. It's like the whole of the world is angry this lunchtime. It could well be worse. We could all be put up against a wall and shot dead in Havana.

“Aren't you supposed to be at school, Rick?”

“I promised my father I would help him move some furniture. We have a new lodger coming to live with us on Saturday.”

“What about the school and Miss Parker?”

“You worry too much, Bobby, my friend. It's three days off before you have to produce a sick note from the doctors … Come on, I'll take you down the market.”

“What are you looking for?”

“My mother wants me to see if the cotton lady is here today. I think she needs to repair some curtains for the lodger's room. Something about taking up hems.”

“Where's this new one from then?”

“Nigeria.”

“Again.”

“My father has contacts over there in Lagos.”

“Sounds exotic.”

“Mind that woman with the shopping bags, Bobby, you don't want to bang that arm unnecessarily … I don't really know about Lagos, I've never been there. I've been home once to Mauritius to visit my grandparents.”

“Mauritius is still regarded as home then … Is that the cotton lady's stall over there next to that fruit and veg stall?”

“Which one do you mean? They're all fruit and veg stalls to me!”

“Over there by Woolworths, see?”

“Gotcha … Say, you need protection, Bobby, everybody seems to be about to knock into you … I feel that Mauritius is my home in Port Louis and England is my home in London. Why can't a person have two special homes? Do we have to be limited to one particular place to please other people's ideas of what is proper?”

“Did you see that? There's a stall over there selling hot food. I've never seen that down here before. They look like Jamaicans.”

“Why not?”

“Everybody comes to London, they always have. As the Great Master Detective would say, Rick … London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drawn.”

“You're great at memorising things, Bobby … Look out! … Except that Britain is no longer an Empire and why shouldn't people come over here? After all, the English have been everywhere and raped the entire world!”

“That's not quite true, Rick. Railways in India. Rubber plantations in Malaya. Colonial administration in Africa.”

“That's what they'd have you believe. You are an English boy, but you're not one of them … Here she is, hang on … ”

Rick Maghoo buys some cottons, needles and some cord for his mother. Our conversations are often like this. I am naturally drawn to him and like him. Nobody else would talk to me like Rick Maghoo.

“Well done. Have Brian Holt or Stuart Spear said anything about me and my broken arm?”

“They only laugh and sneer. You know very well what they're like. Once they get the scent of blood in the water they're away like killer sharks. Everyone is running scared of them right now. I shouldn't really tell you this, but Brian Holt has started sitting next to Janice May in class.”

“I'll kill him!”

“Look out! Christ, Bobby! I should be paid danger money to look after you today. I shouldn't have mentioned Janice May's name. You froze in mid-stride and then almost walked in front of that bus!”

“They shouldn't allow any buses down North End Road, it's far too narrow. Look, all the stall-holders' pitches are in the street. I thought as it's Thursday lunchtime there wouldn't be many people here. You can't hardly bloody well move, can you!”

“For some reason, I don't like it when you swear, it just doesn't suit you, makes you sound like them.”

“Holt and Spear.”

“Yes.”

“Does she like him?”

“I don't know. What do I know about women?”

“Well, you have three sisters … ”

“That's different and you know it … Are you going to the match on Saturday?”

“I've thought about it … Sorry, lady … Did you see that! … That woman flinched when she caught my broken arm on her elbow.”

“Maybe she just feels sorry for you and guilty that you walked right into her thinking only of Janice May.”

“Why is it that everybody else seems able to read my thoughts when other people's are a complete mystery to me.”

“You are so transparent, Bobby.”

“Good word, transparent. Must put it in my Miss Parker file. I'm going to teach myself to write left-handed. Now promise you won't tell anyone … Promise.”

“I promise. Did you see that! Look, that man running has stolen something off one of the stalls.”

“Where?”

“Over there … You missed it … A lot of thieves must come down here to bone.”

“To bone?”

“Steal. Don't you know your own language?”

“Where did you get that from?”

“My father picks up these words from the English kitchen staff working at the Savoy.”

“It's only Portsmouth. It won't be a big crowd. But I won't chance it just yet. All the jostling and pushing means I'm likely to get bumped … Jimmy Greaves scored four against them last year.”

“He won't again.”

“I wouldn't bet against him, ever!”

“Look, there's Wilcox over there waving.”

“Where?”

“Are you blind, Bobby? On the push-bike.”

“That bike's way too big for him. He's having to stand up to pedal properly.”

“A hand-me-down from his big brother, I guess.”

Blonde-haired Wilcox with the angelic smile slightly off-centre, waves to us again. Swerves his bike to avoid a stall-holder opening the door of a green van. Falls over with the bike and is promptly run down by a car going too fast coming the other way.

“Christ! Stay here, Bobby, I'm going to see if I can help!”

“He's not moving, Rick. I reckon he's dead.”

“Stay here.”

“What's that nigger boy doing running over there!”

I look around, but I can't see any black folks. Well, that's not strictly true, the black people down the road cooking food, Jamaicans, I suppose, but they are no longer anywhere to be seen … I can't believe that a boy I go to school with is dead. It was like a slow motion glide. Everything seemed to stand still then Wilcox is lain with his bike on top of him and not moving. The driver of the car is yelling and swearing at him, but he doesn't move. The driver was going too fast … Suddenly, I realise those folks were talking about Rick. That's a shock. He's black. We've been friends for over five years and I'd never thought that. When you're close friends with someone you don't see their colour … I'm feeling quite sick at the sight of Wilcox. Some stall-holders have placed some sacking over his body. Rick is talking to a policeman and an ambulance is trying to make its way along through the market traffic. All too late, I'm very much afraid. People standing, milling around. The whispered voices of shock. Folks looking into each other's faces, seeking some kind of answer or explanation of what has happened. The fear of death. It wasn't me this time hanging on the air …

Sliding carefully down the twisting bus stairs. As hard as I try I still bump my bad arm. The bus jerks and jolts then spurts forward again. Only the bus conductor seems immune to the lurching and constant sharp braking. You take your sweet life in your hands … Yet it is as nothing set against the sight of Wilcox's unmoving body. Cannot shake this image out from my mind of his body laid crumpled in a heap. Under that bike that was just too big for him. The sheer desperation and anger of the driver who'd killed him. Yet the green van driver who'd opened his door without looking walks away scot-free of guilt. Already I'm learning fast that life is not fair. You take your very life in your hands every time you venture out from your own front door.

Getting off the number eleven bus at the main Post Office bus stop opposite the Chelsea Town Hall. The cars on this busy King’s Road would knock you down and damage you without a second thought … Cars that could talk. A major car manufacturer should produce a car that can talk … 'Do not turn left here please, I do not like the look of this street' … The language of inanimate objects. Robots on the blink and all worked up about emotions they do not possess … An impatient driver is glaring at me as I make my way across via a traffic island to the start of Manor Street … I just love walking down this street. The Chelsea Public Baths to my right, Swan Court flats to my left. Tempted to swim, but my arm and, if I'm truthful, I'm still a little afraid of the water and, at best, can only do the doggy paddle. Not like my brother, Nick, who is a fabulous swimmer and diver. All the girls look at him admiringly when he springs off the diving board and arches his body into the water, head held straight between his outstretched arms. He insisted on teaching me how to dive last summer. I climbed all the way up to the very top of the diving board. Such a small platform. When I looked down the swimming pool looked the size of a postage stamp. I could feel my guts churning over. I flunked it and climbed back down. Nick was embarrassed and hardly spoke to me for the rest of the day. Reflected family cowardice, I guess … Eustace Watkins to my right … Now the Peabody Estate … I love walking through this entrance, makes me think of all the members of my family who have passed under this redbrick archway …

Now moving into the centre of the building's courtyard with rows of running balconies all around as the air-raid shelter sits right in the middle of the courtyard. Nan says they were called Anderson shelters after some politician who came up with them. This one now has earth filled in over it with potted plants dotted around it pretending that it was never a cover for bomb protection … My nan was bombed out during the Second World War and I just love her telling me the story. How my granddad was shaving, preparing to go to work on the night shift at the Chelsea Power Station, when the bomb blast hit, forcing out all the windows. The outside wall of the flat collapsed and a hole appeared in the balcony outside the front door. How it was a miracle that they weren't all killed …

“What have you gone and done to your arm then, Bobby?”

“I fell awkwardly, Nan.”

She gives me an old-fashioned look, but says nothing else about it. Takes me into the scullery to make the perpetual cup of tea … It's a really a strange smell in this scullery. The worktop is a bath with a large piece of wood the size of a door laid over the top. Now covered in bottles and jars and plates and cups. Nan has no fridge, just something called a cool-safe to keep her milk fresh in … The smell is sort of dank and musty. It's a smell that makes me think of old people, olden times. The days before televisions and refrigerators, cars and telephones. This smell should revolt me, but I embrace it and feel a part of it, as if who I am is caught up in that smell. That familiar sort of dripping, dank stink and the thought of my grandfather trying to get a crystal set to work wearing wonky earphones. It all seems so far away like some kind of ancient history. Here today and gone in the blink of an eye. Might as well be ancient Egyptian history. When you really think about it you flick your fingers, click, click. And the second click is the past and you can never catch it. Bring it back again. You can record it now, unlike my grandfather's time between the two Great World Wars, but it is still a distant memory, lost in the past. Yesterday might as well be a million years ago or so it seems to me. Wilcox is past. Is dead. His now decaying body is history. I witnessed his passing, but I cannot hold onto that moment. Miss Parker, in her better moments, says I think too much. But I kind of like these thoughts, they make everything seem fresh and alive,

“Do you want another custard cream, Bobby?”

“No, thanks, Nan.”

“What is it? And I don't mean your broken arm either.”

“I saw somebody die, Nan. Run over by a car down North End Road.”

“Well, we all die someday, Bobby. Who was it?”

“A boy from my school called Wilcox.”

“Well, they always say the good die young, like your Uncle Frank. Just nineteen he was. Never got out of Tripoli alive so they told me, but they always lie in these matters a bit, like you and that broken arm of yours.”

She doesn't look at me directly and I change the subject to avoid obvious embarrassment …

“I keep having these amazing dreams, Nan … Like I'm alive in the dream. As alive and awake as I'm sat here with you right now … And that's not all. I keep meeting strange people and animals and I saw a young girl murdered. The one on the news. And you are the only one I can tell.”

“Slow down, Bobby, slow down. Be careful what you say. Before you tell me again, dear, I caution you not to tell another living soul. People never, ever truly believe you.”

“But you dream things all the time, don't you. You've told me of events that you've dreamt that have happened!”

“That was a long time ago, Bobby. I no longer dream like that, thank God!”

“But didn't folks know about your dreaming and travel a-ways to see you to ask for help to see if you could dream the future or the past for them?”

“They did and much else besides, but it rarely worked. You can't dream to order, Bobby boy, it's time you realised that. It's both a gift and a curse at the very self-same time … All I can say to you is that if you are seeing real live events in your dreams or things that you perceive to be real then they are for a reason. Everything is for a reason. Nothing is by chance. All is fated and pre-ordained regardless of what the scientists say!”

“Yes, Nan.”

I let her go on for a while letting off steam as my mother would say. My Nan has a bee in her bonnet about scientists. Always manages to work Hiroshima and Nagasaki into her conversation and how scientists today are now holding the whole, wide world to ransom. All the Ban-the-Bomb marches, how we no longer have any control over our own destiny. She forgets she is talking to me and it all comes pouring forth again as if she is lecturing the leaders of the world and about to bang President Eisenhower's and Premier Khrushchev's heads together … Then she suddenly stops as if catching herself. Released from all the pent-up thoughts and emotions …

“My oh my, but I'm going on today, Bobby. And you all upset as well seeing that boy killed and suffering with a broken arm. It's enough to drive us all round the twist and so it is … Now, all I can say to you is this, Bobby. Embrace your dreams, you have this gift for a reason. You have inherited it from me. It is both a blessing and a curse. Be extra careful what you say in waking time. Don't confuse the two, it is easily done, I can assure you. Never be afraid. You have a Dream Guardian looking out for you so that you will not come to any harm. Have you met with you special Guardian yet?”

“Yes, Nan.”

“Good. Now, remember … Here, have another custard cream and this time don't dunk it in your tea and leave half of it on the carpet … Life is either a daring adventure or nothingness. So you, like me, Bobby Clayton, are blessed with a gift that marks you out as lucky and different. Make the most of it and be thankful. Don't be overwhelmed by your dreams and never be afraid. Do your best to be true to yourself and all will come right in the end.”

“Yes, Nan.”.....

The Western Bell-Tower

“Why do you cower and hide so, Young One? … Be not afraid. It is our very own fears that always betray us in the end … Have you not noticed that when you are afraid of an animal, say a dog, a cat, a horse or a goat, it almost always attacks you … Do you know why, Young One?”

“Why?”

“Because it can smell your fear. The scent of your fright encourages them to attack you. Even long domesticated animals can recall and revert to the ways of hunting prey in the wild. You have to learn to master your own fears and send out positive signals of energy to influence the air and the space that surround you.”

“I awoke and found myself back here in Brompton Cemetery. I have no recollection of getting here or even wanting to be here. It is a very dark night; the moon, if it is out at all, is obscured by clouds. Suddenly, the sounds of the birds in the lime and chestnut trees seems nasty and menacing as if they are signalling to one another about me. Who I am. I feel naked and very alone even though my broken arm is now alright. I just huddled down by this gravestone and waited, hoping that you would show up.”

“And rescue you from despair.”

“Something like that. Though you don't have to sound so superior about it. After all, I am only a boy whilst you are some kind of ancient magician propelled here by a cosmic force from thousands of years ago. You see everything while I see very little.”

“Yes, yes, Young One. For a brief moment there I thought you had stopped feeling sorry for yourself. Now you revert back to type. The modern human contamination. You are lamenting your life before it has really even begun … You have materialised at the Fulham Road entrance of the Brompton Cemetery and are hunkered down and touching the gravestone of one Thomas Crofton Croker … Have you ever heard of this man? Did you select this spot by design?”

“No.”

“We are depressed tonight, are we not … The sight you witnessed today of the death of that young boy has momentarily unhinged you. Penetrated into your Dreamworld and made you timid. Do you suspect that you will be next? It was that poor boy's time just like that young girl, Charlotte. That boy was never going to exist past that moment.”

“You sound just like my Nan!”

“I can take the form of whomsoever I wish. An ancient male magician seems more to your liking. If, by some chance, I was caught unawares, which would never happen, of course, I could portray Nefertiti, a royal princess from the Old Kingdom. To cover any confusion of being so portrayed before you I should utter the magic words of mystery and pretend to lure the doomed serpent forth.”

“Why have I been summoned here tonight? Why can't I just sleep in peace and wake up refreshed and ready for a new day?”

“Each of our precious contacts must contain a lesson to learn to prepare you for the long journey ahead. We have our own chosen paths to follow and each individual path requires certain attributes and talents that often have to be acquired the hard way.”

“But why does everything have to be so difficult to understand and master, Eldritch? Why does it all seem so confusing tonight? Whereas before, the nights were real and alive.”

“Were they. Perhaps before it was just your reaction. Hard and difficult problems remain remembered when solved. What was easy to reach is often lost … Now, Young One, where exactly have you chosen to hide from the forces of this dark night. Who have you pinned your faith to … Well, one Thomas Crofton Croker was an Irish author and son-in-law of Francis Nicholson, the originator and founder of the Society of Painters in Watercolours … ”

“Fascinating!”

“I did not realise you specialised in sarcasm, Young One!”

“My brother, Nick, is home from the sea. He … well … I get it from him, I guess.”

“Not a good excuse. I do not blame you for not telling me all the truth.”

“I just cannot help it, Eldritch! It's like I've driven somehow to lie and exaggerate. I find myself doing it all the time. I don't really know why. It just seems fun. I like pretending and then the lies just follow on.”

“Well, to continue if I may, Young One, whilst you think on about what you have just said. It says here that our Mister Croker was a little Irish leprechaun, keen-eyed as a hawk and of an easy prepossessing manner.”

“Not like you then, Eldritch!”

“You compare me to an Irish leprechaun at your peril. I am far and away beyond the reaches of the Celtic Ancients, they are but children in comparison to my Egyptian heritage … Now, to continue without interruption if I may … Thank you … Now you smile afresh. You have regained some confidence. The night-birds are now singing and chattering in the chestnut and lime trees and not looking to wreak vengeance on you for some perceived evil deed … Mister Thomas Crofton Croker was an antiquarian … ”

“He collected antiques?”

“Good try, Young One, but essentially … Wrong! … No, he collected and published Irish folklore, don't they always … And wrote papers on Irish history … Great Ptah! Irish history is but a distant speck in the night-time sky by comparison with the Royal Kingdoms of Ancient Egypt! … Finally, our Mister Croker opposed the romanticism of Gaelic culture … Romance feeds the divine soul which is why, Young One, you have a tendency to lie and deceive. The imagination of the spirit that enhances the life on Earth. A tough, hard-fought existence fed on daring deeds and heroic stories. Our Mister Thomas Crofton Croker was a supporter of Irish Home Rule and bitterly opposed to 'The Patriots' … ”

I let Eldritch take me by the arm. It really is a strange sensation. I know that when I am awake this right arm is broken yet here at night in Brompton Cemetery it feels just fine. I can't really gather any sensation from Eldritch touching me. People can touch you in dreams and you don’t feel a thing. Yet this reality is as vivid as any waking-time experience. Daytime pains vanish in the night. They will return when I wake up. Everything will be back to normal, but it is never quite the same. My dreams reach deeply into my life and alter the way I look at things. I must remember what Nan said and keep shtoom … I just love that word shtoom. If I had a talking car it would just say shtoom. Sat at some traffic lights on the New King’s Road. A glistening white Jaguar car pulls up alongside my humble Ford Popular. The moustachioed driver wearing the tweedish cheese-cutter cap and sporting leather driving gloves is gunning his accelerator pedal, revving for that amber light moment and my car just says 'Shtoom' … Shtoom! The gleaming white Jaguar can't quite believe its ear-lights. Shtoom, shtoom, the lights change and my lovely old Ford Popular car gradually lurches forward leaving the flashy white Jaguar staring at the lights. Shtoom, Shtoom! The lasting image in my cracked rear-view mirror is of the Jaguar driver in the rakishly-angled, cheese-cutter cap pounding the steering wheel in frustration with a queue of cars forming behind him all tooting their horns … Shtoom! Shtoom!

“Where are you taking me, Eldritch, and how can you see so well in the dark?”

“The Western Bell-Tower, my young friend … Night vision is one of the gifts of my continuing existence.”

“Why not the Eastern Bell-Tower then?”

“An inquisitive little soul, are we not, Young One … But I have quite a simple answer for you … Because there is not an Eastern Bell-Tower.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody rightly knows for sure, your guess is probably as good as mine, Young One. We can speculate and add a little conjecture as we walk down this promenade. So beautiful and peaceful at night, is it not … Burials and shareholders, Young One. Mind that broken stone slab, we do not want you tripping up and breaking that other arm of yours now, do we!”

“What would happen, Eldritch, if I broke my left arm in dream-time?”

“Well … ”, Eldritch makes a strange sound like a burbling giggle … ”You would have a broken right arm in the daytime and a broken left arm at night … The question is, which one would heal up first? … To address your previous question properly. I believe that this Necropolis to give it its correct name was financed by a private company originally. I believe also that every shareholder was entitled to a vote. This magnificent architectural project was supported by the major shareholders, but prevented from reaching ultimate completion by aggressive opposition from many of the small shareholders who were seeking a quick profit and not grandiose architecture … Does that satisfy your curiosity, Young Angel? … Mind that fallen branch! Winter can be a dangerous time of year in here with all these elderly trees … ”

“I suppose it is some sort of answer, Eldritch, but it still doesn't explain why the Eastern Bell-Tower wasn't developed later.”

“You are a terrier for detail, my young friend. Who knows. Time passes, ideas change. Ambitions and planning take on a different hue to suit the times. The Necropolis was overwhelmed with the burial of the dead which is why no one is buried here today. Such a huge site and full to bursting point with the bony remains of the dead almost poking through.”

“I bet they did things differently in Ancient Egypt, Eldritch, didn't they?”

“You tempt me to talk for hours, Young Angel … Come on, I have something to show you … You must remember, Young One … Mind your step there! … The Lands of the Pharaohs cover a vast amount of time. Far greater, for example, than the Empire of your own country which has just dwindled and become almost extinguished. Over time many various religious cults exercised supreme influence in moulding Egyptian thought. I just have time to give you one example before we reach the Western Bell-Tower … Do not lag behind, Young One. Best foot forward … At one time all dead bodies in the Lands of the Pharaohs were dismembered. Why, in one of the sacred texts of the ancient kingdom, the mutilation of dead bodies is referred to with absolute horror. The repeated words of a fallen brother wrote “I shall not be destroyed. My head shall not be cut off, nor my tongue taken out, nor will the hair of my head or my eyebrows be shaved off. My body will endure for all time … ” Do not look so perturbed, Young One. It is only the way of all flesh … There was a massive revolt against dismemberment in the Third Dynasty. Three-thousand BC on your time-scale of reckoning … ”

“Wow!”

“Yes, indeed and 'Wow' it was, Young Angel. Massive stone tombs were then constructed and the bodies of the dead were mummified. The idea, Young One, was that Ka, the God of the Spirit, would ultimately return and cause the dead to live again. The existence of the soul in the Underworld depended upon the existence of the body upon Earth. The embalming of the dead began to proliferate throughout the Lands of the Pharaohs … Be careful! You nearly slipped over on that wet twig … During my life in the Middle Kingdom, the dead were laid to rest on their left-hand side, as if to peer through the Osiris or Horus eyes depicted outside the mummy cases … Ah, here we are at last, at the Western Bell-Tower, Young One. Is it not truly a splendid sight … ”

“Yes, what I can see of it in the dark, Eldritch!”

“Stand completely still, Young One. Do not move a muscle and keep quiet.”

Gradually, as I peer hard into the fresh, night-time air, I can make out the support columns of the colonnade running along the Western Bell-Tower. Slowly, my eyes adjust and I can now see quite clearly as if it were full-blown daylight. A scruffy-looking figure is making a noise and cussing and the sounds are coming from halfway along the colonnade.

“Go on! Fuck off and leave me alone!”

Something is then hurled in amongst the grave headstones bordering the colonnade … Now this dirty figure is standing upright and swearing for all he is worth. He's using some words I have never even thought of. All in anger and desperation or so it seems to me.

“What is going on, Eldritch?” whispering the words in hushed tones.

“There really is no need to speak so quietly, Young Angel. He cannot hear us, in fact I wonder whether he can hear anything any more.”

“Who was he shouting and swearing at like that?”

“Phantom shapes of Resurrectionists playing along his eye-line.”

“What are Res … Resurrectionists when they're at home, Eldritch?”

“You may well have heard of them differently as Body-snatchers.”

“I've heard tell of Burke and Hare.”

“You know many, many things for a young person. Very impressive.”

“Miss Parker says I'm like a sponge that soaks up everything.”

“This Miss Parker must be an impressive person also, you often refer to her.”

“She can be, but on one of her bad days she can be a right tartar … I thought you said that nobody new was buried in Brompton Necropo … Necropo … ”

“Necropolis.”

“Thanks. How come then that Resurr … Resurrec … Hell! … Body-snatchers are here if all the dead bodies are old and decayed. We don't mummify our bodies, do we?”

“You see, he is settling down again now. I notice you said 'we', Young Friend, as if you belong to the main core of your society. A dangerous thought that can lead you into craven ways and radical mistakes later on in life. Always remember that you are forever alone. Even the idea of your immediate family is a myth. People will look after you, like you and support you with words and deeds, money and food. But that has no lasting quality to it which is why we are here at this Western Bell-Tower tonight … Our swearing, bearded, grumpy old tramp only imagined he saw Resurrectionists in his mind. His thoughts are not so clear as yours, Young One. But now, even the long-buried bones of the human skeleton can fetch a price and be sold for a pretty penny to some medical institution or training college … ”

“A taste of the macabre.”

“Another good word, Young One.”

“Shtoom and macabre are my favourite words of the moment. I've got this book of horror stories with this gruesome big, black cat on the front cover. There … ”

“Sssh! We have to watch and listen. Young people today, I notice, just cannot keep quiet or still. You should observe animals, particularly cats. The way they passively watch and wait. Ready to pounce on their unsuspecting prey. Young people back in the ancient kingdoms would take great pride and delight in practising the bodily controls. Games and rewards for learning the essential lessons of human survival. You watch and listen. Observe and wait. But today alas you have so many lurid distractions, cannot keep still for even a second. Cannot stop chattering. Cannot hold a simple thought and develop it over time to create originality.”

“That's not fair, Eldritch.”

“But you have the abilities, Young One. You have a precious gift which is why I seek you out in the Dream Time.”

“I can see him clearly now, I have my night vision back … Why, he is just an old tramp drinking from a broken-necked bottle and staring out into space and talking to himself … ”

“A tramp, yes, though in other times and places he might very well be referred to as an itinerant traveller, or maybe a lonesome wayfarer, perhaps a nomadic gypsy, even a roving Bedouin … ”

“He doesn't look like no gypsy I've ever seen. They always have long, black, straggly hair and wear an earring, don't they.”

“You must not fixate on an idea and think that it is true and the only way, no matter how certain you are in your convictions at that moment. Watch this tramp as you called him. See him as he drinks from his broken bottle of hooch, White Lightening or White Lady as I believe they call it today. He is old and gruff and lonely and not truly in control of his faculties.”

“But he doesn't have to sleep out rough in a cemetery, does he … He could be looked after in some hospice for old people.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to, Young One. Maybe he would rather take his chances out in the open on a cold, wintry night. An independence of spirit is important even in one so lonely and carelessly ill-thought-of in your great society. You are a youth, a boy, and attractive to people. They like the look of you. Talk to you. Proffer advice and energy in your direction. When you are an old wanderer, tramp, nomad, hobo, nobody looks at you. All the doors of your so-called great society are closed tight. Simple speech and eye contact are withheld. In other words, nobody wants to know. You are not so civilised today as your leaders would have you believe. Back in the Lands of the Pharaohs everyone was taken care of, both young and old. Nobody would have been allowed to roam around a city unchallenged and uncared for. The people of the Lands of the Great Pharaohs always paid massive respect to the elderly. Valued their experience and wisdom and looked after their own.”

“But he's an old drunken tramp! And that's a fact, is it not!”

“Watch very carefully and I will show you something, my callous Young Friend … Here, what do you see?”

“Funny, when I look at him … ”

“His name is Smith.”

“Well, when I look at Smith, I see a pretty, young woman holding up a lovely, young baby in her arms and cluck, cluck, clucking. Pinching the pretty baby's cheek and it gurgles.”

“Blink your eyes hard three times and what do you see now?”

“A young boy about my age now. He is laughing and joking with some other boys. A gang. Now they are playing. Heh, they are having a game of conkers and this boy keeps winning.”

“Try blinking your eyes again three times … Now what?”

“An attractive, dark-haired, good-looking young man is waiting outside a cinema. Now a beautiful, young woman has appeared. She goes straight up to the attractive, young man and kisses him on the side of the cheek. They now hold hands and are going through the cinema doors.”

“Blink three times again.”

“The man is older now and he is arguing and fighting with a woman. It could be the same lady as before. A baby is crying in a cot in the corner of the room as they yell and scream at one another.”

“And again, Young One. Blink, blink, blink.”

“He's older now and in a uniform. The army, I guess. It's in the desert. Soldiers are running and scrambling and firing rifles. Everywhere tanks and armoured cars. Heh, I can see a man firing a bazooka. Our man has been shot. In the left leg, I think.”

“Now blink on.”

“He's got much older now. He's tottering around a large building. Looks like some kind of factory. An angry man in long, grey overalls is pointing his arm in the direction of the factory gates. Two other tough-looking men appear. There's a fight! Well, more of a scuffle really. He's now being escorted off the factory premises.”

“Now what do you see?”

“Well, I can't see any more colourful pictures. That is a great trick, Eldritch. Just like the real movies. You could be Jack Lemmon in the film 'Bell, Book and Candle'.”

“Do not digress so much, my Young Friend. Tell me what you can see now.”

“I can't see anything or rather I can just see that old tramp, Smith, mumbling to himself. Cursing. Sitting up against the Bell-Tower wall and swigging from his broken bottle … ”

“All these colourful pictures that you saw were of the tramp, Smith, at different times of his life.”

“Really!”

“Yes, really, Young One.”

“But he was a fighting soldier, he was a young boy. He had a wife and a child. That woman … ”

“Exactly! At different times people loved and respected him. Relied on him. Looked up to him. He was admired and adored. But now his course is run. He is old, alone, drunk, mentally unstable and uncared for. Old bodies are not attractive to feel and to touch like the fresh young skin of a baby … It could happen to you, Young One. Smith could well be you in fifty years time.”

“Never!”

“Do not be so sure. It could well be anyone of your peer group in the utterly selfish and greedy society that you progress in today … Do not look so afraid, Young Angel. It has not happened yet. Our tramp, Smith, will die shortly and his troubles will all be over. Some cold, dark night soon … ”

“But that is all so sad, Eldritch.”

“Quite so, Young One. Quite so. Now let us leave our tramp, Smith, alone to contemplate the night-time life and the glory of the Western Bell-Tower. Arrh, if only he possessed night vision like you, my Young Friend, he could behold the radiant beauty of the Anglican Chapel in all its glorious, honey-coloured bath-stone.”

“What will happen to Smith?”

“He will return to ashes and dust and decay. His dead corpse will be discovered some early Spring morning. The fingers and feet all chewed up by those large, brown rats that so infest the Necropolis. Smith will be buried in a pauper's grave and there will be no one to weep over his prostrate cadaver. No passing Good Samaritan will spare the precious time to offer up a prayer in your oh so hectic and frantically busy great society, Young One. Always remember this, my Young Friend. Where there is no faith there is no life after death.”.....

Kia-Ora

“Do I have to come along with you today?”

“Yes … It will make it all a little bit easier … She won't go hysterical on me if you are around. And anyway, she likes you, she thinks you're cute. And that broken arm will bring out her sympathetic side. You know what girls are like, Bobby. Before you know it she'll be a-weeping all over me one minute then threatening to take my eyes out with her stilettos the next.”

“I really don't know what girls are like at all, Nick. The more I hear and see of them the less I understand about their actions and motives. They remain a complete mystery to me … You said we might go to the pictures if Sandy agrees.”

“Why not, brother. It'll be my treat … What makes me laugh is how Mum still calls the pictures the flicks. Did you notice that when we left.”

“Do we have to wait for a bus? We could just as easily walk down Harwood Road, it's only two stops!”

“When you've been at sea as long as I was last time, Bobby, you just don't want to walk anywhere. Stupid, the things you dream of in your bunk at night. Not always girls. I missed getting on a red London bus, going into a red telephone box. It's like they represented home to me. Like cups of tea and Woodbine cigarettes.”

“Don't they have red buses in New York then?”

“New York is not at all like London town, Bobby. Here seems so staid by comparison. They have all different kinds of coloured buses and they have 'phone booths not boxes. New Yorkers really prefer using cabs and the subway. New York is alive and exciting. London seems old and still recovering from the War. I mean, there's still a bomb-site across the street over there. How long ago did the War finish?”

“Nearly fourteen years ago.”

“Well, there you are. Americans look to the future. Londoners are still going on about the War and how we beat the bloody Germans. God, there were still ration books around 'til I was about fifteen. London still hasn't been rebuilt properly. You'd think … ”

“Here comes a number twenty-eight. Two of them … Do you think that English people are lazy by comparison to Americans then?”

“Yes, I do. In America it's like, what do we want. Let's do it. Go raise the finance and get the job done well. Here, we elect some committee which takes years debating an issue. Objections are raised as to whatever the project is. Finance can't be found. Eventually the project gets the go-ahead way after the idea. Costs too much and is way out of date before it is even completed.”

“Let's get on the second one.”

“Can't now, Bobby. It's not stopping. Sort of sums up what I was saying really. That bus driver should have stopped, this is not a request stop. But no, sod the public, I'm driving on past to get to the garage quicker and take a longer tea break … Even this bus looks ancient, doesn't it!”

“I like the old RTWs, there's a new Routemaster on the two-twenty route along the Fulham Palace Road.”

“I can't wait! … I'll get your fare. Careful with that arm … I clean forgot you were interested in buses.”

“And trains and 'planes.”

“Well, you'd have a hell of a time of it at La Guardia Airport in New York. I'll take you.”

“But you may not have a job by then, you're on the lam!”

“No, no, no. Come on, get on and mind that lady with the shopping bags … Sorry, dear, he never does look where he's going … On the lam is for escaped prisoners, not sailors. Anyway, let's keep quiet about it. Don't want to draw unnecessary attention. You never know who's listening, do you.”

“Keep shtoom!”

“If you say so, Bobby.” …

We get off the twenty-eight bus at the junction between Harwood Road and Fulham Road. We could have walked it quicker like I said. Of course, I bumped my right arm and jarred it. Funny, the more care I take the more prone to accidents I become. Mum spilt a hot cup of tea over the plaster-cast this morning. Blamed me, though I don't rightly know why, as she sponged it off. Rubbing at it like crazy. More concerned about me having a brown-stained plaster-cast than the state of my arm. She nearly rubbed out where Rick Maghoo had autographed it. When I mentioned it she just pulled a face. I guess she just doesn't like Rick, I don't know why … We are now stood watching for Sandy, Nick's girlfriend, outside Fulham Broadway tube station. A coal cart just went by and the black horse looked so old and tired I thought it was going to collapse and die right in front of us … Car drivers are so selfish. Beeping on their horns and edging bumper to bumper up against the coal cart. As if the poor old horse is going to go any quicker. All they will do is scare the poor old thing. Funny though, car engines are judged by their horsepower, aren't they. Yet that black horse couldn't get up to a gallop if you paraded a thousand pieces of sugar right in front of its nose …

“Well, you two make a fine couple standing there! Bobby in a daydream with a broken arm and you trying to look cool like you're some kind of G.I. on leave with that American sweater, tee-shirt and those jeans?”

“Don't you like them?”

“They look alright. I have more important matters on my mind right now rather than how good your American jeans look!”

“They're Levis, not like the English crap.”

“You should go and live in America if you like it that much! Though I suppose they wouldn't take you. I mean, after all, what exactly have you got to offer, Nick Clayton?”

“Oh, I see, it's going to be like that, is it! I tell you what, why don't I buy us all a cup of real coffee in Dino's.” …

We sit in a booth in Dino's as Nick orders us all coffees and I get a piece of chocolate gateau for my trouble. I can't help noticing that Nick made sure I sat inside opposite Sandy and made a show of being highly concerned about my broken arm. He's now sat next to her. I sense he's touching her knee with his left leg. She's edging over and trying to ignore his contact. But she won't stay mad at him for long. Girls are always falling in love with Nick. He's the sort of guy they all dream of. If only he would commit to them. They could straighten him out. Make a good guy out of him. Sooth his troubled mind hidden behind that attempt at a cool exterior …

“I'm so sorry to see you with that broken arm, Bobby. How did it happen?” …

I really like Sandy, she reminds me of a younger version of Sylvia Sims in the film 'Ice Cold in Alex'. Not as good-looking, but similar around the eyes and mouth …

“I slipped over in the wet and fell awkwardly.”

“Liar!”

“Leave him alone, you're a right one to talk.”

“I don't lie all the time!”

“Well, you do just about everything else, don't you … You know I had the devil's own job to persuade my boss to let me have the afternoon off. He's going to dock my pay. Are you going to make that up to me, Nick Clayton, or am I just wasting my time as usual! I haven't seen you for weeks and weeks. You never sent me a postcard. You never tried to ring me.”

“You haven't got a telephone.”

“You know very well my mother had one installed last August. If I've given you the number once I've given it to you at least twenty times … Oh, I'm sorry, Bobby, you shouldn't have to listen to all this, and you with that bad arm as well … ”

This is, of course, why Nick has got me here. I think they refer to it as the sympathy vote. Sandy works for the Sun Life Assurance or is it Insurance, Company? I'm never quite sure which one is correct. Anyway, the Sun Life Whatever Company at Green Park. She's an audio-typist in a typing pool. She sits all day with an earpiece in typing letters, contracts, memos and the like. Must be very boring, but she says she likes it. Pays quite well. Says she earns more money than most other nineteen year old girls …

“Well, boys and girls, I think I'll take you both to the pictures.”

“Great! When will we ever get to talk properly?”

“We can discuss you-know-what in the cinema.”

“All conducted in hushed tones at your behest and when the conversation gets awkward you can pretend that the picture has really got your interest, can't you, Nick!”

“What's showing then?”

“Oh, you're going to like this, Bobby. A special double-bill at the Regal at Walham Green. 'The Big Country' with Gregory Peck, Jean Simmons and Charlton Heston plus a second feature, 'The Hell Drivers' with Stanley Baker.”

“I've seen that film, it's quite old.”

“I know, Sandy, but Bobby here hasn't and anyway, it's only the second feature. You see, we can talk through that.”

“In whispers.”

“We won't have to be like church mice. And anyway, I like you whispering in my ear.”

“You won't get round me like that.”

“I like Stanley Baker.” …

We walk the quarter of a mile or so from Dino's at Fulham Broadway to the Regal at Walham Green. You would think that Walham Green was a different country and not the starting point for the North End Road market …

There's something so pleasurable about standing in the foyer of the Regal Cinema. Waiting for Nick to get the tickets. He's flush with money today so Mum must have lent him some cash from her secret savings. More like gave it if you ask me. She'll never see that again … Then the busy queue for soft drinks and sweets to take into the cinema … The Regal is very plush and posh compared to the Red Hall just around the corner. It's sad about the Red Hall. I just love the name. Gran said last week that the lease on the cinema is up in a couple of years' time according to the Fulham Chronicle and that the Red Hall, rather than remain a Picture Palace, will become a Bingo hall. More and more cinemas are turning into Bingo halls. I hate it. I mean, Bingo is so boring and anyway, I prefer the name Housey-Housey. My Gran goes to the Bingo with Missus Gumby. Just a meeting place for old ladies, I guess, but some of the money prizes are quite large. Auntie Vi won all of fifty pounds the other month …

“I tell you what, Bobby, you sit on the end of the row so as no-one can sit on your right-hand side and bang into that arm. Just watch out for that usherette, she looks quite wobbly on her high heels. I'll sit in the middle, it'll give us a chance to talk about you-know-what, okay?”

I nod and smile. The house-lights are still up. What else is there to do. Even though it's a mid-week matinee showing the Regal is still about a third full downstairs. Upstairs the two-and-sixes look deserted from the front row balcony. That's where I really love to sit. Where I watched 'The Searchers' from … Sandy keeps passing the Payne's Poppets along and her and Nick start talking. Before the first film has even started, this woman with a big neck in front of us turns herself around and snarls 'Sssh' … Nick's getting annoyed and puts his right foot up on the back of her seat. She turns back round again and glares at him. Mutters something about 'louts' and 'sluts', somehow raises her colossal bulk up and moves to another row, all the while muttering and looking all about her. If she'd been an extra in 'The Searchers' she would have been scalped by the Comanches … Payne's Poppets are very moreish. It's like a relay shuffle coming down the line at me. One Poppet leads to the next and pop, straight into the mouth as the house-lights go down and Stanley Baker appears as a new Hell Driver in competition with sneering baddie, Patrick McGoohan. I quite like this film, but it is all too obvious. A British black and white cheapie production though I find Peggy Cummins more attractive than Jill Ireland, and Sid James from 'Hancock's Half Hour', my favourite radio show, is in it …

“What do you intend to do then, Nick Clayton?”

“Not so loud.”

“Afraid people might hear?”

“No, no, it's just … Look, we are far too young to get married and I'm not ready to start a family just yet and neither are you.”

A woman two rows forward in front of us and wearing a pill-box-style hat is showing an interest and cocking an ear. I mean, why would you come to a cinema and wear a hat. If it was a pull-down-to-your-ears-style hat I could understand that. But a pill-box hat is never going to protect you from any draughts in here.

“So you don't want to marry me then.”

“I never said that, did I!”

The woman in the pill-box-style hat is starting to show more interest in us than 'The Hell Drivers' which says a lot about the film. All the usual faces like William Hartnell, Gordon Jackson and Herbert Lom. Everyone trying so hard to look tough and mean, but somehow off-kilter …

“You've put me up the spout, Nick Clayton, and it's up to you to do something about it!”

“Keep your voice down, Sandy, people are looking.”

Nick's right. The woman in the pill-box-style hat has swivelled her neck a full ninety degrees at the sound of 'up the spout'. You can see her brain whirring in the dark though it's not really that dark because Stanley Baker is driving fast in a haulage truck to beat nasty Patrick McGoohan clean across the decorative walls of the Regal Cinema. Peggy Cummins is making eyes at Stanley Baker as the secretary-cum-accounts lady and Herbert Lom looks like he's about to die in yet another movie.

“What exactly do you propose then? Some backstreet abortion job. I'm nearly three months pregnant! … Well?”

You can sense that the plot taking place here is gaining momentum with members of the audience. All staring straight ahead at Stanley Baker and the Hell Drivers with ears straining hard to catch the next instalment.

“Mum has promised she will lend me the money. I'm meeting Johnny Fuller tonight in the Durrell Arms. He will have a name and a 'phone number for me.”

“That's just great! You bring me here. Sit me in the dark, then casually tell me you don't love me and propose an illegal abortion!”

“I never said that. I do love you, Sandy. But just right now … ”

“Words are cheap, Nick Clayton.”

“Please don't broadcast my name.”

No more Payne's Poppets coming down the line. A couple of people have half-heartedly said 'Sssh', but they don't really mean it. They want to hear more. 'Hell Drivers' got nothing on this …

The usherette is shining a torch down along our row. We all have to stand up to allow an elderly, late-coming couple through. Their heads bob across the screen just as Stanley Baker is revealing to Peggy Cummins that he's fresh out of prison which is why he doesn't have proper employment cards … Why do they have to sit in our row with oceans of the Regal Cinema to choose from. Muffled 'Sorry, sorry, excuse me, excuse me please' …

“What if I want to keep it.”

“Will that bloke, Ted Whatshisname, want to marry you then?”

“Great! You want to pass me and the child off onto my second cousin, Ted. What's he supposed to think then. I don't bloody well love him and you damn well know it! I should never have come today. You're a hurtful bastard, Nick Clayton. You've had your fun and now you're going to dump me! I suppose you found some American beauty in New York and promised her the earth.”

“Shame on you!” from three rows back and I don't think it's directed at baddie Patrick McGoohan who, of course, has got his comeuppance in true British black and white cinematic style … Nick is having to hold Sandy down to stop her from leaving …

“Not in front of Bobby, please. Can't we be civilised about this and talk sensibly.”

“That's right, you use young Bobby for cover! What's so civilised about an illegal abortion, I'd like to know! … Will you come with me and hold my hand? Help flush the poor unborn baby away down the sewers or feed it to the pigs on some out of the way farm in Essex!”

“Don't be so disgusting, Sandy! You know very well … ”

“You're an animal!” sounds from three rows back. This performance by Nick is making Patrick McGoohan look like a saint by comparison. All the Hell Drivers have driven off far away as the cockerel crows to announce the Pathe Newsreel. Nick shoots off to buy ice creams and drinks from the usherette who is doubling up as the ice-cream lady … Sandy is crying silently. She's slipped into Nick's seat next to mine and has taken my left hand in hers. I feel helpless at this moment, but just let her hold my hand. All I can think of is, if only this was Janice May I would be in seventh heaven and 'Hell Drivers' would have been a wonderful picture …

Nick returns clutching his choc-ice, a raspberry parfait for me. Sandy only wanted a Kia-ora Orange Sunkist. Miss Parker once told me that Kia-Ora means 'I love and respect you' in Maori. But I can't quite work out how one word can mean so many …

The newsreel seems to take forever. The upper-class, deep Englishman's voice chiming out across the Regal Cinema … ”The British government has decided to revoke the existing constitution of Malta and replace it temporarily with a Governor's Council” … Flashing black and white pictures now, a shot of a launching rocket … ”Moscow radio has announced that a rocket has been successfully launched towards the Moon. Just two days later it was stated that the rocket has passed over the Moon and will now go into orbit around the Sun … ”

I can't help thinking that this Russian rocket will burn up … Sandy has moved back into her seat, but is still very upset and making a loud sucking noise with her straw and the Kia-Ora orange juice. I love and respect you doesn’t seem quite appropriate as of this moment. Miss Parker has a cousin living in Wellington. I fear she will emigrate to New Zealand … At last, the sports news on the Pathe Newsreel … ”Manchester United were beaten by third division side Norwich City in the third round of the F.A. Cup.” … Fans spinning their rattles resound clicking around the Regal Cinema as a supporter dressed up as a canary parades on the Norwich City pitch at Carrow Road …

At last, the United Artists' trademark announces the start of 'The Big Country'. Some movies you can get very excited about from the posters and the write-ups and film reviews. I don't feel like this about 'The Big Country' which is a good thing really because I find this film useless and flat from the very off. It isn't that I'm not a particular fan of Gregory Peck either, I don't really like John Wayne with that mincing-style walk, but even he couldn't ruin 'The Searchers'. This film is flat to the screen for all the technirama colour and no real action. The cinema goers in the Regal are waiting for the real action to happen.

“You haven't said anything for the last fifteen or so minutes. Am I being ignored? Look, if it will make you feel any better, hit me. Go on. Give me a good slap. Pinch my arm, why don't you. Kick me in the shins. Please say something! I can't stand it when you won't communicate with me, Sandy!”

“I feel badly let down and depressed now. We just haven't got a prayer here, have we. Not a cat in hell's chance!”

“We?”

“Yes, you remember, Nick, your unborn child who's starting to squirm here a little at the thought of you.”

“He may turn out like Bobby here, but without all the lying.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, brother.”

“Oh, I see, so you've become all-powerful now, Nick, and can successfully predict the sex of your unborn, illegitimate child!”

“Just where do you get all these words from? You're as bad as Bobby here. I feel like I'm squeezed in between two dictionaries today!”

“Sssh! … Will you people keep quiet! We are trying to watch this film back here!”

“Keep your hair on, sunshine.”

“Why, you … ”

“He didn't mean it. I'm sorry. We apologise.”

“We sympathise, Miss.”

“Never say you're sorry, Sandy.”

“What?”

“I said never say … you heard me.”

“That should be your motto, Nick. Never say you're sorry.”

“Well … will you?”

“I … we … have no bloody choice in the matter, do we. I can't afford to lose my job.”

“Have you told your parents or that sister of yours?”

“No. You plus Bobby are the only ones that know.”

“And us,” squeaks a voice from three rows back …

I'm getting embarrassed watching this film. I can feel my face turning red. I always seem to blush at the slightest excuse. I wonder if blushing is really some kind of disease. Maybe I just live with some kind of hidden guilt. My Nan says that it may be a carry over from a past existence. I'm not sure about that. I don't really know what to believe just yet. Have we all lived before? It doesn't seem likely, does it. One thing I am sure about is that if Gregory Peck had ever lived before he certainly wasn't an actor. Jean Simmons of the turned up nose is being lined up as his love interest in this movie. But heh, I find Carroll Baker far more exciting. There is a little touch of Marilyn Monroe about her. If only Marilyn was in 'The Big Country' it would be wonderful, but as it is I have to watch Charlton Heston who I hate …

“Alright, I'll do it if I must!”

“You agree?”

“What other bloody choice do I have. I've just decided right now! I'll do it and, if I don't get sick or ill, I'm going to emigrate!”

“Where to?”

“Australia. The Sun Life have offices in Melbourne and Sydney.”

“What about your parents then?”

“You're suddenly showing consideration about my family? A bit late now, isn't it. Anyway, they've got my sister, Gail.”

“What about me then?”

“Sssh! … Sssh! … For Pete's sake, will you people keep quiet … Here, Miss … Will you ask those people over there to keep quiet. We've paid good money to watch this film, not hear about other people's bleedin' problems!”

The usherette slinks over on her unsteady high heels and shines her torch down at my feet. Leans her over-red, painted lips and mascara-smudged eyes down to my head level …

“If you people won't keep quiet I'll have to ask you to leave or get the manager.”

“I'm terribly sorry, Miss. My young brother, Bobby, here has a broken arm as you can see and it's not easy for him to keep still or silent for the constant pain of it, Miss.”

“Oh, I didn't realise, I am sorry. Bobby, is it? Well, if you could just keep it down a bit and not upset those people unnecessarily … ”

“Thank you, Miss.”

Nick is a real charmer when he wants to be. The usherette can't stop looking at his smiling features. Lingers a second or so longer than she should, keeping his blue-eyed contact …

I'm now cast as the trouble-maker. Well, I don't really care. I reckon I could cause more violent trouble than Charlton Heston in 'The Big Country'. Burl Ives is blustering and shouting as usual with his patchy-red face and lovely Carroll Baker is cast as the bad girl yet again. This is going to be a long, slow watch. Boring soundtrack. I want a loud trumpet to sound. Comanches in the night burning out a homestead. Burt Lancaster shooting it out with Gary Cooper in 'Vera Cruz' and how I wish Burt Lancaster had won the gunfight and not leaden, stiff, Gary Cooper.

“I think it's really for the best, luv.”

“Oh, it's luv now, Nick Clayton, is it!”

“We've got your name, young man.”

Sandy quickly presses her right arm around Nick's shoulder and keeps him from jumping up and leaping three rows back to dish out some instant retribution. Something that is probably going to take Gregory Peck at least another hour to work out and then react. Yawn … yawn … yawn …

“Thanks, Sandy. Nosy bastard. I've a good mind to … ”

“Now, now, one organised death a day should be enough for us.”

“You'll never, ever forgive me for this, will you.”

“How can I?”

“We can still be good friends, can't we?”

“In your dreams, Nick Clayton.”

“Will you stop saying my name. The entire audience of the Regal Cinema is probably going to leave this film and go straight to the Fulham Police Station!”

“But you haven’t done anything so far, have you … You haven't met up with that Johnny Fuller yet … ”

“You and Bobby here would make useless criminals. You'd tell the whole world your names, the time of the robbery and where you were going to hide the loot!”

That sounds a much more exciting idea for a film than 'The Big Country' …

The house-lights eventually go up after what seems an eternity. If only it had been 'From Here to Eternity' with Burt, Frankie and Monty … As we slowly shuffle out, everybody seems to be looking intently at us under the glare of the house-lights. We are the freak-show for today. Sandy obviously has all the sympathy. Nick's the villain of the piece. I'm the invisible one which is why everybody seems intent on bumping into my plaster-cast.

“Ouch! Look where you're going with that, will you! You're a walking danger hazard, you are!”

A red-faced lady with a smear of chocolate across her bottom lip glares straight at me. I'm tempted to use my old trick as a young child. Simply put my fingers down my throat, lean over and be sick all over her big, flat, ugly, brown shoes. It always works, without fail. You can't really be nasty or annoyed with a child who's just been sick, can you. Adults retreat in shock. Staring down at the dripping sick and, just for a second, not quite sure what exactly to do … But I let it pass …

The street-lights are on outside. We are caught in that late afternoon, January half-light.

“Christ, I'm famished. Fish and chips on me, boys and girls. My treat.”

“You are full of treats today and no mistake, Nick Clayton!”

“Bobby would sure like some, wouldn't you, Bobby?”

I nod and grin. Marinello's Fish and Chip Shop is right opposite the Regal Cinema. It always makes me smile. Fish and chips are so very English yet the best ones in Fulham are fried by friendly Italians …

“Did you like the Western film, Bobby?”

“No.”

“Why ever not? … Did Sandy and I upset you?”

“A little bit … Gregory Peck was useless.”

“He's a good actor.”

“No, he's not. I'll tell you why. I never believe him when he goes to lose his temper. I always want to stick a tuppenny banger up his bottom and set light to it.”

“Oh, I thought you'd like that film, Bobby.”

We stand in a small queue alongside the Formica counter top next to the shiny, metal fryers of Marinello's Fish and Chip Shop. The smell makes you feel starving hungry just standing here … Sandy takes my left hand in hers delicately like. Smiles gently with tears trickling slowly down her lovely face.

“Well, that's it, Nick. This is the last treat you're ever going to give me. Just don't say anything. I reckon you'll remember my 'phone number this time, won't you. I'll give you my number at work. I don't want you ringing home and troubling my parents. I don't look it yet and they think I've just got a bad cold with an upset stomach. Then you can coolly breeze straight out of here and go and have your wicked way with that girl in New York and you'll never, ever have to see me again. Happy now!”.....

Monkeys at the door

“I'm worried about you, Robert Clayton.”

“Why?”

“While you were out this afternoon gadding around, they announced on the wireless the name of that poor girl who was found murdered on the Eel Brook Common the other night!”

“Umm … ”

“Don't you umm me, boy! Her name was Charlotte Evans … Well, well, just look who the wind's blown in, Robert. I do believe that's your father and no mistake. Though I can't rightly be sure!”

“Don't be like that, dear!”

“I get more sightings of passing strangers round here than of you.”

“I need you to give me a hand, Bobby.”

“Well, he can give you a hand to hold, Frank Clayton, but that's about all he can do. The boy's got a broken arm in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Yes, but he's not an invalid, is he. You mollycoddle him too much. I mean, he's not a spastic, is he. Hasn't got polio or that thalido thing … ”

“Thalidomide.”

“Thank you for correcting me, son.”

“I meant no 'arm in it, Dad.”

“Now, now, Robert Clayton, I don't want you taking the mickey out of those poor bastards. That could just as easily have been you.”

“But you never took thalidomide, Mum, did you?”

“No, but your Auntie Vi did and just look at your poor cousin, Tina, having to go around wearing a leg iron all the time.”

“But she got polio!”

“That's beside the point.”

“Are you gonna give me a helping hand then, Son?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Well, before you do, you can turn that wireless off, Robert. I don't want it blaring out all evening with bad news about our boys. Two more killed in Aden yesterday. Can't wait to shoot us down now, can they … Well, Frank, what's so urgent that you need a boy with a broken arm to help you?”

“I've got a brown, mahogany radiogram parked outside the front door.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Wally drove me here in the van.”

“No, no, I didn't mean that and you bloody well know it! I suppose that Wally shot off with some lame excuse about not coming in.”

“He's scared of you.”

“Good! Now, how did you come by it? I hope it didn't fall off the back of some lorry.”

“We finished the decorating job for that Missus Sullivan over in Blantyre Street only she's clean out of readies, see. So I took the radiogram as payment.”

“And what about Wally's share? Do we have to chop it in half to pay him!”

“Well, she did have some cash and I … ”

“Oh, I get it! Wally got paid and you got saddled with an old radiogram! You're such a fool, Frank Clayton … You'll moan when I dish up egg, chips and beans in a minute. Why can't we have a proper meal for a change, you’ll say. Well, you’ll get proper cooking when you put proper money down on the table and not some radiogram … Why didn't you get me a television set instead?”

“Well, Missus Sullivan did offer me an old one, but I thought as how Mum has got one. You can watch it upstairs with her.”

“Great! If you think I'm going upstairs to sit in the dark with that bitch and peer at little black and white pictures in the corner of the room as she lectures me on the faults of our family then you've got another think coming!”

“She's always been good to us, Joan.”

“Because it suits her … Go help your Father bring in that radiogram, Robert, and don't you go a-hurting that arm. I don't want you under my feet any longer than is necessary.”

“What's that crying noise?”

“It's little Susie, poor wee mite. She cries in her sleep.”

“Whatever is she doing here? That sounds like it's coming from our bedroom.”

“I've laid her down on our bed for awhile, Frank, to take a nap, alright! I promised Maggie. It's only for a couple of days. If that's okay with you, Sir! … Now, go and get your week's wages in before it rains and starts soaking your prize possession. I only said to Doris Shilling this morning, it's just like Casey's Court around here, if you know what that means. Now, go and don't just stand around here looking gormless, the pair of you.”

I go and help Dad bring this mahogany radiogram in. Rather, I hold the wiring and the plug as he somehow manages to carry it in … Mum's right. We already have two record players. Where exactly are we going to put this monstrosity? … Another good word for my Miss Parker file …

“Where's Nick? I thought we might go for a drink tonight.”

“Robert?”

“He's gone to the Durrell Arms to meet his friend, Johnny Fuller.”

“Shame. I wanted him to come to the Eight Bells with me.”

“Eat your tea, Frank.”

“Plug the radiogram in, Bobby, and see if it works alright.”

I go upstairs and get a single. Simple really. It's amazing what you can do with your left arm if you really try. Everything appears different and slower. You can even feel yourself thinking differently.

“For Christ's sake, turn that jungle music off, Robert!”

“But it's Chuck Berry, Mum!”

“I don't care if it's bleedin' Chuck Gooseberry! Now, turn it off and put on some real music. Now!”

“Oh, Mum!”

“Go on! Do it!”

With a heavy heart, I stop playing 'Sweet Little Sixteen'. When Mum says real music she, of course, means Frank Sinatra. An album, 'Songs for Swinging Lovers'. I'm tempted to play it at forty-five revolutions per minute, but that would only make her really mad which is quite easy to do. Switching it over wistfully to thirty-three rpm … This radiogram has got great speakers. Dad's got a good deal here. I like Frankie, but he sure as hell ain't no Chuck Berry …

“Guess who I saw in the bookies today, Bobby.”

“That's where the money keeps going, is it. You'll all end up getting busted and then where will we be!”

“I saw at least two policemen in there today from Fulham Police Station, both having bets.”

“Yes, but every six months or so they bust that man, what’s-his-name?”

“Mo Turner.”

“All's fine until he doesn't cough up with the protection money and then they make an example of him. You got caught up in that police raid the last time. Remember!”

“They let me off with a caution.”

“Well, you might not be so lucky next time, might you.”

“Well, Bobby, guess who.”

“I've no idea.”

“Have a guess, lad.”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

“Ah, don't be so stupid! She wouldn't know how to place a bet, would she. Can't you do better than that.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, put us out of our miseries, Frank. Who?”

“Johnny Haynes and Tosh Chamberlain was with him.”

“Well, there’s a thing. Did you speak to him?”

“Yes, I just quietly told him what a great player he is.”

“And what did he say, dear?”

“He just nodded at me, smiled and puffed on his cigarette.”

“He's not fit to shave Jimmy Greaves's calves!”

“Now, now, Robert Clayton, I won't have any of that smutty talk in this house! Don't you go a-disparaging our Johnny. That Greaves is just a flash in the pan.”

“Some flash!”

“Johnny Haynes is one of the greatest footballers this country has ever produced. Isn’t that so, Frank?”

“He didn't do much in the World Cup in Sweden last year, did he?”

“You know darn well, Son, that we lost half of our best players in the Munich Air Crash and Johnny was left to carry the load … I'm off, luv.”

“Are you just going to leave that radiogram blocking up my kitchen and looking like some kind of eyesore!”

“I'll move it later, dear. If Nick should show up tell him I'm in the Eight Bells.”

“Don't you disappear so fast, young man, I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“I'm dead tired, Mum, and my arm hurts.”

“Do I look congenitally stupid. Don’t look so wide-eyed, you’re not the only person in this household who can use clever words, you know … I suppose I shan't see your Father again in a month of Sundays. He uses this house like it's some kind of way-station he comes back to time and again, just to change his socks and pants and catch up on the latest family news! … Now, you sit yourself still if that's humanly possible, Robert Clayton. I'm going to check on little Susie to see if she's alright. If I come back and you’re gone, there'll be hell to pay! Now, have you got that, Robert?”

I nod. I'm resigned and trapped in this kitchen with that radiogram staring at me. Maybe I could slip out to the outside toilet, but it's so damp and cold in there this time of year. Every time I cut out a picture of Marilyn Monroe and stick it up in there it disappears. I had that great photograph of Peter Brabham, Mel Scott and Jimmy Greaves, taken because they were all selected together for the England under twenty-three team. I suppose I was courting trouble, but somehow I just couldn't resist. I don't know why it is, but I find myself doing things I shouldn't and really enjoying it. Somehow it gives me a thrill. I put the photograph up of those three special players on the inner part of the outside toilet door. Halfway up and centred and double cello-taped. The next day I found that photograph in the rubbish bin under the sink in this kitchen. Now, I suppose some kind of blessing in disguise was that it wasn't torn up, just crumpled. I managed to smooth it out a bit. I kept it for weeks between the pages of a hardback copy I have of Raymond Chandler's 'The Big Sleep'. I then put it up on my bedroom wall right next to photos of Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis. It's not too bad. There's a bad crease across Mel Scott's face and Jimmy Greaves's left ear looks like it's been bitten off, but I'm not complaining …

“Hello, Robert … Hello, hello … God, you were well away with the fairies there, boy. I've been stood right in front of you for nearly a whole minute. I've never known a child daydream like you. Nick was always as bright as a button and Maggie, well, she was always doing something with her hands. But you, boy … You're a mystery.”

“What about little Susie then?”

“She's still asleep, the sweet little cherub. Though she is all crumpled up and tear-stained from crying. She's stopped that now, but is letting out small whimpers between her breaths. The sins of the fathers visited upon the children is what they say, Robert. When children wet the bed, cry in their sleep, take to sleepwalking. Well, I shouldn’t really talk to you like this, but they are living out the negative experiences of their parents' marriages. For all our problems and there have been many, none of my children have ever wet the bed or cried in their sleep. She's such a lovely little thing too. She woke up briefly and said 'Gran, I love you', turned over and went straight back out like a light. Made my day that did. Don't you look at me like that. Here, I'll make us a cup of tea. God, that radiogram, your Father's completely useless, you know, boy. Got no sense of money at all. That's where your brother, Nick, takes after him. They think the green stuff grows on trees and will just magically appear to save them from whatever crisis they stumble into each time. You know all about books, Robert. Who was it who was always hoping to luck and good fortune. Something will always turn up?”

“Mister Micawber.”

“How do you remember all of this?”

“Miss Parker says I have an eidetic memory.”

“You sure like that Miss Parker, don't you. She's the one always giving you all those books.”

“I don't really like Dickens that much excepting 'The Old Curiosity Shop'. I loved that.”

“I thought it was a photographic memory? … Here, drink your tea before it gets cold.”

“Miss Parker says that eidetic memory is commonplace amongst children. Whereby you remember things vividly because of the emotional content.”

“My, oh, my, I've spawned one here and no mistake … I suddenly know why you read all those books, Robert Clayton … You're in love with that Miss Parker and do whatever you can to please and impress her … Yes, yes, you've gone bright red in the face, boy, then it must be true!”

What can I say. My face feels like it's on fire. I'm squirming in my seat with nowhere to go. I know now what war prisoners must have felt like under Nazi interrogation. You just cannot hide, cannot pretend. All your well rehearsed lies are seen straight through and swept clean away from you. Even what you believe to be true just evaporates into so much thin air. Bright spotlights shining in your eyes and you are all done for. You would confess to anything under these circumstances. Offer up the secrets of the universe. Condemn the human race to mass destruction. Anything just to get out of that glare. Get away from that inner chaos. Lie down and so to sleep and forget everything. Disappear forever into the Big Sleep. I just love that book, but heh, I know it ain't so because Eldritch has shown me the reality of other times and places, Egypt and the Pharaohs and the Land of the Living Dead …

“You are just like my mother, you know, Robert. You're the only one in all the family who takes after her … ”

“You mean Nan?”

“Who else do you think I mean!”

“I like that … In all the family, you say.”

“Yes, well, you would like it, wouldn't you … Families! Don't get me started, there's a good boy. I tell you what, Robert, families are like a huge, giant octopus whose slimy, creeping tentacles you can never fully escape from.”

“That's horrible!”

“Well, yes. Horrible and lovely at the very selfsame time. When you're in real trouble where else can you turn.”

She busies herself at the kitchen sink. Casts me a couple of puzzling looks over her left shoulder then seems to take a huge sigh as if deciding something. Comes over to the kitchen table and sits herself down right opposite me. Catches my eyes and holds contact even when I try and look away.

“You're a strange mixture, Robert Clayton. You seem so young for your age. Nick was like a mini adult when he was ten. Always getting into scrapes. Running with boys two to three years older than him. The only boy you seem at all friends with is that Maghoo … Yet somehow you're also mature like an adult. Before I know it I find myself talking to you against my better judgement and in spite of myself. I've not had an easy life of it, boy, but compared to your Nan … Well. I remember how, when I was a young girl, these different people would suddenly appear from out of nowhere at our front door on the Peabody Estate. Total strangers to me and the rest of us. Yet Mum always welcomed them straight in without any words or questions, just took it as read. I remember one time, your Auntie Vi and I listened at the keyhole to the sitting room door. This very smartly dressed lady had travelled all the way from Golders Green. A Missus Stein, she was, that I'll never forget. She started telling your Nan about how her daughter had died. It must have been the Spanish flu. This was some years later. I can still remember the daughter's name, Clare. That was it, Clare. I kept having to pinch my nose to stop from sneezing. Missus Stein said she'd been told about your Nan. Gave her a photograph of her dearest daughter and a lock of her hair. Could your Nan speak to her daughter in her dreams and find out if she was alright. Give this Clare her mother's love. God, it was so sad, Robert, but Vi and I were riveted. I'm sure Mum knew we were listening at that keyhole, but she never said anything later … ”

“What happened?”

“Well, your Nan told this Missus Stein that she couldn't dream to order, that she really had no control over her dream-life at all, but that she would do her very best for her. That she would keep that photograph of Clare and the locket of hair on her bedside table and think of Clare before she fell asleep every night. Could Missus Stein please leave her address in Golders Green on a scrap of paper and if your Nan had any contact she would write to her and let her know what had transpired.”.....

At last back in my bedroom, able to just lie down.

“Don't look at me like that. I didn't desert you in your hour of need!”

“Who's a pretty boy then.”

“You are Sunshine, you are … I can tell you now in the safety and sanctuary of your birdcage that big, fat Tiggy, that darn cat, is probably down Stokenchurch Street way on the prowl wowl.”

“Well, bugger me.”

“That's not a polite word for a budgerigar of your stature to use, Sunshine. Someone has been teaching you naughty words again … But who? Sure as hell ain’t Nick. He's never returned. Doing his dirty death-messenger deed. Something I will never be able to tell anybody else about, but you, Sunshine.”

“Who's a naughty boy then?”

“You are, Sunshine. You are.”

Even just switching on a radio and turning a dial with your other hand can be extraordinarily awkward. Makes you realise how you just do simple things automatically. How really lucky you are. All those crippled people out there in the night-time like my Cousin Tina. Every day must become one huge effort for them. Every action awkward and painful, a daily trial …

Two-o-eight on your radio dial. Featuring the very best from the Grand Duchy. It's wonderful, Radio Luxembourg -

“You just don't know how lucky you are, Sunshine. Both legs, both wings and your beak in full working order.”

“Will you stop talking to yourself so loudly in there! And keep that wireless down, you’ll wake up little Susie!”

“Yes, Mum. I was talking to Sunshine and he was answering me back.”

“Don't give me any more of that palaver, just keep it down, Robert!” …

Now, do you just want to take the money or open the box? -

“Take the money! … She should take the money, Sunshine, shouldn’t she … ”

“Bugger me. You're a pretty boy then. Bugger me.”

Twenty-five pounds in five crisp, new five pound notes right here in my hand. All yours if you just say yes!

I'll open the box, please.

One last chance. Just think what you could do with a whole twenty-five pounds!

I'll open the box, thank you -

“Fool! She's a fool, Sunshine!”

“She's a naughty boy then.”

“She's bonkers! Absolutely stone, raving bonkers!”

Well, Monica here has decided to open the box. One last chance, Monica. Are you absolutely sure? Just look at these gorgeous, crisp five pound notes all waiting for you!

I'm sure, thank you, Michael,.

Well, be it on your own head, Monica. Now, let's take the key to open it and find out what we have in the box … Oh my, oh my, oh my. One potato. One large, unpeeled potato. I'm so sorry, Monica, you should have taken the twenty-five pounds when you had the chance -

“There goes twenty-five pounds down the Swannee, Sunshine.”

“Bonkers. Absolutely stone bonkers … Who's a naughty boy then … Who's a naughty boy.”

Would I really have taken the money? Who knows? The mystery of what's in the box is the key to the show. Keeps the audience guessing. But how do they get an English audience in Luxembourg? Do they fly them all out? Is Michael Miles secretly hidden in a studio in London and they somehow transmit the show via Luxembourg and back again? I don't know …

Two-o-eight on your dial -

Great! At last, some music.

Johnny is a joker, he's a bird. A very funny joker, he's a bird. He's a bird-dog -

“Don't worry, Sunshine, it's only Don and Phil Everly singing about a bird-dog. You won't get attacked, I promise you.”

“Well, bugger me.”

“I reckon Gran comes in here in secret and teaches you that. You sure as hell don't get it from me.”

Heh, Bird-dog, get away from my quail, heh, Bird-dog, you're on the wrong trail -

“I've told you once to keep it down! Now turn that goddamn wireless down, Robert!”

How can you not like the Everly Brothers? If she calls them jungle music I'll scream!

Heh, Bird-dog, get away from my chick, heh, Bird-dog, you'd better get away quick -

“Pieces of eight. Pieces of eight. Who's a pretty boy then.”

That must have been Gran trying to be funny and teach Sunshine parrot lingo.

Johnny kissed the teacher, he's a bird, He tip-toed up to reach her, he's a bird -

Miss Parker and The Everly Brothers. An exclusive from Studdridge Street, Fulham, on a cold, wet January night in London town. Well, Miss Parker …

“Who's a pretty boy then.”

He's the teacher's pet now, He's a dog -

Yes, that Janice May is the Teacher's Pet and Miss Parker would let Johnny the Bird-dog sit right next to her as well! It's not fair!

“I've got today's new phrase, Sunshine. What we shall say to that Miss Parker … Leave it out … Leave it out … ”

“Who's a pretty boy then.”

“No, no, Sunshine … Leave it out … Leave it out … ”

“Well, bugger me.”

“I said, Leave it out … Oh well, never mind.”

“Turn that bleedin' wireless down or I'm coming in there!”

“Yes, Mum.”

Two-o-eight on your lucky radio dial is over for tonight. Better stop Sunshine from talking. He's not that loud … Hell, it's even hard work just draping this curtain cover over his birdcage … Undressing is a nightmare and I've now broken all my shoe laces … Prop up the pillows and flick over the pages of a book … Gregory Peck is a good actor! In your dreams, Nick Clayton. In your dreams, brother …

“Red, white and blue, monkey's got the 'flu. Two, three, four, monkey's at the door. Five, six, seven, monkey's gone to heaven. Eight, nine, ten, monkey's back again … If only you could learn that, Sunshine, I would try and get us on the Carol Everett Show or Opportunity Knocks … The cleverest budgie in all the wide world!”

Venters had visited cliff-dwellings before and they had been in ruins and of no great character or size, but this place was of proportions that stunned him and it had not been desecrated by the hand of man, nor had it been crumbled by the hand of time. It was a stupendous tomb. It had been a city. It was just as it had been left by its builders. The little houses were there, the smoke-blackened stains of fires, the pieces of pottery scattered about cold hearths, the stone hatchets and stone pestles and milling stones lay beside round holes polished by years of grinding maize -

Lay there as if they had been carelessly dropped yesterday. But the cliff-dwellers were gone!.....

The Creeper

“Are you quite sure you don't want to stay the night? You are more than welcome, you know.”

“That's very kind of you, Betty, but I'd rather get home. I have to make an early start in the morning. Alec's only got leave for a forty-eight hour pass and I promised I'd meet him in Tunbridge Wells. I'd better go, but thank you all the same.”

Somehow I'm travelling with this person. Walking in her footsteps. Threading the same night air as she's breathing. I'm dreaming yet fully awake. Conscious of everything, but totally invisible … This night fog is very dense, but I know just where we are. The familiar shapes of Studdridge Street. Everything is blacked-out. I know instantly that it is wartime because no-one is allowed to show a light. This lady, Dorothy, is very brave to set off at night like this. I'm already half scared myself and I'm only the dreamer. What would it be like for real? … Everything is pitch-black, not a mark in the sky above. I'm expecting to see hundreds and hundreds of aeroplanes swooping and diving and firing at one another. Nothing. I'm expecting to hear the sound of exploding bombs. The yells and shrieks of frightened people. Nothing. The only sound I can hear is the clip, clop, staccato clack of Dorothy's high heels. How women can manage to wear shoes like these I have no idea. Clip, clop, clip, clop, resounding in the night. It must be extremely painful at first, but like everything else I guess you get used to it … We are making our way down towards the New King's Road and the Eel Brook Common. There is no-one else about. The world is deserted. The streets and the houses are bathed in this yellowish fog which is everywhere. Fog in your eyes and ears. Fog up your nose. Fog catching on the lips. All sense of direction is lost. You could turn left in this dense fog and find yourself twenty minutes later down by the River, heading completely in the wrong direction. But Dorothy must have some kind of inbuilt radar. She's very sure-footed and never hesitates for a moment. She's clutching a smart leather handbag and in it is a large claw-hammer …

I'm at one with Dorothy's thoughts and feelings. A phantom attacker has been operating in the fog along the New King's Road and beyond these past few months. He's known as the Creeper on account of his creeping style and walking gait. He only comes out in the fog. Three girls have been attacked in the last few months. Tonight is a full moon though you would not know it. Maybe this full moon has taken the black-out warning to heart and stayed secretly hidden behind large, voluminous, dark clouds … Dorothy is scared, but she's brave and determined. She promised her fiancé, Alec, and she is not going to let him down. I can clearly see that she thinks this might be the last time she ever sees him before his regiment is posted abroad. Some place far away like Palestine or Iraq, or even Egypt … She might never, ever see him again. Her Alec with his high hopes of becoming a school teacher all dashed and disrupted by this awful, bloody war. Half scared to death, marched and brow-beaten into some kind of submission by that belligerent Sergeant Major Locke. All peas in a pod to him. He wants every man Jack of them acting as one. Breeds confidence when your life comes under threat. Under gunfire. No individual rights. Orders is orders. Camouflage one's thoughts and maintain total discipline at all times. After so many months of training, this all crystallises within Alec. Even his hopes and fears seem so regimented now … Why be afraid to walk a few miles in this peasouper of a fog when he has to go and fight Adolf Hitler. Probably never see him again …

Dorothy is clutching at her claw-hammer hard now. Took it out from her classy, leather handbag as we reached the end of the Eel Brook Common stretch, now passing opposite the start of the Wandsworth Bridge Road. It's strange, I can't really see anything yet I know exactly where we are. Can sense all the buildings and locations though they may appear different in daylight. The alterations from going back in time. I'm waiting expectantly for Eldritch to appear to guide me through this dream, but nothing. I imagine his name in my mind. Nothing. I suddenly realise that I don't really know what he looks like. A ghostly, fleeting shadow that seems to slip through differing forms. Will he appear now and help me, hold my hand. Nothing. Maybe I'm here to hold on to brave Dorothy's hand, but she can't see or hear me and, if she could, she'd probably startle like a shying horse and hit me smack between the eyes with her claw-hammer … I thought that evenings and nights in the Blitz would be starkly alive. All the sky would be ablaze like a comic strip parade of planes and guns and dogfights. Toppling buildings, flying brickwork, cavernous holes appearing out of nowhere in the ground. Nothing. It's so quiet you can hear yourself think. Just that clip, clop, staccato sound of Dorothy's high heels. She's dressed so smartly. Old-fashioned to my eye, but I suppose the height of prevailing taste for her time. Padded Joan Crawford shoulders on a dark red velvet two-piece suit. Little mother-of-pearl earrings. A gloss of red lipstick and a light touch of face powder on the nose and cheeks. Seamed, brown stockings. She has on real stockings. I read somewhere that women in London during the Second World War couldn't get real stockings for love nor money, or maybe that's exactly how they got them. Dorothy definitely has some on … Am I sure this is not the First World War? I was surprised to discover recently that London was attacked from the air by German air raids and Zeppelins and they had some black-out restrictions, but I'm sure this is the Second World War …

Clip-clopping in this yellowish fog. There's a certain peculiar smell to fog. I don't know quite what it is. It's confusing right now because this smell has a mixture of the River in it and the brewery … We must be heading up towards the World's End by now. Dorothy is walking confidently as if now sure that all is alright. That heavy breathing Creeper hasn't appeared. Maybe he doesn't come out on the full moon when that white moon dish in the sky is totally obscured by the clouds. Hidden completely in this black-out of a night-time … We must surely be nearing the World's End by now. A noise, a sound, has suddenly caught Dorothy's ear. She's stopped to listen. Oh, please don't do that, Dorothy. Don't stop walking, we still have a long way to go. If you stop and listen we might never get started again. Paralysed with fear in this yellowish fog. Scared half to death to put one foot forward in front of the other. That's what can happen to us all. The actual idea of fear itself. It passes through the body like surging wave of gushing blood sending out signals to alarm and confuse and intimidate. This Creeper phantom is the bogeyman of the London fog. Scaring us all half-witless in our sheer panic. Oh, please start walking again Dorothy. I want to hear that familiar clip, clop tread. The clackety-clack of those high-heeled shoes. Don't cock your ear in the fog, you won't hear anything, dear. If only she could hear me. If only I could somehow convince her to start moving again … Well, maybe she did because we are back walking once more. It's so dense I can't even see the paving beneath my feet properly. If I wasn't in a dream I would probably slide down the paving cracks. Buildings have all vanished. There must be streets … I heard it. A definite footstep. A creeping footfall. It creeps, but it has a metallic clip to it. Like a shod horse's hoof. Metal toecaps on the end of his shoes, you fool! It's the Creeper and Dorothy knows it for certain now. I can feel her hand tightening around that big claw-hammer. Telling herself repeatedly not to panic. To stay calm. Don't freeze with fear. Whatever you do, don't run. Never run. The intense fear driving you can tell you to kick off your high-heeled shoes and make a break for it. Run hell for leather and stray into this dense-bound fog. No-one around to help you as you career about blindly and fall down flat on your face on the pavement or bump straight into some street object that you've forgotten all about. The twists and turns of the spidery King's Road …

Oh, she's such a brave girl this Dorothy. I realise now that true bravery is when people are petrified with fear and feel weak at the knees and helpless, but they still do something brave all the same. Not like the comic book action and lantern-jawed heroes, with their cardboard cut-out experiences and emotions … The soft footfall and metallic clip of the Creeper is in time with Dorothy's walk. If she stops as of now, it stops too. When she starts up, clip, clop, clackety-clack, there is that muffled creep and a sort of heavy breathing sound pawing at the yellow-imprinted fog … Dorothy speeds up. The muffled Creeper speeds up with her … Why do I sense the thrill of someone's enjoyment. I'm afraid. Scared witless and I'm only the dreamer peeling back in time except I can't see anything in this devilish fog. The thrill of the hunt. That is what I am honing in on. The chased and the chaser. The lion and the antelope. The tiger and the goat. The killer shark and man. Ageless and unstoppable. The Creeper is deriving his fun from scaring Dorothy and knowing full well he is doing it … The heavy breathing is getting closer and closer. That creeping walk is sending shivers down my spine. I can feel Dorothy getting agitated and angry. Suddenly fear turns into anger at the injustice of menfolk. That they can take their pleasure and just scare and attack defenceless women at will. No kind thoughts for the mother who bore them in pain and constant labour … Dorothy quickens her pace in this dense, yellow-bound fog. The Creeper with that metallic click quickens his stride. How can he see in this blacked-out night? Is he some child of the fog? … Dorothy is walking faster and faster now as sheer panic and dread and thoughts of Alec are all mixed up with images of her parents. The Creeper's heavy breathing is getting closer and closer. I daren't look around afraid of what I might find … Dorothy's right hand is grasping that claw-hammer so tightly her whitish knuckles are almost bursting … Oh no! She's broken a heel, would you believe it! She has to stop to take off her shoes. The Creeper stops with her and waits. My, he's so confident. So sure no policeman will suddenly appear from out of the fog. He wants to elongate his pleasure. Draw it out to the maximum like a cat playing with a mouse … Dorothy's running now. Running for all her worth. Running for her very life. Running for Alec. Running for her unborn children and the hope of tomorrow, except that tomorrow is promised to no one … Can you have admiration for a heartless, cowardly killer? A murderer manipulating this peasouper fog? No, you can't, but I now know why he's gained the moniker of the Creeper. He's running hurriedly to keep up with brave Dorothy. But this run is like a lengthening creep. Somehow unsettling and weird. This creep alone is enough to send shock-waves of panic down along the spine … Dorothy is puffing and getting out of breath. Cursing those cigarettes she smokes with Alec. Puffing on a Player's Plain and admiring the handsome, bearded sailor on the packet … She's faltering now and still we haven't reached the World's End … Panting and gasping with nowhere to go. Stifling back the urge to scream … Dorothy stops all at once. Turns around. Confronts her pursuer. Clutching her high heels in her left hand, the claw-hammer in her right, with her leather handbag slung over her left shoulder. Picking out her ground here at the World's End.

“Come on, you bastard! I can smell you! I know who you are! You're that bastard they call the Creeper! Come on out and show yourself! … What's the matter? Scared of a girl! Don't hide in the fog! Show yourself! … ”

For what seems like an eternity, we wait for the Creeper to materialise from out of this yellow-tinged fog. Make his appearance … Brave Dorothy steeling herself and thinking of Alec. I could cry for my feelings of utter helplessness. I am crying. Tears of regret for not being a big, strong guy like Nick. Tears of fear for quaking in my dreamer's shoes … Still nothing. Just that laboured, heavy breathing catching on the ends of the fog. That Creeper's heavy breathing unhinges the mind …

“Come on out, I can smell you even in this bloody fog! … I've heard you're a right dab hand at attacking young girls. Well, try me out, Mister Creeper. Try me out now or fuck off and go home and leave me in peace!”

That heavy breathing has stopped. Has the Creeper gone away? Or is he so clever he can control it at will? Does it deliberately to frighten and scare. Maybe the creep walk is the same. All contrived to convey an image that will chill and petrify … Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a man's hands can be seen in the fog. He's crept up behind poor Dorothy. She screams. I cannot see his face. He's got his fingers around her throat and is strangling her. She fights and twists and kicks and her whole body shakes. Pressing his hands of steel forever around her lovely throat. Throttling the very life out of her. All before my unbelieving dreamer's eyes. I see Dorothy swallowed up in brutal murder and lost to us. Killed in the womb of this foggy night … As Dorothy's lovely, young body finally goes limp in the struggle, a gap appears in the fog and all hell breaks loose up above … Why can I not see the killer’s face? Help me, Nan. Help me please. Help me identify this Creeper please! … Caught unawares, he moves off quickly and I go to follow him. This foul Creeper has on some kind of trench-coat and has taken a lipstick from dead Dorothy's handbag and is heading back down the King's Road. Away from the death scene at the World's End as bombs start to drop all around us. The sky is alive with flashes and explosions, searchlights and bullets. The droning reverberations and noises of aeroplane engines. A huge blast and explosion not far away from here … The Creeper is running scared now. I can, at last, plainly see how he walks. How he creates that creep walk, click effect. It's as if he has a gammy leg and flick strides it out. Or a flamingo flip stride. Sudden crazy thought of flamingoes on horseback … I'm not letting him out of my sight. Bullets can fly by, bombs can bounce off buildings, dogfights can encircle the World's End, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire all around. In the air, on the ground, across rooftops; I'm not letting this Creeper get away. He's sliding along with that flamingo-style flip, click, gait. Breathing heavily and scared of the falling bombs. The dirty, yellow coward killed poor Dorothy and then ran away scared of the Blitz. If only I had a white feather, I'd catch him up and hand it to him …

The sky is so exciting and kaleidoscopic yet I cannot look up for following behind the Creeper … Why can't I catch up to him? … Can a dreamer be killed in dream-time? If so, where would my body be? … The Creeper is making for the Eel Brook Common … I can't believe it. I can't be sure. But the murder of Dorothy was exactly the same. Those throttling hands. The self-same power of purpose and element of surprise. This murdering Creeper is the same man who killed poor Charlotte! It is the same person from across the time passage of nineteen years! … An aeroplane comes twisting and spiralling and crashing down to my right on the junction of Harwood Road and New King's Road. Just for a moment I freeze in panic and excitement and look. When I turn around again the Creeper has gone. Vamoosed. Disappeared back into the fog which has suddenly descended again with a vengeance … I only blinked and glanced for a moment. How could I have let him go. I owe it to Dorothy to follow him all the way to his wretched killer's lair. Beard him in his den for that poor dead girl and I've let her down. Let myself down. How could I do that! Just for a second, that's all, I could not take my eyes off that crashing, spinning aeroplane. I've failed and I couldn't rightly tell you whether that aeroplane was one of theirs or one of ours. I'm lost in this yellow fog and ashamed of myself. Lonely and afraid. Crying for poor Dorothy and the look of loss tomorrow morning on young Alec's face when he receives the deadly news in a teashop in Tunbridge Wells …

I'm sat on a wooden park bench on the Eel Brook Common. I can't see very much else for this persistent, sulphurous fog. The full moon has now disappeared forever so it seems along with the evil Creeper, who's slipped back into the crowded streets of bubbling innocence. The aeroplanes and remnants of the Blitz have vanished. Maybe it was all just some bad dream. If so, I would like to wake up back in my bedroom in Studdridge Street and all would be right with the world. I wouldn't know about the Creeper. A murderer from across time who is killing young women now. I'm shivering with the cold, but I can't really feel anything. It's so lovely to be able to flex my right hand. Raise the arm up and down, free of the plaster-cast. Stretch it out towards the tennis courts except there aren't any courts or floodlights at all. No iron railings bordering a section of the common either. I suppose they’ve all been taken away for the war effort. Maybe the Eel Brook Common will end up as one big, giant allotment full of carrots, potatoes, onions and cabbages. Everybody digging for victory as they take away our iron railings.

“Why do you look so sad, my young friend? You look as if you have just seen a ghost!”

“Very funny, Eldritch. You have me in stitches. You are some kind of ghost, are you not. You choose to appear now, when it is all too late. You weren't there when I needed you. You've let me down badly. I was desperate back there. You must have seen everything. You are all-knowing and powerful or leastways you pretend that you are. Where were you?”

“My young, Young Angel, you must calm yourself. Here, let me explain it for you. A gift is a special talent and it is important that you have some idea of what is occurring to you. For you are privileged to be able to see across time. Not just see, but actually experience real life events. You are powerless as you are shown all these happenings. You see them for a reason, do you not. Namely, has it occurred to you that I was not meant to be with you. That it is twice now you have been witness to a terrible tragedy.”

“Murder. It was cold-blooded murder!”

“Yes, it was, my Young Friend. A true tragedy if you would allow me so … You had to experience these murders on your own. You are seeing these killings for a reason, you must understand that. Very few people are given your special gift. Why, back in my time in the Land of the Pharaohs … ”

“Please don't go on about the Pharaohs and Ancient Egypt. You'll be a-telling me next that all the working folk living along the Nile Delta could see clearly in their dreams. That the real life was carried out at night. That all daily existence and experiences were just the exertions of workers to gain food for nourishment and shelter from the natural elements to live the dream-life where the real world happened in never-ending dream-time!”

“You are too young to employ sarcasm. You copy the thoughts and emotive phrases of your Elders without understanding that you are different to them, my Young Angel. Also, you have had an exhaustive exposure tonight. You have witnessed war and murder. You have marched in this unwholesome fog and nearly forgotten what this beautiful full moon can look like. You must be very careful in your waking-time now, my Young Angel. I can only warn you that you will be tempted to assume the role of an amateur detective. And this will put your very life in danger. I cannot help you in waking-time. You will be left to your own devices. Just remember that the world can be a dreadful place. Unforgiving and heartless if you do not pay it proper attention and seek guidance and protection for yourself. I caution you, Young Angel. The warning signal will be when the secrets are plainly in sight. Then you have to be extremely careful. Be on your guard.”

“Great! After the night I've just been through you appear from out of the blue when it's all over. Just suddenly produce yourself in this yellow fog. And how do you comfort me? Why, in so many convoluted … Yes, Miss Parker, convoluted, but heh, you won't get that, Eldritch! No Miss Parkers in the Land of the Pharaohs … You go on to tell me my life may be in danger for what I have seen in my dreams. That I'm going to employ the methods of the 'Great Detective' and attempt to deduce who this savage murderer of young women is. By my doing this, I could well draw unwanted attention to myself and probably put at risk members of my own family. Now, have I got that just about right, Eldritch, or am I missing something? I may only be dreaming, but I am sat on a damp, wooden bench in the fog with splinters digging into my bum. Apparently I'm sat in the Blitz during the Second World War, I'm not supposed to feel any pain and now you tell me to be extra careful in my waking world because I'm in mortal danger and you can't help me. Marvellous!”

“What do you wish for, Young Angel?”

“That's good! What do I wish for? Heh … Janice May to kiss me on the lips. Miss Parker to give me a thousand gold stars. Jimmy Greaves to score another four goals against Portsmouth this coming Saturday, just like last year. To see Alfred Hitchcock’s latest film, 'North by Northwest', when it's released later this year. England as the MCC to thrash Australia in the Fourth Ashes Test Match down under. Brian Holt and Stuart Spear to instantly disappear down unguarded manholes and never be seen of again … ”

“But what do you really want, Young Angel?”

“I really,” sniffle … sniffle … ”wish that I could understand and somehow reverse the deaths of poor Charlotte and lovely, young Dorothy. That I didn't have to go through all this painful experience in waking-time. That my right arm wasn't really broken, but heh, as my Nan says, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride … ” sniffle … sniffle …

“Very well, my Young Friend. I am going to show you a pleasant experience before you awaken. Lovely images to remind you of the glorious beauty of the world. To remind you how all the living dead envy you.”

“The dead envy me? … Why?”

“Ah ha! You live in the unknown, Young Angel. Fresh experiences are yours to behold in each living second. You don't know when you are going to die. Life is a journey of fantastic mystery and sensual experience. The living dead slumber and can only watch. Some like myself, Young Angel, are trapped in limbo-time. Living in the Shadowlands without proper form or substance. Waiting to be released from the burden of our karma. You possess life with breath and the joy of youth and that is to envy … Close your eyes now, Young Angel, and come with me. Let us leave this damp and the fogbound night behind. Leave these civilised people to their Great War and mass killings and travel to other times and tides … ”

I awaken from my deathly dream and seem to be taken by the right hand by Eldritch. I can't rightly feel any kind of touch, but welcome the warmth and knowledge …

It is a hot, summer's day in Memphis in the Land of the Pharaohs. Today is a much anticipated public festival. Huge crowds line the tree-laden streets of Memphis. Endless files and files of gleaming soldiers marching past. They seem dressed in what look like chain-mail skirts to me. Half-naked upper bodies glistening, holding glinting spears. All adorned with glorious-looking, golden helmets that sparkle and shine and seem to excite this huge, pulsating crowd who are squeezing forward to see them. Everywhere the buzz of excitement on the hot summer air. These splendidly-clad soldiers are followed by parades of nobles all bedecked out in beautifully embroidered robes of purple, crimson and gold. These aristocratic-style parades seem to take forever to pass by. But I don't mind. I'm enjoying the bright light and heat so much and the goodly nature of this massive crowd. The delicious smells of hot meats and pastries and sweet perfumes dancing on the very air. All the lovely, young girls with their heavily made-up, dark eyes and the breathless, laughing, sunny, festive children are so beautiful. So lovely to behold. The parade of nobles has at last been completed and a giant hush descends over this colossal crowd. The important moment of the festival day. I can even sense Eldritch tense beside me. Along this main thoroughfare, guarded by lines and lines of spear-carrying soldiers, appears a golden chariot drawn by two enormous, ruby-maned lions. I cannot believe my eyes. This sparkling, golden chariot is driven by a beautiful-looking man who I just know is the Pharaoh. He is still very young, strong and magnificently beautiful. His body and his handsome face radiate tremendous power and concentration as he is driving these lions. His body seems to absorb every movement of the chariot and he seems to stand motionless as securely as if he were the Sun God himself. I cannot take my eyes off the woman standing with him. She seems like a beautifully balanced statue. She has on her head what looks like some kind of ornament with a golden serpent. She is wearing a golden collar on her neck and across her shoulders and is adorned with gold bracelets and anklets. She is so beautiful my breath almost seems to stop as I stare in wonder. For she is only really a young girl and she is the Pharaoh's daughter.....

The Pensioners

I shouldn't really be going to this football match. If I get badly bumped or caught up in some kind of stampeding rush I'll be done for. But heh, I don't expect there will be a bumper crowd for this visit of Portsmouth. Mum didn't say anything, nor Nick, who'd said he would like to come, but now seems to have some mysterious engagement elsewhere. He's not letting on anything about it even when Mum tried to pump him. Another girl, I guess. Let's hope he's more careful this time. Why don't adults use contraception? Rick Maghoo says his Father jokes aloud that using a Durex is like playing a piano with gloves on. Rick Maghoo already has four younger sisters with a sixth child on the way. Completely surrounded by young girls. Oh Rick this, oh Rick that, oh Rick please. My sister, Maggie, is nearly old enough to be my mother. Well, that's not quite true. She would have had to have been thirteen, but that was normal in some societies I've read. I bet she'd have been older than the Pharaoh's daughter. I just can't get that dream out of my head … I'm walking now along the Harwood Road and I keep imagining that a golden chariot will suddenly appear drawn by those two ruby-maned lions with the handsome Pharaoh driving it and that beautiful daughter with the golden snake adorning her head standing motionless beside him. Dreams can stay with you for days so that you just can't get them out from your mind. Maybe you're not meant to get away from them. I've never, ever thought that before. Haunted by a dream and dream-time images. It's like the dream is calling you back. You want to just stop and stand still in some empty doorway. Hide by the side of some fragments of peeling posters advertising yesterday's January sales and slip back into the dream … Why are 'Sales ending' prices always quoted as nineteen shillings and eleven pence? Are people so easily convinced they are getting a huge discount because it's one penny short of a pound? … There are a few folk drifting along this street. A few supporters in blue and white scarves making their way to the match. It's a Saturday afternoon in January and I suppose plenty of people feel they have something better to do than go and watch Chelsea. All that energy from winning the Championship dissipated in only three years. You woz lucky, cry the Fulham supporters. But heh, what do they know. Luck. Dame Fortune. What is luck? I suppose Tony Curtis not falling as a high-wire flyer without a safety net in the film 'Trapeze' for looking at Gina Lollobrigida. That was luck. I secretly wanted Tony Curtis to win the girl and get the contract to perform in a circus act in New York. But heh, Burt Lancaster limps his way to romance. He's a failed high-wire flyer with a now gammy leg, but surprise, surprise, he gets the girl. That was luck! …

Turning right now into the Fulham Road. I'm getting used to having this plaster-cast on. Re-co-ordinating my balance. My Mum is already going on about school work. Afraid, I suppose, that I'll end up in some rough secondary school and already be classed as on the labour scrap heap. Finished for life at age eleven. That can't be so, but it feels like it. Rick Maghoo studies like crazy in secret. Pretends he doesn't care then works like stink in the evenings. I believe his Father keeps telling him he'll have to work twice as hard as any English boy to make a success of himself. All that seems a long way off to me right now. Make a success of myself! Huh, I can just about manage to negotiate crossing the Fulham Road at the traffic lights by Fulham Broadway tube station …

It's still early yet, not two-twenty, but this ambling crowd is starting to grow apace, but you would still think it was really a midweek combination match and not a First Division fixture … Ah, now it's picking up. I must remember to be extra careful, think broken arm. Not get caught up in any kind of incident. Not get carried away thinking about Jimmy Greaves or the Pharaoh's daughter … The first real sign of the match. A hot-dog stand to my left, right next to the entrance to the Oswald Stoll Foundation flats. There's something about the smell of hot-dogs, onions and mustard that makes me think of football matches. We never see any roast chestnut sellers here by the buildings. There were lots around when I travelled to Charlton Athletic last year. Hell of a journey. You felt like you were having to travel into a different city. Underground? What underground! But then they had plenty of sellers of hot, roasted chestnuts which you cradled and bounced in the palms of your hands on a cold day. Great smell, aromas and odours. Put that in my Miss Parker file. Smells make you think of places, events, people. I shall always associate the Valley with that smell … Heh, I can do better than that for Miss Parker. The appetising aroma of hot, roasted chestnuts … I wonder if Janice May could ever have been the Pharaoh's daughter? I mean, I'm crazy about … Careful! Careful! You nearly walked straight out into the road and spooked that horse. Although more likely he unnerved me. All the horses here are great. So calm and controlled, though I notice they always wait for a busy football match to do their business right in the middle of the road. That's another strong smell. I shall always associate Stamford Bridge with the odour of horseshit. I wonder what Miss Parker will say if I write horseshit in my special file for her? … Those Oswald Stoll Foundation buildings must be for the elderly and retired war veterans. I liked us being nicknamed 'The Pensioners'. Why did our manager, Ted Drake, have to go and change it. Now we've just become 'The Blues' like so many others. It's an insult to all those decorated war veterans. There's still quite a few alive who fought in the Boer War. I always somehow manage to confuse the Boer War with the Crimean in my mind. Though I know very well they were nearly fifty years apart. Wouldn't it be great if we had a war veteran still alive from the Chelsea Pensioners who'd fought in the Crimean War and paraded him on the pitch. An aged, grizzled survivor from the Charge of the Light Brigade. But he'd have to be about one hundred and twenty-five years old. Well, nothing survives the rapid march of time as my Nan would say. But the Club wouldn’t allow it. Make all our young players look bad. Well, what’s wrong with our players being called 'Pensioners'. It's a compliment if you like to be compared with war heroes. But that's an Arsenal man for you like our Mister Ted Drake. All snooty and stuck up. Full of surprise ideas and the presentation of images … The couple to my left selling blue rosettes and those round, plastic badges of photographs of the players' faces. Hell, I can't afford anything today. I can barely afford to buy a match day programme for thruppence and I had to cadge packet of Trebor mints off my Gran. She offered me money as well. Said did I want a shilling. I don't want to get caught up in that crossfire feud. A bit like wooden Gregory Peck in 'The Big Country'. I can hear it in my head. Now, Robert Clayton, don't you go accepting a shilling from that bitch upstairs to go to a bleedin' football match. Well, I tell you, she never, ever gives anything away for free, boy. Just you wait, she'll be expecting you to tell her personal secrets about us. You see, Robert, you innocently accept the gift of a prize shilling and before you know where you are you’ve become a tell-tale-tit. Repeating all our family confidences to that bitch upstairs. Now, remember, boy, there's nothing in nothing. When people give you money they always want something back in return … Yes, Mum … ”Oops, sorry” … I forgot where I was for a second and banged right into that old geezer in the checked, flat cap. I hate wearing hats. I detest having to wear this mac, but Mum wouldn’t let me out the house until, with her help, I'd put it on and now, of course, I can't get it off all that easily. Why, oh why, does she always have to buy clothes for me in the colour of grey? When I complain she always answers that 'All cats are grey in the dark, Robert'. Miaow, scratch, claw, but I ain't no cat. Not as if it was that big monster, Tiggy. If she lets it go anywhere near Sunshine I'll tell Gran everything that’s ever happened in our family. Hell, if I told her all that I'd never, ever get anything to eat again. But funny really, Gran is a part of our family too, but I did sense I would become beholden to her … The only picture badge I have at the moment is of gypsy-looking Mel Scott. But using any pocket money that might come my way in the future, I'd like to get one of Jimmy Greaves and also Pete Brabrook too …

Coming now into the home stretch. Staring up at the huge floodlight pylons.

“Hey, look where you're bloody well going, kid!”

“Sorry.”

Think broken arm. Think broken arm and I'm not a kid! Do I look like a goat! … Well, maybe I do. A young goat with a broken front hoof perhaps … I always see this huge fat man in a spivvy suit whenever I come to Stamford Bridge. It took me quite a while to work out that he's a ticket tout. I can be slow on the uptake sometimes. The obvious is staring me right in the face and I just don't see it. Everyone says it's because I'm a daydreamer though I feel more like a night-time dreamer. If only I could dream to will I would spend all my sleeping time just watching the Pharaoh's daughter … This fat-man, ticket tout sure ain't gonna do very much business today. I reckon he'll have trouble giving away stand seats for this match! Portsmouth aren't exactly the greatest attraction in the world. Pompey chimes are becoming more like the death knell peal of relegation bells … I wonder if Miss Parker would get that? She says she doesn’t like sports though she let it slip one day that she played hockey to quite a high level … Ticket touts must be illegal yet this Fat-man never seems to get stopped. He stands right in the middle of the passing crowd like some kind of permanent fixture. The few coppers around don't seem to bother. In fact, earlier in the season, I think it was the Everton game, he was having a laugh and a joke with a young copper. My Nan says that half the coppers in London are on the take, but that I mustn't repeat that to a living soul. Bent coppers are two-a-penny which creates a strange picture in my mind. Makes me think of boiling coppers of washing bubbling away on my Mum's kitchen stove. Boiling up bent policemen’s' helmets … They, my Mother and Miss Parker, say I don't possess a sense of humour. Well, maybe they're right. Though how come I cry with laughter at 'Hancock's Half Hour' on the radio with eyes watering. In fact, the episode when they all go to the cinema in the rain had me sliding out of my chair and sitting on the floor heaving with hysterics. Tears cascading down my cheeks. Great word for Miss Parker, cascade … The crowds are starting to cascade into the 'Bridge'. Most of the true supporters are here today. I reckon there are more Chelsea supporters living in Battersea and Wandsworth than the whole of Chelsea, Kensington, Fulham, Hammersmith and Putney put together. They all power in on foot over Albert Bridge and Battersea Bridge and flood the streets around the King's Road. Streaming in droves. It's great. All the bustle and talk, laughter and comments, the anticipated excitement … I'm waiting to see the first official programme seller. They wear a little blue overall-type coat and a cap with the official club badge on it. Loads of rogue, unofficial pirate programme sellers around today. I bet they con some unsuspecting new supporters every time. I wouldn't like that. Conned on your first ever visit to a football match. You might never want to come back again. The souvenir vendor with the blanket on the pavement and blue drapes on the railings. “'Ere you are, young man, a plaster-cast of Jimmy Greaves's talented little left toe.” Mainly old programmes, Chelsea wrist-watches that probably can't keep to time, a bit like our defence. Plastic-banded caps, photographs, bunting, mugs … The thing with humour is I don't think people that tell jokes are funny. Danny O'Shea is always telling jokes in the school-yard and you are expected to laugh. If you don't get the supposed punchline you're taken as some kind of simpleton because the penny didn't drop and you didn’t get it. I had the funny idea that people who tell jokes don't have a real sense of humour and that's the way they try and make up for it. I've heard loads of smutty jokes about Marilyn Monroe. I guess she wouldn't mind. I don't find them funny. People are always making jokes about her big tits. I just find her wonderful and beautiful and a great actress. People think I'm mad if I say so. I find it better to keep it to myself. Keep shtoom …

The St John's Ambulance people in their black uniforms outside the ground rattling their collection boxes. They all attend the matches for free. They always look very odd to me. The older boys all wearing National Health glasses. All strange shapes and sizes. Now, I shouldn't be like that. My Nan would have a go at me for that and she would be right. But they still all seem peculiar to me … At last, reaching opposite the 'Rising Sun' public house. No huge crowds at the main gate. At last, a real programme seller. Having to be so careful with my broken arm. People take no notice. Don’t really care enough to get out of the way properly … Oh no, I've dropped my thruppeny bit! … So hard to pick it up left-handed. “Thank you … Thank you” … Now, at least I have the official match day programme … I broke out in a cold sweat when I dropped that thruppeny piece, they are so difficult to pick up. How many sides is it? Eight or twelve? For some odd reason, thruppeny pieces always remind me of that card game, Newmarket, and I don’t quite know why … Take my time. No rush. Now I have to look at all these turnstiles and see which one is the least busy and go there. Bad injuries make you think in different ways. It must be awful to be in a wheelchair. You only think of these things when you're injured yourself. As soon as you're better it all goes away again as if it never, ever happened and you go back to ignoring the disabled as if they don't really exist. All the good folk running Scout Troops, Boys' Brigades and the St John's Ambulance service look very peculiar. Not in the mainstream of society. But they are the real people, not phantom killers of innocent young girls or Fat-man ticket touts on the make. Pirate programme sellers sifting the unsuspecting … Jokes. I don’t find many comedians that funny either … Careful now, careful. Slide along this side wall. This open area of the main entrance to Stamford Bridge must be the biggest in the country … All the signs up advertising next Monday's Dog Meeting. I hate the dog track around the pitch. One day, just for fun, they should hold a football match and a dog meeting both at the very same time though I guess the greyhounds might get scared and run off the track. Knowing our bunch of players they'd be more interested in the gambling and the dogs than a game of football … Careful now, ease along this side wall. Mind that policeman's horse. No long queues … I don't find Ted Ray funny or Monkhouse and Goodwin. Jimmy Edwards leaves me stone cold. I don't really get the Goons though I like Peter Sellers. It's situations that are funny like Tony Hancock's house in East Cheam or someone like Tommy Cooper who's funny and makes you laugh just when you look at him. I saw him on my Gran's telly. Catchphrases … ”Sorry, Mister”. I've just apologised for a man stepping on my foot. Miss Parker says it's the English disease of the day. We apologise for having been a great Empire. We apologise for once being a rich and successful country. If someone shot you dead, before you collapsed and hit the ground you'd utter 'sorry' as if the shooter hadn't intended it … Al Read. What's his catchphrase? … Got it! 'Ju … ju … just a minute … I said … ju … ju … just a minute'. I like the way he does that comic sketch in a football crowd, also the drunk in the police station. Now, Al Read is very funny … I thought I just saw my cousin Roy, the only other Chelsea fan in the family. I must've been mistaken. He only usually goes to midweek combination games. He can't stand huge crowds, they're supposed to bring on his asthma … I do that quite often. Mistake something I've dreamt for a daytime experience. Maybe I saw Roy in a dream recently. I mean, I'm awake in all my major dreams, I do believe, but there are many other minor dreams all jumbled up together and they confuse. I don't think I've ever heard a joke in my dreams and I can't remember ever really laughing out loud. A quiet smile maybe. A look of pleasure perhaps that brings on a grin, but not an Al Read laugh out loud giggle experience … Here's a turnstile right on the end to the left of the main entrance with only a couple of folk queuing. Hard to get through that slow, thick click, with a broken arm. I wonder if this turnstile keeper would open it up for me and let me through. Can he do that? … Now, the present Chelsea football team make me laugh. They are hysterically funny a lot of the time. It's as if they have been taking lessons from Bertrand Mill's circus at Olympia. All jokers and clowns excepting the few really good players and Jimmy Greaves, of course …

“Where's your money, son? … C'mon, we haven't got all day to wait for you!”

“Sorry … There I go again.”

“Wot!”

“I'm having trouble getting the ninepence out from my pocket.”

“Hurry up there, can't you! We want to see this game today not tomorrow!”

“C'mon, lad, you're causing a hold-up in the queue, we haven't got all day!”

“Can you open the turnstile for me?”

“No, I bleedin' well can't!” You should have somebody with you! Stand up on tiptoe and ease yourself through … C'mon, hurry up for Christ-sakes!”

Click … click … click …

Somehow I'm in the ground. I'm exhausted and the match hasn't even kicked off yet. Now I've got to walk all the way along the back of the main stand and get to the other side opposite the Shed End … Walking along the length of the main stand. All these big, rich men in their overcoats and suits, just the odd woman with them, usually in a fur coat. Nobody taking any notice of me as I skirt around the main thrust of people. Keeping to the right and railings by the railway track for the District Line. I read the other day in a wonderful book in the Fulham Library that where these train tracks are now used to be the Kensington Canal … Keep focused. Got to think broken arm … All the lettered entrances to the stand on my left-hand side. Would I like to sit down in a seat in the main stand and watch a match? No, I wouldn't. I just love standing up. You can move around if you don't like the people near you. Move on somewhere else … Apparently, the Brompton Cemetery was originally the site of an old brickworks and a market garden. They built this magnificent Brompton Necropolis because of the mushrooming population of London. It's incredible to think that the number was well over two and a half million people by the eighteen-forties. Miss Parker says I collect facts and store them like a sponge. Whatever I say never seems to impress Janice May. But as I edge along these railings by the railway lines … Still only two-thirty … I can see that Kensington Canal in my mind's eye. It must have been truly beautiful. The West of London and Westminster Cemetery Company, as it was known, had the Brompton Cemetery constructed and, almost immediately it was open, the railway line with the station at West Brompton appeared. Then, much later, Stamford Bridge football ground as well. It must have been enough to make the dead rise up and protest … Chelsea playing Portsmouth today and halfway through the first half all these angry skeletons brandishing scythes come jerking and rattling onto the pitch. All enough to put Jimmy Greaves off his half-time fag and cup of tea … Must concentrate. Thought I love that cemetery. Some unfinished catacombs across the railway lines from the football ground were badly bombed during the Second World War. The original view was totally spoilt with the Kensington Canal being drained. But if I peer hard enough I can still see it even on a wet, miserable January afternoon like today. If this rain persists then later on the pitch will be like a quagmire. The dog track is okay, but the pitch is lousy, poor drainage. Not like that lovely, pristine surface at Craven Cottage. Now, there is a word for Miss Parker to savour. I may not be doing any school-work, but my word file is growing and growing and I've found this week that I can write quite well with my left hand. Very slow, but my writing is quite legible. If only our footballers were two-footed. The only players in the team that seem to be two-footed are Jimmy Greaves, Mel Scott and the captain, Peter Sillett. All the others are one foot ponies. With the other leg simply for running on … At last I've reached beyond the back of the main stand. There is another old stand tagged on which is a very strange affair, that is sort of behind a corner flag at an oblique angle and always gives the impression that the builders had a pressing engagement elsewhere and went away early before they had time to complete the roof. It looks half open to the elements. If the wind is in the wrong direction, blowing in from the south-west, then all the expensively-dressed folk sitting in the front of that old stand will get drenched. I say old stand, but I don't believe any new construction has been built around this ground since the late nineteen-twenties. Even the Shed for standing people at the popular end behind the goal at the main Fulham Road entrance only covers about one quarter of the open terracing, if that. If you don't like it then lump it seems to be the club's attitude. Funny though, you'd think that a rich family like the Mears who have made their fortune from a highly successful construction company since the Victorian times would have designed and built a state of the art stadium. Not a bit of it. All run down and shabby around the edges with peeling paint everywhere, the toilets are filthy and full to overflowing. I reckon this place has gone to the dogs. A bit like the current football team … No sense of humour, Miss Parker! You're having a laugh …

At last I'm behind the goal and there are still fifteen minutes to kick off. It's deserted at this end. The ground holds seventy thousand people now and I reckon it's no more than a third full today. The pitch is also deserted. Why don't they put on some kind of entertainment before the three o'clock kick off time. Get a few clowns over from the circus. Cocoa the Clown with his big red wig and huge, sparkling clown boots. Make all the children laugh, me included … It's just great to have one of these crush barrier stanchions all to myself. Normally on a busy match day you'd have to get here at least two hours before kick off to get one. Not today. It's already started to drizzle again and I …

“What are you doing here, Bobby?”

“Well, I thought that would be self-evident, as you've asked!”

“Shall we stand with you?”

“If you must.”

My cousin Roy, so I wasn't dreaming after all. He's got his best friend, Derek, with him as well. My cousin Roy is ten years older than me though, he's still at school, believe it or not. In the Upper Sixth, they tell me. Well, at twenty I suppose it should be the upper, Upper Sixth and maybe one more. He's Auntie Vi's son and strangely has that slightly peculiar look of a member of the St John's Ambulance people about him. I don't think he really likes me. Looks down his nose a bit and probably thinks I'm a mite stupid or something. He never got on with my brother, Nick, who apparently punched him on the nose when they were little boys together at a birthday party. What he thinks of Maggie I don't rightly know. We are the poor relations in his eyes. He's a bit of a snob really. Though just what Auntie Vi's side of the family have got to be stuck-up about I don't rightly know. I'm going to humour him, it's the best way and maybe they'll just drift aways and leave me in peace … Would you Adam and Eve it, I've never, ever got a whole crush barrier to myself before and Cousin Roy has to turn up.

“What do you think our chances are today then, Roy?”

“There are some great young footballers playing in the Reserves that should play. Really promising, are they not, Derek?”

“Yes, Roy.”

“Who exactly?”

“Well, let's see. There is a boy called Tambling who looks like another Greaves.”

“In your dreams.”

“And two others who look really good. A forward called Bridges and a young, blonde-haired fullback, Ken Shellito, who looks the part.”

“But they're not playing today … How's Auntie Vi then?”

“Fine, just fine. Sorry to hear about your arm, Bobby. How did you do it?”

“Oh, I fell out of a tree trying to rescue a friend's cat.”

“Did you hear that, Derek. He fell out of a tree playing the hero. That will teach you in future, Bobby, you should be more careful.”

“I thought you only attended Reserve games?”

“Well, we guessed the crowd attendance wouldn't be very large for the visit of Portsmouth and, from the looks of it, we were right, were we not, Derek?”

“You certainly were, Roy.”

They aren't going away, they are here for the duration. Nattering away all through the warm-up kick-about. Tindall as usual blazing shots way over the bar. The trouble with this ground is that the players are so far away, not like Highbury or Craven Cottage where you feel right in the action. The players here appear like mini matchstick men and it's hard to tell the opposition players apart because the numbers on the shirt are small. I can tell the Chelsea team easily enough. Every player has a distinctive walk or run and idiosyncratic actions. I want ten gold stars for that, Miss Parker. Don't bitch me and be awkward with your favourite boy. Be kind and reward properly for once … The match drags and it is starting to rain heavily. Of course, Cousin Roy has brought along his large, black umbrella to shelter himself and friend, Derek, under. I can just about keep my plaster-cast dry under it, but for the rest of me I'm starting to get very wet …

Portsmouth at last score through their centre-forward, Ron Saunders, about ten minutes before half-time. A total defensive disaster. Our captain, Peter Sillett, at left-back must have the fattest bottom in the whole of the First Division. All that time spent propping up the bar in the Black Bull pub. At the beginning of the season in the players' statistics profile, it said he was six foot two inches tall and weighed fourteen stone and six pounds. He looks more like sixteen stone to me. His brother on the other side is the worst player in the team. Always late in the tackle and dirty with it. The biggest section of this crowd on the popular, open terraces opposite the main stand, are really giving John Sillett some stick today. Our record transfer, England goalkeeper, Reg Matthews, from Coventry, always looks like an accident waiting to happen. We should send him back there … Humour, Miss Parker? You need a strong sense of humour to watch this mob. Of course, Cousin Roy is discussing the tactical play and nuances as if he is related to the England football manager, Walter Winterbottom. Every time he makes a comment I can only think of that Al Read football sketch. He makes a telling point and Derek agrees with him every time. He's avoided saying anything about our wing-halves, Stan Crowther and John Mortimore, and I for one don't blame him. We signed Mister Crowther from Manchester United. They purchased him in a rush after the Munich Air Crash; I suppose because he played in the winning Aston Villa side against them in the F.A.Cup final the previous year. Well, they must have regretted it instantly and probably couldn't quite believe their luck when our ever-so-astute manager, Mister Drake, came in for him and paid good money. I won't go on about him, simply to say he is the most useless, dirtiest player I have ever seen. And even at age ten, I've seen a few. I'm not very good at football and can just about keep a football up ten times at best when I try some ball control, but I reckon that's at least five times more than big nose, John Mortimore, can manage. In amongst this shambles of a defence, Mel Scott, plays like a dream at centre-half. If it wasn't for him we'd be conceding ten goals a game …

It really starts to pour with rain for all it's worth at half-time. Cousin Roy with Friend Derek in tow disappear who knows where. But, unlike our defence, they return for the second half. I'm not encouraging them at all, but they just won't go away. I mean, I doubt if there's twenty-five thousand people in this huge, cavernous stadium. They've got virtually the whole of the Brompton Road end to choose from … I'm getting ratty as my Nan would say because even with this mac on I am starting to get soaked to the skin … Our defence are good-for-nothing and have just conceded a second goal at the Shed End. A penalty to Portsmouth that useless John Sillett gave away. A stonewaller and Cousin Roy tells me that Peter Harris scored it. I can't really see that well for the blinding rain. Miss Parker keeps telling me that I need glasses and should go for an eye test, but I don't want to wear glasses in front of Janice May … No sooner have Portsmouth scored that penalty than Jimmy Greaves beats two men brilliantly on the edge of the box, including old England star, Jimmy Dickenson, and scores a superb goal with his left foot. He is a magic man. Without him we'd be cannon fodder every week and get relegated, I'm sure of it … Suddenly, out of nothing really, with about fifteen minutes to go, Ron Tindall, our Third Division class centre-forward, powers in a Peter Brabrook cross with his head and I'm left to eat my own words as Cousin Roy extols some tactical virtue and Friend Derek agrees … When the newspapers came up with the phrase 'Yes Man' they must have had Friend Derek in mind …

The pitch is now sodden, heavy and very muddy. The players seem to have lost all interest. Agreed amongst themselves on the result and the rest of the game peters out into a tame draw … Cousin Roy and best friend, Derek, leave a good ten or so minutes before the end to avoid the crush. I suppose they are afraid of pushing crowds after only attending Reserve games …

I stand and wait on my own in the rain. How could we only draw with Portsmouth! Well, it could have been worse, I suppose. We may very well have lost. We were two nil down for over a minute. But I'm pleased I came. I've eaten all my Trebor mints and, even if our defence is too slow to catch a cold, I enjoyed it in parts. The only person who's likely to have caught a cold around here today is me. But that's the price you have to pay for pleasure, I guess.....

The Angel of Lies

“Jesus Christ, Robert Clayton, just look at the state of you! … C'mon, come over by the electric fire, let me help you get that mackintosh off … You're soaked right through to the skin … You crazy boy! And all for the sake of a game of football; you men want your heads examined, you really do … Just look at him, Nick, he looks like a drowned rat. You are going to have to go and change all of your wet clothes. Those shoes of yours are squelching. Just look at the muddy footmarks you've made all over my nice new lino. You should have wiped your feet properly at the front door!”

“If I could just sit for awhile and hear some of the Sports Report on the radio then I'll go and get changed later … ”

“Now please, Mister. I'm not having you sat in my kitchen steaming away. That's how people get really ill. Just like your poor Uncle Jonty who you never, ever met. Never dried himself off properly. Something more important to do. Caught a bad chill, turned in days to pneumonia and within a week he was dead.” Clicks her fingers. “Just like that … You've been to the football against my wishes and now you want to listen to the football on the wireless as well. What do you think this house is? … A bloody sports club or something!”

“But you like Eamonn Andrews, Mum. He's one of your favourites.”

“Just listen to him, Nick. Thinks himself the proper little barrack-room lawyer and no mistake, doesn't he … Now, go and change out of those wet clothes … Now! … Do you want me to come upstairs and give you a helping hand with your undressing?”

“No!”

“He's gone bright-red in the face, Nick. Come over all embarrassed at the thought of me helping him off with his wet pants … He's shy, Mary-Ellen, he's shy, dah-dah … ”

“Don't, Mum!”

“Go away with you. Now, Nick here wouldn't have minded me helping him, would you, Nick?”

“If you say so, Mum.”

“I saw Cousin Roy at the game today.”

“Don't change the subject and no delaying tactics please. I'm not switching on that Sports Report programme on the wireless until you've changed your clothes. Do you hear? … And what exactly did our precious Roy have to say for himself then?”

“Not much really. He asked me how I broke my arm and I told him I fell out of a tree trying to rescue a friend's cat. Just in case Auntie Vi says something next time when you see her.”

“Covering our tracks in advance, are we, Robert Clayton. Go and change. You've still got steam coming off your clothes. If you're real quick, you'll still be able to catch the end of your programme on the wireless … Do you know what Nan calls your little brother, Nick?”

“The Terror of Studdridge Street?”

“No, he's not a terror, that was you, boy. You were a real tearaway … No, she calls him the Angel of Lies. Isn't that good. Fits him to a tee. The Angel of Lies … ”

I'm fully resigned to missing the second half of Sports Report. I find that if I try and rush with this broken arm I only make silly mistakes and slow myself down even more. I've only been in this bedroom about five minutes and already I've stubbed my right toe, pulled a button off my trousers, broken what remains of both my shoelaces, sat on Chuck Berry and just banged my left knee …

“It's no good you looking at me like that. Say something. I'm not a bloody mind-reader, you know! Mind you … Hah … Would there be anything to read in a budgerigar's mind? Probably just images of birdseed and water, the clear, blue, arching sky. Predators … I like predators. That's one for Miss Parker. I … must concentrate. The rain soaked completely through the sleeve of my mac on the way home and got through to the plaster-cast … If there was a junior Sports Report show where they accepted contributions from young listeners, I could compose a match day report and compare eighteen year old Jimmy Greaves to a teenage predator … But the trouble with all these types of programmes and the like is that it's a case of who you know and not what you know. We don't know anybody important in this family. We don't have any connections of great consequence. I mean, nobody famous has ever come our way. My Auntie Vi used to clean for an old retired General just after the war. Also, I had a Great-Uncle who once appeared on the bottom of the bill at the Chelsea Palace. Told bad jokes and played the saxophone off-key. They laughed him off the music hall stage. That's the thing about humour, you have to get folks to laugh with you, not at you …

“Or does it really matter, Sunshine … Don't keep staring at me like that or I'll put the curtain cover over your birdcage!”

“I'm not a bloody mind-reader.”

“Brilliant! Oh, I do love that. Say it again. Go on, please say it again … ”

“I'm not a bloody mind-reader.”

“Oh yes. That's great! Just great!”

“Come on, Robert Clayton. Stop bloody talking to yourself in there. People will think you're going nuts!”

I can still catch the second reading of the football results if I'm really quick. I just love hearing the reader, John Webster's, voice. It's like Saturday evening is truly alive and I'm right in the heart of everything, whereas the rest of the time I feel right outside of the world so to speak …

“God, just look at him, Nick, he's actually made it! Given half a chance you'd daydream your life away and so you would, Robert Clayton. Go and sit yourself down and have your tea and, as a special favour, I'll switch on the wireless for you … ”

Arsenal three, Everton one. Birmingham City one, West Bromwich Albion four. Bolton Wanderers five, Cardiff City one. Chelsea two, Portsmouth two … -

I just love the way you always know from the intonation of the voice … Miss Parker just won't believe my word file. It might even be good enough to keep her here. Got to be smarter than the boys out in New Zealand will be … From the intonation of John Webster's voice you always know whether it's a home win, away win or a draw. I also adore that little sketch of the reading of the football results. I think it's Michael Bentine who was one of the original Goons … Arsenal one, Liverpool lost. It just makes me giggle …

“Oh no! What's this? I hate that smell, it's disgusting!”

“It's bubble and squeak, precious little mister, and it will do you good. Now, eat it all up or you won't get any dessert … I have huge trouble around here, Nick, just getting your brother to eat any food. He dislikes anything I dish up. Has all these scatty ideas about his like and dislikes and won't eat anything he doesn't relish. Faddy, I call it. My food was certainly good enough for you, Nick, and your sister, Maggie, too. It should be good enough for him! What makes you so damn special, Robert Clayton. You're lucky to have any food to eat at all. Why … ”

“Oh no, Mum, please not the starving children in Asia and Africa again. I know I'm fortunate to have anything to eat at all. But I hate bubble and squeak. It's really only old leftover food rehashed and reheated and dished up again. It smells revolting!”

“Well, if you don't eat that plate of bubble and squeak, you won't get the special afters courtesy of your brother, Nick, here.”

“What's that then?”

“Just you wait and see, my boy.”

“Where's little Susie got to then?”

“Oh, I see, you are going to protest by pretending to chew each morsel of food for at least thirty times. It'll take you a while. Do you want me to turn this wireless off?”

“No, no, please, I'll eat it. It's just that … well … I'm naturally a slow eater.”

“Sure you are, the way you wolf down chipolatas … Maggie came and collected little Susie and Tiggy, if you must know. Susie wouldn't leave unless they took Tiggy with them, bless her little cotton socks. Said it wasn't fair on Tiggy. Didn't want that big, bad Uncle Robert making an example of her poor Tiggy and leaving her out all night in the wet and cold. She's a proper little Angel that one.”

“That's just not fair and you know it! You made that up. Didn't she, Nick!”

“Don't look at me, Bobby.”

“She never said that about me, she likes me, I never touched that Tiggy and anyway, cats always stay out all night, everybody knows that. I wouldn't have harmed Tiggy. Maybe cursed her a little and put a spell on her to keep her out from my bedroom, but nothing really serious.”

“Now, we don't want to hear none of that black magic mumbo jumbo talk in this house, thank you very much. None of that sorcery or bloody witchcraft stuff and nonsense here … I tell you what, Robert Clayton, you go a-putting an evil hex on some poor, unsuspecting victim and it'll rebound on you, sure as eggs is eggs, isn't that right, Nick?”

Nick doesn't say anything. Draws smoothly on his American tipped cigarette, smiles and nods in agreement … Mum is happiness itself because he's here. All he has to do is just sit in her kitchen looking cool and dreaming of his latest girlfriend in New York. Blowing perfect smoke-rings of roasted American tobacco smoke that float across this kitchen ceiling. He's got all these packets of Lucky Strike cigarettes stashed in his kit bag upstairs. Smuggled them in, I guess … The Yanks even have to have one-upmanship in their packets of cigarettes. More attractive, flashily-designed packs. English fags are twenty to a large packet, but these Lucky Strike packs hold twenty-five … I really do detest bubble and squeak, but I'm so hungry now I could eat a horse. Sports Report has finished, but the Light Programme has this little five minute story-time that follows on leading up to the Six O’Clock News, called Clara Chuff. All about a Scottish female train engine. I try and forget the taste of what I'm eating and listen to Clara Chuff's quaint Saturday evening adventures, watch Nick blowing smoke-rings, he does it so brilliantly, and Mum, who is flirting like she's a young schoolgirl out on her first date …

“Don't keep me in suspense, what's for pudding, Mum?”

“We've got a large tin of peaches and your good brother here has gone and got us a large tub of Walls' ice cream to go with them.”

The Pope has announced his intention to call an Ecumenical Council, the first since eighteen-seventy, to study reunion with other Christian communities … -

“Blind old Peter Riley! There goes His Holiness the sodding Pope again making promises he won't bloody well keep! … Work with other Christians! Well, he worked very well with the bleedin' Nazis during the Second World War, didn't he! And now it's taken him all of fourteen years to come up with that statement!”

“It was a different Pope, Mum.”

“Same church, Nick. Same group of bloody cardinals who supported Adolf Hitler! Don't get me started on the bloody Catholic Church, there's a good lad.”

“What type of ice cream is it then?”

“You're a proper little faddish gourmet, aren't you. Vanilla and chocolate, now does that satisfy our little Prince? But finish that bubble and squeak first, please. By the time you've eaten that, it'll be Sunday morning and all this wonderful ice cream will have melted clean away and there won't be any left for you.”

Advance reports of the Governor-General's speech due at the opening of Parliament in South Africa next week forecast legislation to abolish representation of Africans in Parliament and impose apartheid on universities -

“That'll all end nastily, you mark my words. Be a bleedin' bloodbath before you know it. Thank god we didn't emigrate there when we had the chance.”

“We were going to go and live in South Africa then?”

“I can still see some bubble and squeak on your plate, young man … Do me a favour, Nick. turn that wireless off, will you. I don't want to hear any more news for today, thank you. No news, but bad news. At least no more of our brave boys copped a bullet today or were blown to smithereens trying to save some poor, innocent civilians … Yes, Robert, your Father, wherever he is right now, had a job offer before you were even a glint in his eye, with a mining company.”

“Where?”

“Oh, outside of Cape Town, I think. Aarh, thank you, Nick. Silence is bliss.”

“I bet they don't eat bubble and squeak down Cape Town way … That would have made me a South African. Trouble is they don't play top-flight football in South Africa, do they.”

“My, oh my, still haven't finished it all, have we … Alright, you can have your peaches and ice cream, though only because Nick's here, you don't really deserve any … I don't actually think it's a very good idea to judge everything on whether they play good football or not. We may well have had a better life out there in South Africa.”

“You'd have had servants, Mum.”

“No. I wouldn't have had no bleedin' black servants, thank you, Nick! I do all my own cooking, washing and cleaning, if you don't mind! And anyways, I didn't want to go. Didn't want to leave the family, your Nan and my sister, Vi. And, if we were going to emigrate anywhere, I would have much rather we'd gone to Australia. At least I've got some cousins living out there near Brisbane … ”

“You could still go to Australia, Mum.”

“It's too late now, Nick. Christ, just look at your Father. He'd miss the ship when it sailed and we are just too old now to start out on a fresh life. No … And as for you, Robert Clayton, you might not have come out as a boy if you'd been born in South Africa. Then we would have had to call you Roberta. Hah! Look at him! He's gone bright red in the face again, Nick!”

It takes me all of one large bowl of peaches and Walls' vanilla and chocolate ice cream to finally get rid of the horrible taste of that bubble and squeak. More like bubble and sick if you ask me … Mum is humming a song, I think it’s called 'Sentimental Journey' and sort of sashaying around the kitchen. She’s laughing and joking with Nick. Even winks at me and refreshes my bowl with the last of the peaches and ice cream. My, oh my, but I'm privileged tonight. I just love this warm glow of family hanging on the sweet-smelling kitchen air. All arguments and secrets disappear in the smell of roasted tobacco smoke and you're left with a warm feeling inside. Nothing can ever change that feeling, nothing can ever be like this and the beauty in this room and you just know it as it's happening. And what's more, I'm included for once. I'm not on the outside watching on, looking in with my cold nose pressed up against the windowpane. I'm a part of these warm sensations and I will never, ever forget that I knew this …

“Mum.”

“Well, young Robert, you ate all of those peaches and ice cream quick enough, didn't you. Nothing wrong with your appetite now. Eat properly, boy, and you'll help that arm to heal quicker, won't he, Nick?”

She motions in Nick's direction and laughs out loud. He hasn't moved for ages. Seems to be smoking a perpetual Lucky Strike cigarette and looking for all the world like James Dean's younger brother transposed to England … I'm going to make that Miss Parker stay. Make her regret that she's ever thought of going to live in Wellington. They say that New Zealand is like England twenty years ago, well, if that's the case then Miss Parker will only be about twelve years old and with pigtails …

“Have you ever heard of the Creeper, Mum?”

“What?”

She suddenly stops jiggling around, spins on her heels and gives me a hard stare.

“You know, the Creeper.”

“Everything was going along just fine and dandy, but you have to go and spoil it all, Robert Clayton, don’t you. I dunno, you just can't bloody well help yourself, can you!”

“Who's this Creeper when he's at home then?”

“I haven't heard his name mentioned these fifteen years past, Nick … You unnerve me, Robert Clayton, you really do. You could put out all the lights on any grand occasion, you could … The Creeper was this wicked, evil geezer who attacked young girls in the fog during the Blitz … ”

“But why the Creeper then? And … how does Bobby know of him if it was such a long time ago?”

“Last question first. I don't want to answer that, thank you. It's better we don’t bloody well know … Oh, you could spoil the last all-night party on the Titanic, you could, Robert Clayton. You're like the bleedin' iceberg of doom just waiting in the sea mist … The Creeper used to attack young women around this way, often by the Eel Brook Common.”

“What exactly did he do to them?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know the gruesome details, Nick … See what you've gone and done, Robert Clayton! I could strangle you, so help me God, I could!”

“You've pricked my interest. How did he get that name, the Creeper?”

“Ah well, if I have to, Son … He attacked about seven girls, I think it was, all during the Blitz. From memory, he killed two of them and the others managed to escape his clutches. All vicious assaults, but funny enough, nothing sexual. We had a lot of thick fog during the Blitz. Whether that was a blessing or a hindrance, nobody was ever sure. He got dubbed the Creeper on account of how some of the girls said they could hear this creepy-type footstep sort of creeping behind them. Unnerving and scary they said it was. Mind you, we was all scared. I went to a few parties over this way and always stayed the night. Slept on the floor if necessary. Wouldn’t take my chances out there in the night with that lunatic creeping about … That's right, he always attacked around the time of a full moon … Well, you can just imagine, what with the war, the continual bombardment of the Blitz, life perpetually up in the air. Everybody just sparked time, day and night. Christ! I worked at the Army and Navy six days a week. Went to the flicks at least twice a week when they reopened them. During the evenings there were parties everywhere, I can tell you. We hardly ever slept. Then every two weeks I was on fire watch all through the night. Never got a wink of sleep. You had to be fully committed to the war effort, you see, and I was an ARP Warden … And this bloody Creeper took advantage of all that. If they’d ever have caught him he would have been strung up. Lynched then stuck on a bomb-site and left to the rats as a Blitz casualty. They did that with quite a few, I can tell you. Nobody ever talks about the people who were murdered during the Blitz and were counted as war causalities … ”

“Two girls were killed you said, Mum.”

“That's right, Nick, but I can't for the life of me remember their names.”

“Dorothy.”

“What!”

“Dorothy.”

“There you bleedin' go again. You make me shiver and so you do. Feels like I've spawned some kind of diabolical mystic,..Yes, now you say it, one of them was a Dorothy … You know, talking like this, brings it all flooding back. And we never stopped for an instant. Never ever had time to think. Then, when it was all over, we just partied for months. We never had anything much though cigarettes were plentiful and plenty of people were brewing their own booze so it was easily obtainable … All the soldiers returned and it was like meeting up with complete strangers. You had to start out all over again. Most of the men never really fully recovered. They just got on with it and the experiences and horrors they had witnessed just sunk down into them. Your Father was never the same, Nick. All our precious youth was lost. Gone. We partied and partied, laughed and got pissed, danced the night away 'til dawn, but we just couldn't ever get our youth back. Funny, they always say now, look at the tremendous economic recovery in West Germany under that Adenauer. They forget that the German people had it good right up to the very end. Then all the bombing. Dresden and that Bomber Harris bloke … This little shit, excuse my French, Nick, but your brother here always gets me going and I detest it. Don't want to remember … Anyway, the reason we didn't have a huge economic recovery here like that bloody West Germany was because we were all exhausted. Played out on our feet. We'd given everything we had for nearly six years and there just wasn't anything left in the tank. The war sapped the will of a lot of people … But right now you've gone and spoilt our fun, Robert Clayton. I'm going to go and get changed. Give me twenty minutes, Nick, okay.”

Nick lays on the other bed upstairs. He's put Ricky Nelson on the record player. 'Hello, Mary-Lou, goodbye heart, sweet Mary-Lou, I'm so in love with you' …

“God, you wind her up something shocking, Bobby.”

“Where are you off to then?”

“I've promised Mum I'll take her to the Eight Bells. Try and see Dad. I've been here nearly a week and yet to clap eyes on him.”

“The barmaid in the Eight Bells. The one Dad says has big boobs.”

“June.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Dad says that whenever he goes in there, she always asks after you.”

“Well, you know how it is, Bobby.”

“But I don't!”

“That Cyril Stocker has a creeping-style walk.”

“Who's Cyril Stocker when he's at home then?”

“Bobby! I thought you were meant to be the observant one. He lives about ten doors down. Has this sort of gammy leg and thrusts it out when he walks. He walks like a kind of human crab, I guess. Creeping along. Belongs to that Christadelphian Church on the Wandsworth Bridge Road. A churchman, I dunno, always suspicious, if you ask me.”

“I've never ever seen him.”

“Sure you have. Look out for him, he's round about. I wouldn't trust him around any young girls, that's for sure. A highly suspicious character. There's loads of them wandering about. Mum's sure right about one thing though, there are plenty of damaged people about left over from the Second World War. Danger lurking all about us, Bobby, and we don't even see it!”

Ricky Nelson keeps singing of Mary-Lou over and over again. Must be Nick's favourite song at the moment.

“What about Sandy then?”

“Right about now, brother, I guess. I got it set up at short notice and gave her the readies … Do you know what? Funny thing. She wouldn't let me go with her. Got really angry when I tried to insist. Pushed me away. Said she was better on her own and wouldn't even let me kiss her. Girls! Who needs them, heh, brother.”

“Well, she was going to have an illegal abortion. I've heard people call them knitting needle jobs.”

“Who?”

“My friend, Rick Maghoo.”

“Well, Mum should have tarted herself up enough by now. See ye later, Bobby.”

They've gone. I can still hear Mum's voice echoing along Studdridge Street. Laughing and giggling. I bet if I looked out this bedroom window right now I'd see her hanging on Nick's arm. The clip-clop, clip-clop of her high-heeled shoes.

I must look out for that Cyril Stocker … Somehow get undressed and get into bed without banging this plaster-cast. Lean back and prop up the pages of the book …

'Blind – yes, an' let me make it clear an' simple to you,' Lassiter went on, his voice losing its tone of anger. 'Take for instance that idea of yours last night when you wanted my guns. It was good and beautiful, an' showed your heart – but – why, Jane, it was crazy. Mind, I'm assumin' that life to me is as sweet as to any other man. An' to preserve that life is each man's first an' closest thought. Where would any man be on this border without guns? Where, especially, would Lassiter be? Well, I'd be under the sage with thousands of other men not livin' an' sure better than me. Gun-packin' in the West since the Civil War has growed into a kind of moral law. An' out here on this border it's the difference between a man an' somethin' not a man. Look what takin' Venter's guns from him all but made him! Why, your churchmen carry guns. Tull has killed a man an' drawed on others. You Bishop has shot a half dozen men, an' it wasn't through prayers of his that they recovered. An' today he'd have shot me if he'd been quick enough on the draw. Could I walk or ride down into Cottonwoods without my guns? This is a wild time, Jane Withersteen, this year of Our Lord 1871.' - … ..

Moonsleep

I'm curled up like a ball in my bed asleep. Laid on my left-hand side with my plaster-cast resting across my body. Suddenly looking up in the dark and the bedroom window has mysteriously opened and the yellow-striped curtains are flapping in the night-time breeze and light rain. How could that window have opened by itself like that? No sign of Nick in the room … The word moonsleep seems to implant itself in the forefront of my brain and just won't let go. Moonsleep. I roll over to rest on my favourite right-hand side without the obstruction of the plaster-cast. Moonsleep, that magic moment between the waking and dreaming worlds. A semi-state of consciousness when you can't really be sure which realm you inhabit. A magic hinterland of feeling that exudes health and well-being. A glowing sensation running along the length of the body. To stretch and to feel … stretching out and wriggling right down to the very tips of my toes. You could reach forever into eternity on a night like this and nothing could stop you. If only you could bottle this moonsleep magic and maintain that lovely, warm sensation forever. Never to slide and slumber into that deep, dead sleep that leaves you very heavy-headed and dull when you awake. Never the waking passions where you always seem to be chasing your own tail like some demented cat, to satisfy cravings that glisten and snap at you daily … If I stopped breathing, the world ceases to exist in this shape and form and the continual cravings go away. But I become instantly one of the envious, otherworld dead passing out from the way-station, who slumber and watch and wish they had this divergent moonsleep. This state of bliss that cannot be canned for when you want it. You try and try, press and press, but that magic feeling eludes you. Only as an innocent child it seems you can endlessly slip into that wondrous state of moonsleep being. The Age of the Dream Time. The space-time before consciousness began. Before all our selfish cravings and instincts for survival swamped away and over-ran the last remnants of all our magic worlds. We now no longer believe in magic. The power of spellbinding enchantment … I feel so very privileged to be bathing in moonsleep time. All my wishes and desires seem to be fulfilled. I can attain and have whatever I want and realise that none of it matters. The radiant face of Miss Parker comes to me and kisses me on the forehead and blesses me. My mother is dancing around this bedroom smiling at me, encouraging me. Calls me Bobby which she never, ever does in waking-time. Janice May has appeared at the open bedroom window and seems to be suspended in a timeless place. She's gazing in rapture at my sleeping body. I love her looking at me. Yet it feels so warm and safe right now deep inside that it doesn’t really matter … It is not the warmth and succour of the womb. For you just know, in the pleasure of that womb feeling, that there is a long dark tunnel awaiting, calling you in some not-too-distant future. And against all of your unborn wishes, you are going to have to undertake the most perilous of journeys, the most dangerous of your life, and go down that dark, beckoning tunnel and emerge into the light. The thought is frightening. Why leave this safety and warmth and absolute feeling of oneness with another. On the extreme edge of a hazardous experience and not really knowing. Nothing has prepared you for this journey … Moonsleep washing over your whole consciousness, lapping and surrounding your being in a fine layer of ectoplasm … The bright sun burns through from an azure-laden sky as this moment of divine moonsleep instantaneously evaporates … I am stood quietly to one side on a busy, dusty street following the movements of this thrusting crowd. I see the moving crowd break apart for somebody of great importance striding purposefully up this street. By the manner of his dress, I somehow know him to be a nobleman and a Royal Official of high rank. In the Court he is “Keeper of the Royal Robes”, “Sandal-Bearer to the Pharaoh” and “Advisor on Dress to the Pharaoh's Daughter”. He is also one of those great, powerful Judges who sit in the Hall of Justice. He is indeed privileged at Court ceremonies to kiss the Royal toe of the Pharaoh instead of the dust on which it has trod … As he walks on past, the pedestrians salute him respectfully with uplifted arms. He makes no response. He appears to be utterly oblivious to their presence. He looks determinedly straight ahead, conveys an imperious air of superiority and walks on by with a lordly gait … He has on what looks like a kind of kilt that is finely embroidered. The upper part of his body is bare. On his head he wears a great, stiff-looking, jet-black wig which falls down way over his shoulders, protecting the back of his neck from that hot, bruising sun suspended in the aching, blue sky. He is very fit looking with well-developed muscles. His face is drawn and severe as he moves on through the respectful crowd which he completely fails to acknowledge. Behind him, a servant shuffles subserviently, carrying his sandals and a water bottle. A rich-robed merchant appears from out of the heaving mass of crowd of staring wonder and prostrates himself before this “Keeper of the Royal Robes”. This “Advisor on Dress to the Pharaoh's Daughter”, somehow he manages to acknowledge the profound obeisance of the rich merchant with the merest hint of a bow … A gasp runs through this sun-baked crowd like wildfire as an equally important person of rank and power has materialised, as a square is reached on this bustling thoroughfare. Imhotep, Chief Architect to the King. The nudging, elbowing, gesturing crowd, ten-deep lining this dusty street, are all agog. Both men on confronting one another bow gravely, bending their backs with hands reaching to their knees. Then they converse for a few moments, salute one another again, and then turn gravely away … I am invisible and unseen, but this sun-drenched heat is burning remorselessly against my uncovered head. A lingering sense of moonsleep seems to drift fleetingly across this nilotic sun as if a reminder of the cool and shade of the Underworld … Some high-born ladies have gathered in the shade. They carry bunches of lotus flowers. One of them laughs and smells the flowers. She is a Nubian and black. These ladies chatter endlessly and flutter their broad, multi-coloured fans. Their white-sheened gowns are elaborately embroidered in all the colours of the rainbow and they wear sandals, for the streets are very gritty and dusty. They all wear wigs drawn low on their foreheads around which they are clasped by graven bands of silver and gold. Gems sparkle in their necklaces which are exquisitely designed. The Nubian lady flashes her wonderful, gleaming white teeth below her wig which is set well back on her head to display heavy, dangling earrings. A very pretty girl is wearing a broad, gold armlet which has come all the way from Crete. The others all glance and admire it and laugh. They all possess flashing white teeth, glinting in the hot rays of baking sunlight … Now they saunter off in pairs across the square, they are heading down to the Memphis Quays to sail on the Nile …

“She is not with them, Young Angel, as you can well see.”

“You always do that, Eldritch! It disturbs me. You appear from out of nowhere and make me jump … Who are you referring to? I am a total stranger here.”

“Do not be so coy with me, Young Angel. You know full well that I speak of the Pharaoh's daughter.”

“Oh, so you noticed then?”

“How could I not but notice, Young Angel? I may be ancient and trapped in this limbo-time awaiting my release to rejoin the Otherworld. But for him who has eyes to see, ears to hearken with and a heart to listen to the murmuring pulse of soft whisperings. Only a fool could not see that you have fallen helplessly in love with the Pharaoh's daughter.” …

This perpetual heat seems to be forever eating into me. Invading my mind. The omnipresent power of this sun etching at everything remorselessly. Eldritch's face is right before mine, very close up. He laughs with a singsong tone to the sound of his voice. He snaps his fingers as if to bring me awake and we are suddenly transplanted away from the bustling thoroughfare to another, quieter part of Memphis … We are in an area of beautiful buildings and what appear like sumptuous palaces to me. All yellow and dazzlingly gold in the eternal heat; but relief, I can just see the deep, deep blue of the Nile and luxuriant green flora on the many-dotted inlets along from the Memphis Quays …

“Where have you taken us? Why are we here, Eldritch?”

He just laughs and looks at me knowingly. The really amazing thing is that after all this time I still cannot see his face clearly and cannot meet his eyes and have no real knowledge of what he looks like. It's as if he is a presence that inhabits my mind and thoughts and is able to implant, through suggestion, his conversation and ideas. Yet it is all so real … These beautiful buildings with their ornate carvings in this barren, deserted land and it is as if a mighty, mighty hand has suddenly materialised in the gleaming, azure-blue sky and poured forth pure water of joy along this sandy soil and blown life along the palm of the hand that stretches deep into the land for crops to suddenly spring up. Barley and corn and vegetation of all kinds … There is something so mystifying about this sun, this moment and I just cannot divine it …

“Well, Young Angel, I see clearly that you begin to fall in love with the Lands of the Pharaohs. And who, upon witnessing this wondrous land could not fail to do otherwise … To answer your hastily constructed questions that seem to trouble you so deeply. Why are modern people of your tongue so worried about time and place, Young Angel. Surely even a young soul like you can understand that the movements between Earth and sky take care of themselves without any interference from us. Indeed I can see this meddling with the elements in your future time and it will lead to your ultimate destruction.”

“Don't say that, Eldritch, we will live forever.”

“Ah, well, yes, you may well live forever in the Otherworld, Young Angel. But if your soul does not completely transmogrify and needs to reincarnate you may well find that there will not be an inhabited Planet Earth to come back to for Humankind.”

“Seek out other planets perhaps, Eldritch? You know of these things.”

“You honour me with far greater wisdom than I am capable of, Young Angel … Whilst we await this party to arrive from the Royal Palace, I shall tell you a little of Memphis today. You like history, do you not?”

“Yes, but I know very little of Ancient Egyptian civilisation. Miss Parker hasn’t got that far yet. In fact, we haven't had any history at all. The little I know is mostly gleaned from comics. Taken from my favourite mags like 'The Lion', 'The Tiger' and 'The Eagle'.”

“If only the Children of Memphis were so lucky to have one comic a week in cartouche form to read. Weekly comics on stone tablets. Truly this would thrill them all, they would think they'd died and gone to heaven.”

“You're mocking me again, Eldritch. I notice how often you do that. You pick up on the sayings that run right across my brain then suddenly dart them out at me to surprise me!”

“To enlighten, my Young Friend. Only to enlighten. I have a great need, you see, to accelerate your enlightenment for my own agenda.”

“Your selfish needs!”

“The nature of life is selfish, you must fully realise that. One bulrush grows and supplants another nearby. They do not share. A tree or plant does not offer up its water resources to its neighbours. It takes what it needs to replenish itself. In times of plenty there is enough left over to feed others. In times of pestilence and famine, only the strong survive to increase and multiply the stock. It is the way of life. Survival is not altruistic by nature, purely selfish.”

“Altruistic is a word that will blow Miss Parker clean away. She will think I've swallowed a dictionary and gone clean to heaven!”

“You think too much of this Miss Parker. You've said yourself she has yet to teach you anything of the greatest civilisation this Planet Earth has ever seen. Two thousand years and more of bountiful glory and she has not even attempted to communicate about it to you. She is not worthy of the time and energy that you devote to her, Young Angel.”

“I only really know about Hannibal crossing the Alps on elephants into Italy, the siege of Troy and Achilles, Odysseus, the adventures of Perseus, King Arthur and some famous English battles and heroes.”

“You see, this Miss Parker has left you devoid of the most powerful story of civilisation ever told … But quickly, I will tell you something of where you are right now … Memphis is the great Royal City of Egypt. The City of the Sun God. The City of the Great God Ptah. It unites the two religions of the Nile Delta and straddles the two extremes to North and South, very important in the unification of Egypt. Memphis is the Great Unifier, Young Angel. It is the balance of the two Lands, you understand that?”

“I think so. Ptah. Is it Ptah and I don't sound the P?”

“Yes, He will accept that. He will be very pleased that you honour Him so by saying His name. He lives and breathes inside of you while you are here with us. He is at one with you and will protect you from all the evil demons that surround us and wish to enter our spirit and demonise our thoughts for their own wicked ends … Do not look so alarmed, Young Angel, Ptah will protect you. While you are with us you are under His guardianship … To continue while we await. Certain parties are always late … ”

“But you only said a few minutes ago that time doesn’t matter and takes care of itself.”

“Well, at least this fiery sun has not destroyed your thinking processes with its incessant heat. The giver of life … Some sayings hold true across many lands and times and remain the same. Time is the prerogative of the female. She has a different view of it which is only natural, being the divine Mother Earth … To quickly continue. Listen and do not wander. You must learn to concentrate better, Young Angel. Memphis is known as Ines Hadj which, in your limited language, means white walls. You can see why as you look around you. If you cast your blue eyes towards the Quayside you can see some fortified whitewashed walls. They reflect the sun. Do you see them, my Young Friend? … Good … Of course, the Royal Palace of the Pharaoh is constructed out of magnificent white stone … Memphis is the City of Plenty, as befits the Royal Residence of the Great Pharaoh. The like of Memphis has never been seen before. Her granaries burst with barley and emmer … ”

“What is emmer, Eldritch?”

“Wheat, as you know it. Please do not interrupt, I am not your Miss Parker … These wondrous blue lakes are full of lotus flowers rich with fragrant lotus blossoms. All the oil of Memphis is sweet and fat and in abundance … ”

“Well, it all seems wonderful though I must confess I'm feeling strange and I know this is a dream and you are not real, but I do so prefer the wet and damp of a January night in London … Who is this God Ptah when he is at home? Where is the Pharaoh's daughter? But most of all I really only want to know one thing, Eldritch … ”

“And what is that, my Young Friend?”

“Please, please, tell me the name of the Pharaoh's daughter. I long to know it.”

“We, as you have rightly guessed, are awaiting the Royal Party containing the Pharaoh's daughter. They are going to embark on a short journey along the Nile towards a smaller, subsidiary city known as Sakkara. A giant Pyramid in a Necropolis is being constructed in honour of the Great Pharaoh to transport him to the Otherworld when his time has come.”

“Wow!”

“Yes, wow indeed. Your language is so expressive, my Young Friend. It compares with the sounds of the giant cats we breed to guard our granaries. The Great Pyramid which we will see being constructed, if the Royal Party ever gets here, is the birthplace of the Sun God. A mound overlaid upon mound over a body buried in the sun represents the primeval Mound of Creation on which the Sun God was born.”

“You're all Sun Worshippers, Pagans and Heathens!”

“Oh, ye of little faith, to quote a saying of your current beliefs … What makes life grow? What gives us light? What causes us to see? What makes us feel warm and secure? … Why, Young Angel, the sun. Can you see it? Yes, you can. Can you feel it? Why, even in your sleep-time you are uncomfortable in the heat. Away from your cold and damp. Simply put, Young Angel, without the sun, there would be no life on Earth. Is it not truly worthy of worship then?”

“Well, put like that, I guess so.”

“There are many Gods and Goddesses, my Young Friend, which, in due course, you will have to learn. Do not confuse the Gods with the prime energy source of life. You may give it name and image in your time and tides and purport to worship it. But all of your images and beliefs are but a vivid concoction of what your learned professors would term as ancient beliefs.”

“But if the sun is so all powerful then the River Nile becomes equally important.”

“Ah, at last, the signs of intelligence which I know full well reside in you, Young Angel. As I said, many Gods and Goddesses to worship to keep the demons and acts of treacherous sorcery at bay … The Lands of the Pharaohs contains the river of all life. The gift of the Nile. The Nile floods every year without fail and deposits rich, black silt far along its shores throughout the Lands of the Pharaohs. This flooding produces an abundance of crops. We are indeed rich and blessed with the bounty of life. I will not confuse your brain with too many Gods and Goddesses today, for your kind, who are so concerned to preserve the simplified image of one … The androgynous God Hapy dances across the waters of the Nile. He causes the meadows to sing and laugh when the riverbanks are flooded, why even hymns of joy are sung to honour him … Now, our wait is nearly at an end and you have understood a little, I can see. The Royal Party will be with us shortly and she who you so desirously wish to see will be the centrepiece of attention.”

“But her name, Eldritch, what is her name? I do so desperately want to know it.”

“A name is a very powerful thing indeed, Young Angel. It carries vibrations that are singular to itself. It contains a life force of its own and many evil necromancers of the Black Arts would wish to know that name and use it for demoniacal purposes … So I will only whisper it once inside your left ear. You must listen carefully and commit it to memory. But after I whisper it you must promise me for all you hold dear and true and for your love and devotion to the Pharaoh's daughter who you have but glimpsed the once, that you will never, ever repeat her name to a living soul in daytime or in dream-time … Well, do you … ”

“I promise.”

“If you ever break that promise she could be in terrible danger.”

“I promise with all my heart.”

“Well, open your mind wide and receive the gift of the name of the Pharaoh's daughter … Are you prepared?”

“Yes.”

“Her name is Neith.”

The Royal Party are clustered around the Memphis Quayside. There is much controlled noise, laughter, anticipation, excitement, all hanging on the very air … At first I cannot see her whose name I must never divulge. She seems completely encircled by beautiful and graceful ladies; whether or not they are servants, I cannot quite fathom. All the beautiful headdresses are adorned with sparkling jewels. The startlingly attractive eyes that all seem as deep and black as midnight. Every Egyptian woman that I look at reminds me of the pictures that you see in books of Cleopatra. I realise now that it is all the same make-up with the eyes drawn out in Kohl. It fascinates me and I just can't tear my eyes away from staring. It is so amazing to be able to really look closely at people without them seeing you. It makes me realise that in daytime we never really stare at people. Maybe that is why we all love sports, cinema and the arts, football, films and plays. The players are on permanent show and you are allowed to stare really hard at them. Never take your eyes from the action. Nobody glares back at you and declares 'Who are you bloody looking at!' … I just love this moment in Memphis, but if only I could see her properly …

“Be patient, Young Angel. As you can see, they are preparing to be taken aboard a small barque. Do you not see it? … Concentrate. Stop looking so hard to catch a glimpse of the Pharaoh's daughter. She will reveal herself in all her glory to you when she is good and ready and not before. Have you not realised yet that every action and every movement is completely ritualised. The young ladies in the retinue that surrounds the Pharaoh's daughter, each one is playing a role, acting out their part for the day. Study closely the powerfully built soldiers who linger around the edges of the movement to guard the Royal Party. They are the privileged warriors chosen for the duty at the Royal Palace. You look hard for servants and do not see them for, in your Land and time, you are used to everybody making themselves so visible. The act of a true servant is humility, self-sacrifice, practised understanding, all underpinned by a feeling of awe and recognition of divine worship. They are right in front of your very eyes, Young Angel, and you do not see them. They are performing the essential tasks to allow the Royal Party to take possession of this awaiting barque in true royal fashion. The Pharaoh's daughter has to send out four nosegays cast to the four corners of the Kingdom … Now the wicker basket of pure white doves released into the air. The signal and spirit of the Pharaoh's daughter enacting the role of her divine Father, the Pharaoh, is showered upon the many people who are lining this Memphis Quayside to pay homage and declare their total adoration. Eyes downcast so as not to alight on the Royal eye-line. To gain the eye contact of a Royal one is an insult punishable by death. A subject has to know his or her place in the scheme of things. This Pharaoh's daughter is not some Princess to be waved at and cheered. She is a Goddess to be worshipped and admired from afar, adored, prayed to and, if abused, to fear. For these powerful soldiers who watch on, silently standing on the edge of this crowd surrounding the Quayside, will pounce with amazing strength and vigour and woe betide any unruly dweller who should usurp his or her place in the natural order of things.”

“So, let me see if I have understood correctly, Eldritch. It all seems to be getting quite complicated. Difficult dreams are not something I have experienced before. But everything that we see is enacted to a planned ritual. It has all happened before countless times. The faces of the people may change, but the actions remain the same. A sort of study in living. So all of this is because the Pharaoh's daughter is conceived of as a divine human being.”

“Yes, yes, you now see and understand a little, Young Angel. Do not worry overly. It would be difficult for you to fully comprehend a design of living that already, by this time, has developed over a period of more than fifteen hundred years. A brief glimpse for now should suffice. We now will have the ultimate privilege of joining the Royal Party on the blessed barque.”

We are sailing on the water or rather we are aboard what appears to me as nothing more than a flat-bottomed barge with two white-masted sails. But I did note that different coloured motifs and designs are painted all around the outside of the barque. The carved golden head of a falcon on the masthead of the barque … There are musicians in attendance, mainly flautists; sounds of gentle laughter, a strange-looking sort of priestly figure dressed in loose garments with a viperous-seeming snake protruding from his headdress; constant murmuring and chattering, but everyone is controlled within their assigned place … It is so strange, Eldritch and I are invisible yet he is very careful to keep to one side out of the way and has cautioned me on at least three occasions to keep close by him. A fear from long ago welling up inside of him, I guess … We seem to be drifting slowly along. As if right on cue a small breeze got up as soon as the barque set sail from the Memphis Quay … The piercing sun in the clear blue sky is highlighting all this wondrous greenery. We are passing many small types of eyots. All the dark-brown men and women stop working and drop down onto their knees when the Royal barque approaches. None of the Royal Party acknowledge any of these obvious acts of worship and patronage in any way. It is all accepted as a dutiful occurrence, a right. I guess only someone stepping out of line and shouting or haranguing a personage or swimming alongside the barque would cause a stir. Make extra ripples in these calm waters. It surprises me that we are so calm yet we glide effortlessly along. Above us, the two white-masted sails illustrated with what looks like the image of a hawk, flutter in the invisible breeze … Suddenly, the encircling huddle of gently laughing and attending ladies part and, at last, I can see the Pharaoh's daughter in all her glory. She is so beautiful it is beyond words for me to attempt to describe her. Even blessed angels would worship at her feet for surely she is divine … I cannot believe it! She is looking directly at me. Her resplendent eyes seem to smile and strike right into me from those gorgeous, gleaming, black-rose orbs.

“You have joined us today. I welcome you.”

Am I dreaming within a dream? Surely not. But this Divine Goddess is talking directly to me. I look hastily around me and Eldritch is nowhere to be seen.

“You have come from afar, I can tell. I have heard of a faraway land of a people with blonde hair and blue eyes, but truly you are the first one I have ever seen. You seem so beautiful and unreal, but I can touch inside of you. I can tell that you are a little younger than I and have some injury that you are hiding from me. We do not have very long before I have to disembark and visit the site of the Great stone Pyramid being erected for my Father. I can see that you know very little of us so I will tell you the story of our Land of River and Desert. Fertile strip and barren waste. The Land which is above us on the River of Life is the Upper Land known as the Land of the Sedge. And the Land behind us to the south is known as the Land of the Bee. You smile so shyly and deliciously that I long to talk to you further, but I have many rituals and duties to perform. Today the power and spirit of the Goddess Isis governs my movements and I act as the balance, the intermediary between the two regions, the Sedge and the Bee … Oh, but I do so love talking to you. Looking at you. Your stunning realisation that I can see you. I want to clap my hands and shout for joy at your reaction, but I cannot. It is beholden of the Daughter of the Great Pharaoh to act accordingly. I must conclude now for the actions of the day are long and onerous, but before I go I need to see a name … You have a funny-sounding name that I do not recognise in any shape or way. It is not a name that does you justice and does not seem to have any religious significance to me or possess any magical powers. So I realise at once that you have been revealed to me today on this historic journey to witness the building of the Great Pyramid at Sakkara. I am to name you, that is my gift to you today, blonde-haired Angel with the blue eyes of the sky. I shall give you the name of Ramesses. It contains the vibration and magic of power and suffices a stranger from faraway and a strange land. Do not tell your name to anyone else, Ramesses. Your Guardian who thinks he hides from me beneath the sails of this barque will know it … For so I have to go and witness the sacred work and construction at Sakkara of our Master Architect, the great Imhotep. But for now, young Ramesses, I bless you. We will meet again and, by then, you will have become at one with your new name. Ramesses, the blonde-haired Angel with the blue eyes of the sky.”.....

Church bells chime

“My, my, you're a sight for sore eyes and so you are, Robert Clayton! Your eyes are all puffy, your hair looks like corn sprouting in a field of barley, your shirt is hanging out the back of your trousers and you're wearing shoes without any laces in them!”

“Maybe you could buy me a pair of slip-ons, Mum. It would make my life a whole lot easier and help me to get dressed quicker.”

“You'll have to make do with what you've got, Robert. I haven't got the money to go buying you new pairs of shoes all the time! You should have been more careful and not broken that arm, however you did it. I suppose I will never know the exact story with you, will I, unless, of course, I go and ask around at that school of yours and I just haven't got the time to play games. My little Angel of Lies keeps all his secrets to himself and so he does … But I'll tell you what I really want to know, Robert Clayton … ”

“What's that, Mum?”

“Why, how in God's name do you manage to keep that Sunshine sitting on your shoulder like that? He looks so real sat on your shoulder in that way, he could well pass for a stuffed bird … What do you do … Glue his feet to your shoulder!”

“He loves me, don't you, Sunshine. The tamest budgerigar in all the wide world. He likes sitting on my shoulder. He probably thinks of me as a very comfortable, warm perch that provides a different outlook on life … I mean, you don't get to see very much action stuck inside a birdcage all day long, do you. I guess it must be far more dangerous in the Australian Outback with massive, lethal predators of the skies hunting your gold and green feathers down, eyeing you for lunch, but more exciting perhaps.”

“Don't start, boy. I wish I'd never asked. You'll be the death of me and so you will. Wittering on all the time with your fantastic thoughts. How much more of this I can stand I don't rightly know. Another bloody ten weeks until that arm of yours heals up. Don't they have a special room at that Holy Cross School of yours for injured pupils!”

“No, they don't … You know I don't like boiled eggs … Miss Parker says it's some kind of baby boom with record levels of children and all the desks and chairs in the school are full to overflowing.”

“Well, Mister Clever Clogs, these boiled eggs and soldiers, when I've done them, are not for you, see. Your brother, Nick, deserves breakfast in bed with the way he has been working of late.”

“Sure.”

“None of your sarcasm either, please. I get enough of that from your Father whenever I see him.”

“Where is he now then?”

“Sleeping it off at your Uncle Charlie's, I shouldn't wonder … Now, you can earn your keep, Robert Clayton. Cornflakes is what there is, so make the most of it. And when you've finished them, you can go down to the newsagents for me. Go to that Tidy and Sons on the Wandsworth Bridge Road opposite the church. Don't look so astonished, it won't kill you to help me for once. I'll help you on with your coat and put some fresh shoelaces in those shoes. We can't have you looking like some old dero or tramp now, can we. And don't pull such a face. I won't molest you. God, you act like some precious little schoolgirl and so you do … ”

“Alright, alright, I'll have cornflakes if I must, though Sunshine here doesn't like them either, do you, Sunshine?”

“Don't kid me. That bird wouldn't speak even if you were a practising ventriloquist. He doesn't like cornflakes, well, there's a surprise. By the looks of him, I'd say he'd eat anything that went past his beak. I'm really surprised you're not suffering with shoulder fatigue. The effect of having to carry him around could well be enough to cripple your good shoulder, boy!”

Archbishop Makarios has arrived in London for discussions on Cyprus -

“That bloody Makarios again! We shouldn't be bleedin' talking to him! We should be locking him up and throwing away the key! He's the one responsible for all the deaths of our brave, young boys out there and so he is!”

“Mum!”

“Don't you 'Mum' me!”

“They say that anger is a sort of madness, Mum.”

“I don't care what 'They' say, Robert, I know what's right and that's an end to it … Now, a bowl of cornflakes with milk and sugar suit his highness, will it? … Just look at that bird, will you. He can't take his eyes off your food. I'm not surprised he goes everywhere perched on your shoulder. Why, he's so fat, if he tried to fly he'd fall flat on his face and so he would!”

The trial is due to begin tomorrow at Pretoria on a new indictment of the first thirty out of ninety-one defendants in a South Africa treason trial -

“That's all we ever hear, isn't it. If it isn't South Africa, it's Cyprus and, if it's not Cyprus, it's Russia then China, now Cuba, and around and around in bleedin' circles we all merrily go … And it's no good you staring at me plaintively like that, Sunshine, I haven't got any of those Coco Pops for your friend and master.”

“What exactly do you want me to get you then?”

“Well, the Sunday People and the Sunday Mirror for Nick. I'll take them up on his breakfast tray for him if you're quick enough … I want the News of the World and you'd better get the Sunday Express for that bitch upstairs. She'll only kick up a fuss otherwise. And while you're at it, you can get me ten Bachelor cigarettes, alright.”

Mister Menderes, the Turkish Prime Minster, is recovering in a London clinic after being admitted, suffering the after-effects of an air crash -

“Well, there's instant retribution for you if ever I heard it … Come on, eat up those cornflakes and don't tell me you can't spoon just as well with your left hand, Robert. I want to give Nick his breakfast before I hear the church bells chime.”

“Do I get anything for going?”

“A clip 'round the ear wouldn't go amiss … I could hear you talking loudly in your sleep last night. I reckon she even heard it up on the top floor. Enough to raise the dead and so it was. Are you having bad dreams, boy? And don't try and put me off with one of your cock and bull stories about talking with that Sunshine.”

“I don't rightly know. I can't remember.”

“A likely story! … I tell you what, as you're an injured soldier and it's incumbent on me, I guess, to be good on a Sunday, I'll give you sixpence for going. How's that?”

“Sixpence!”

“Well, what do you bleedin' want, a whole shilling! I don't know, children today! I never got anything when I was your age. Your Auntie Vi and I had to stay in on a Sunday. Sewing, that's what we had to do. Bloody sewing! I kept pricking my fingers 'til they bled and bled. I never could abide sewing. Don't you look at me like that. I know your Nan is your favourite person, but she wasn't always like she is now. She's mellowed, I guess. Hard as nails on us two girls, she was. She spoils you something rotten because you're a boy, I suppose. Also, you hang on her every word and you encourage her. Well, it was very different way back when. Vi and I would have killed for a sixpence on a Sunday, just for having to buy some newspapers and a packet of fags. If you did but know it, you're very lucky. Now, I don't want any more complaints. I'm switching that wireless off now. No more news for today, Robert Clayton. There's nothing you can do that will change anything anyhow.”

“But I like following the news.”

“Well, that's enough for today … Now, whether you like it or not, I'm going to help you get yourself ready. You can take that fat Sunshine and put him back in his cage if you can fit him through the birdcage door. No arguments please. If you take him out with you, the pigeons will swoop and have him plus I don't want that interfering Missus Gumby saying you look like some kind of Long John Silver the next time she visits her upstairs. That Missus Gumby sees everything … So, away with you. I'll be up in a minute and you can tell that bird of yours to stop giving me the beady eye or water and birdseed will be put on rationing. We should put him on a diet for his own good, Robert.”

“No!”

“Alright, but hurry up with you, boy. By the time I give Nick his breakfast in bed, it'll be tea-time at this rate!” …

Walking down Studdridge Street on a Sunday morning. Everything is so quiet, it is as if the whole world is still asleep. I can imagine inside each of the houses that I pass by, folks pottering about getting breakfast. Putting on coats to go to the outside loo, got to keep the January damp at bay. One of the women of the household encamped in the upstairs bathroom for over one hour. Just what do women exactly do in a bathroom? Does Miss Parker take an age to get ready? I reckon that Janice May practices with her older sister's make-up. I'm sure in fact. I know she's using a little touch of mascara. Nobody's eyes could look naturally good like that … Well, there is such a lady, the Pharaoh's Daughter, she whose name I cannot say. Yet more make-up, mascara, perfume and powder are probably applied to her than half the women currently yawning and stretching this very minute along Studdridge Street … I don't know why my Mum wants me to use Tidy's newsagent. I have to pass by at least two others before I reach that one … Of course! She must have tick with them. She's given me two half-crowns today, but I bet at other times they give her credit. So you would stick with them, wouldn't you … Suddenly, a group of people appear out of nowhere ahead of me or so it seems. Just before we reach the junction with Wandsworth Bridge Road. Why do church people always seem to dress in black? Are they in mourning for their God? You would think that churchgoers would parade in all the colours of the rainbow so as to celebrate their beliefs, but none of it. So it has to be black as if in mourning for their religious feelings. Everyone in this grouping has his or her head bowed and they haven't even reached the door of the church yet … I can hear the church bells ringing … They must all be going to that Christadelphian one on the corner. The one with the cream cross and Jesus Christ nailed on above the church porch … Nobody's laughing, no-one's chattering, they all just shuffle along uncomfortably, trying to stay in step with one another. I'm interested, having seen other times and beliefs in Memphis. There's no uncertainty lurking around there. The inhabitants of Memphis prostrate themselves on the dusty ground at the first sighting of a Royal Party. The Pharaoh's Daughter is seen as a Goddess … I still just cannot believe that she could see me, speak to me inside my mind. But heh, if she's truly a Goddess then why not. I must be blind not to recognise that … Who would she be if she were alive today? Well, certainly not Janice May, that's for sure … Taking up all the bathroom time in her household, practising to be a woman … Stop it! You just don't know that for sure. Just an educated guess. Why do I feel that? Because I've caught her looking at herself in one of the classroom windows when she didn't think that anybody else was looking. Preening herself. Playing with her different expressions to create an effect … Well, there is only one role truly open to the Pharaoh's Daughter if she were around today. She's way too young to play the Virgin Mary so she would have to be the personification … Oh, Miss Parker, I love and adore you … The personification of Mary Magdalene. But that would make the Pharaoh's Daughter some kind of reformed prostitute. Oh well, no matter, I'm sure she's safe from it all, dressed up in her royal robes in Memphis, and I just know that she is only a couple of years older than me … I'm giggling. I've only just realised that she's over four and a half thousand years older than me. Must stop it. I've got a fit of the giggles coming on. Concentrate … The Sunday worshippers dressed in black have all stopped just short of the Christadelphian Church. You'd think the vicar or priest or church leader or whatever they call the man of God in the Christadelphian Church would be waiting out front to greet his Sunday morning parishioners, wouldn't you. None of it … Now, if they'd had a proper church scene in the film 'The Searchers', Ward Bond would have been stood right out front, plainly visible to everyone, and would have had them all singing 'Yes, we shall gather at the River, the beautiful, beautiful River' before he'd even let them sit down in their church pews … The River Jordan, I guess … Can you really love more than one woman at once? Being swept off my feet by the Pharaoh's Daughter has confused me. Can a man be swept off his feet by a woman? Well, I suppose not but heh, I'm still only a boy so I assume it's okay … I love the Pharaoh's Daughter, Miss Parker, my Nan, Janice May, my Mother … Is that sacrilegious or some sort of Sunday morning blasphemy that my Mother only comes in fifth? Well, she does bark at me a lot. But I do love her really. If I say fifth then I'm comparing her to West Bromwich Albion who came fifth last season in the First Division. Very strange thought of my Mother and Maurice Setters, the hard man of English football, dancing together. Setters trying so desperately hard to look like an American G.I. with his excessively blonde crew-cut and chewing relentlessly on gum. Now, that could be construed as blasphemous, but I don't care because I sense the Pharaoh's Daughter would laugh and she's top of the tree with me …

A man dressed all in black with a strange, pronounced limp has suddenly appeared and joined this religious grouping before they make their way under that nailed-on cream crucifix with a half-naked Jesus Christ staring on accusingly … That has just got to be Cyril Stocker. The one Nick was going on about. Certain to be him … I wonder how long they will be in church for? At least an hour surely. If I'm very, very quick, I could get back home, deliver the newspapers and cigs, say good morning to Nick and Gran, rush back and watch the church. I could wait, then follow this Stocker fellow when he re-emerges. I have no idea if he really is 'The Creeper', but how many men in London town walk like that, throw their leg out in that fashion. And anyway, having now seen him from a distance, he looks kind of creepy or, as my cousin, Roy, would say, 'I don't like the look of him' …

The black-clad flock still hover around the church porch. It's like they are waiting for that sculpted image of Jesus Christ to weep tears on them before they can go in and pray. All doom and gloom if you ask me. The worshippers of the Sun God, Ptah, looked far happier last night than this black-clad lot … Mind you, everything always seems better when the sun shines … This Cyril Stocker just looks highly suspicious. There’s always bound to be a black sheep in every flock and I'm reckoning Cyril Stocker is it … Ah, now at last they enter the church. The service must be at least an hour in length … Did I really make so much noise in my sleep last night? It didn't feel like it at all. I just seemed to be observing most of the time. Taking it all in so to speak …

It was kind of that woman to put all these newspapers in a bag for me. She was taking pity on me and smiling my way. Possibly thinks I'm not quite the full shilling. I've already noticed some oddball behaviour and it's not a week yet until tomorrow since I broke my arm. Even a broken limb like an arm or a leg makes people react very differently to you. It's as if you are perceived as stupid for having had the accident in the first place … While I was waiting in the queue in the newsagents I saw the headlines on the News of the World front page. Diana Dors's face emblazoned right across the top of the page … What is it my Dad calls it? … That's it! The Screws of the World … Diana Dors, she's okay, but a poor man's Marilyn Monroe. Not fit to shave Marilyn's shapely armpits if you ask me. The headline news is some sex scandal in Rome concerning an actress called Linda Darnell who I've never heard of and an actor named Edmund Purdon. You always know when actors and actresses are on the slide because they end up living in Rome making movies. Like that Anthony Steel with his Swedish blonde bombshell, Anita Ekberg. The one with the massive boobs. Pendulous … Now, there's a new word for my Miss Parker file, pendulous … What is it my Mum always calls actresses like Anita Ekberg? … Vamps? … No … Tramps? … Yes, that's it! Tramps! … ”She's a tramp that Anita Ekberg, Robert. No good. She'll finish that Anthony Steel's career, just you wait and see!”

“I never heard you come in last night, Nick.”

“The way you were tossing and turning and moaning in your sleep, I'm not surprised. What were you having, for Pete's sake, some kind of extended nightmare!”

“No, no, quite the opposite. I was having this most amazing dream, but I can't really tell anyone about it. Excepting maybe you.”

Nick's sat up in bed with his breakfast tray resting next to him. I've placed the Sunday Mirror and Sunday People down on the bed for him, but he doesn't show much interest in them. He looks like a bear with a sore head this morning. I've noticed quite often in life already that drinking seems to do that to people. Whenever I see Dad the next day he always looks grumpy and sort of lost. Very red-eyed and thirsty.

“God, how I hate these English Sundays, Bobby, there's never anything to do!”

“You could go to the pictures.”

“I've already been this week. Remember!”

“You could attend church … Ouch!”

“Don't be such a sissy all the time, that's only a pillow hitting you in the face, Bobby. Hell, I know it didn't hurt you. That's the trouble with you, Bobby, you've got too vivid an imagination. You expected that pillow to hurt you so it did. What you have to do is say to yourself that it won't hurt. When it's serious you will still feel pain but it's like its once removed from you. The pain is out there.” Nick points across the bedroom. “Not in here.” He taps his head. “God, it would be great to get a cup of coffee for breakfast.”

“Why didn't you ask Mum for some then?”

“Coffee! You don't call that bottle of Camp chicory stuff coffee, do you! We English just don't know how to make coffee at all, Bobby.”

“Tell me then.”

“Well, some people I met and stayed with last time in New York, see. Now they made real coffee, American-style. You have proper coffee beans and put them in a coffee grinder. Get two pans, put the ground coffee beans in one pan, then you boil up water in the other pan. Except that you don't let the water boil, Bobby. You whip it off the heat that very moment before it starts to bubble and froth and pour it over the ground beans then pour the coffee into a proper coffee pot. Serve it black with brown sugar, not this white muck. Then place the coffee pot onto a stove hotplate to keep it warm and fresh so that you can have some more cups. You can experience the difference when you drink that coffee. Great taste to it. The coffee really hits you.”

“What about milk?”

“You only add milk at breakfast-time, then not always so, but for the rest of the day you drink it black the way God intended it.”

“There's a lot of God around today. I think I saw that Cyril Stocker down by the Christadelphian Church.”

“Not hard to miss, is he. I told you he was about.”

Nick lights up a Lucky Strike cigarette and fidgets with his right hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger at the edge of his top sheet. He's left half of Mum's specially prepared breakfast. Last night's drinking spree seems to have damaged his ability to blow perfect smoke-rings this morning. He keeps trying, but they are coming out all wobbly and then dissolve. I don't mind people smoking, I quite like the smell. Though I hope I never start, but today for some reason, the smoke is making my eyes smart. Sudden thought that too much cigarette smoke in the bedroom could kill Sunshine. Stupid thought really, these Aussie budgies are tougher than that … Nick suddenly stares hard at me and seems to make up his mind.

“Will you do something for me, Bobby?”

“If I can.”

“Will you ring Sandy's home number and see if she's alright?”

“Why don't you? I'm sure she'd much rather hear from you than me … I mean, I'm not saying I won't do it. Just that, well, I'm not her beau.”

“Where do you get all these strange words from! Nobody's anyone's beau any more. She used to be my chick, Bobby, but she ain't any more. If I ring her it will only be embarrassing. She'll probably want me to go over and well … ”

“You don't want to, right.”

“Look, Bobby, you understand. We're not brothers for nothing. Kindred souls and all that. I've already agreed to see June later on. It's her day off.”

“The barmaid with the big boobs from the Eight Bells?”

“You already know that. Now, will you?”

“Yes, if I must. But it will be very embarrassing.”

“You don't have to feel awkward.”

“I didn't mean for me, I was thinking of Sandy.”

“I'll write down the 'phone number for you. I can only give you fourpence for the call. Say, you haven’t got any spare money lying around, have you, Bobby? I'm clean out of cash.”

“Only sixpence Mum gave me and I want that. The rest is in my Post Office book.”

Now, that is not true. I lied. But heh, why should I give him the few shillings I've managed to scramble together. Anyway, he didn't really notice. He's too busy writing the telephone number down on a corner of the Sunday People he's torn off … He suddenly smiles, looks up at me, winks and blows a perfect smoke ring. I feel like applauding and then realise at the self-same time that I mustn’t be taken in. He's relieved, that's all. Relieved he hasn't got to telephone Sandy …

“There you go, Brother, Fulham six-o-four-two. Don't lose it and please, whatever you do, ring her … Promise … ”

“I won't forget. I promise … What do I say if she's not alright?”

“Don't worry, Robert. Christ, you fret all the bloody time, don't you, brother. Sandy will be as right as rain. Presumably she'll be a bit sore and upset, mad as hell at me, but she'll live and get over it. You know what women are, Bobby … Well, looking at that expression on your face, I guess you don't, but you'll soon learn.”

“What does my face reveal then?”

“I dunno. You seemed sort of sad and shocked at the same time … You know what you are, Bobby?”

“No, I don't.”

“You are an innocent abroad, boy, and so you are. If I ever manage to get to settle in New York I'll send for you. Then you can really experience things and understand real life. Get away from this claustrophobic atmosphere around here … Don't look so surprised. You're not the only one in this family who can use clever words, you know.”

I'm finding it quite odd in this household today. Mum is swanning around as happy as Larry. Nick is in bed with a sore head and acting as if life has just kicked him in the teeth. When I took Gran up her Sunday Express she gave me a very frosty stare as if I'd just accidentally stood on her foot or something. Barely said good morning to me and promptly shut her door. That's the way with her. You never quite know what to expect. Sometimes she treats me like I'm some kind of prince, at other times, totally cold, like this morning. Whereas Nan is always the same with me. I'm slowly starting to realise that when you meet the same people continually it's a great mistake to expect them to always be or act the same way. It's like they are three or four different people trapped inside the same skin and these other people take turns to come out. Mood swings, that's what it is. I've noticed it particularly with Miss Parker. She always seems susceptible to differing mood swings and personality traits because of what my mother calls women’s complaints. She also calls it the Devil's Curse. Which confuses me because it makes me think that women are cursed by the Devil, but if that is true and all folks derive from women then heh presto, we are all cursed. Maybe that's what the black-clad members of the Christadelphian Church believe which was why they all looked so sad and sorry for themselves earlier … Cyril Stocker. Must stop thinking of Miss Parker and her terrible mood swings. Concentrate on The Creeper … I've decided that I will sit right inside the bay of the window in the front room. It affords me quite a good view down Studdridge Street. I can see over all the barren bushes in front of our house and the ones to the right. Once I see those black-clad figures come back down the street from church I'll position myself just inside and look right along over the front gate and see if I can spot this Stocker fella creeping along, following them. Most likely he'll just go back home for some lunch and that will be it for today. But that’s okay because at least I'll now know where he lives and will be able to watch the house … Sunshine seemed upset that I didn't bring him down with me. Maybe those fumes from Nick's cigarettes are distressing him … I've got some paper and a Biro to just jot down anything that's useful. Except that it's got to be hard-backed. I can only write left-handed on a firm surface. Must take the chance to practice more. Must press on with 'Riders of the Purple Sage'. More God and Mormons there. God seems to be everywhere today. You don't come across God in a month of Sundays then he starts appearing all over the place. Ptah the Sun God. That Christadelphian God with Jesus Christ crucified all over the church front porch. Now I've got these Mormons and their Utah God who seem hell-bent on destroying Jane Withersteen … I really don't want to make that 'phone call. Nick had no right to ask me. He's taking advantage as usual. I bet he’s already tapped up Mum for some more money. He knows he's batting on an easy wicket there … Right, I'll just have a quick dip read while I'm watching out for Cyril Stocker. Simple cover story. I'm on his trail. Must remember to plan and act in the ways of the Great Detective …

'Wait! … Listen!' he whispered. 'I hear a hoss.' He rose noiselessly with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging his gun-sheaths round in front, he stepped into the alcove. 'It's a hoss – comin' fast,' he added.

Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs. It came from the Sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharp difference when the horse passed from the Sage trail to the hard-packed ground of the grove. It became a ringing run, swift in its bell-like clatterings, yet singular in longer pause than usual between the hoof-beats of a horse.

'It's Wrangle! … It's Wrangle!' cried Jane Withersteen. 'I'd know him from a million horses!' - … ..

Bishop's Park

I've been watching the Creeper's house for over an hour now and nothing. I'll give it five more minutes by my Mickey Mouse watch then call it a day … I'm not enjoying playing the Private Detective and I know full well why. My bloody brother, Nick, has ruined it all by asking me to make that telephone call to Sandy's house. I don't want to. I like Sandy and Nick's treated her shabbily. As they say in all the Agony Aunt columns … 'Dear Marge, if only I had known' … Well, they do all know, but just won't accept the truth for themselves. Don't want it to be so. I'm just the same where Nick's concerned. I really know that he couldn't care less. Doesn't really mean what he says. Sails on by with that James Dean-style look and somehow you just can't resist. I mean, if I fall for it then what chance do all the girls have. That has cast a long, deep shadow over my day. It's always a problem when you have something you just don't want to do and you continually keep putting it off, hoping against hope that it will go away. An incident will occur to alter the future chain of events so that you don't have to perform that odious task … Does odious make my Miss Parker file? I can't get the idea of her capricious mood swings out of my head … ”Heh, Bobby, kick the ball back!” … Great! That's really torn it! Cover totally blown. Two younger boys, Rory and Barry, playing football and they broadcast my name out loud. You can hear Rory's squeaking voice down the length and breadth of Studdridge Street. That Cyril Stocker will know who I am by now … The Great Detective would immediately pull me off the case. Produce, from out of nowhere, like a magic Victorian rabbit being pulled out from a top hat, an Underworld connection who owes him a favour, to take my place. And the Great Detective would be perfectly justified. That was shocking. I could kill that Rory Redpath and so I could … But wait … What's this … I don't believe it. The Creeper is coming out of his front door. Still dressed in black, but just for a change, he's draped a red and yellow scarf around his coat collar and neck …

I don't think he's seen me. If he did then he probably thinks I'm part of that game of football. Just hanging on the edge of the action because of my broken arm. Good. The natural look of it all is playing my way. I'll follow him in a moment. Go and kick Rory's ball back again and confirm the image … Small boys bored half to death kicking a football around on a deserted street on a Sunday afternoon in wet January. What could be more natural … A terrible realisation has just struck me like a thunderbolt. It is not going to be that easy to follow this Cyril Stocker with a broken arm, is it! I mean, invisibility isn't easy with a white, well, greyish now, plaster-cast standing out like a sore thumb … He's turning right now, more like creeping right now, into Peterborough Road. Come on. Don't be afraid. I'm just going to have to shadow him from a far greater distance than I would like, that’s all … The real trouble is I can't get the plaster-cast through the sleeve of this coat so it's hanging half out. Mum wouldn’t let me wear the other coat because it's still slightly damp from yesterday's match … That was easy. Though he creeps quicker than I thought he would. I spotted him three-quarters of the way down Peterborough Road when I reached the corner of Studdridge Street. That bloody Rory Redpath just had to call out to me again, didn't he. What am I, the Studdridge Street Harlequin to be shouted after … I must stop swearing. I find myself doing it more and more because Mum swears all the time and it's catching. I think it's like her badge of courage carried over from the Second World War. Everybody must have sworn like troopers in the Blitz. Not serious swearing though. But you would have cursed and cussed if you looked up in the night-time sky and saw those German 'planes bombing your city. Only natural, all the foul-mouthed oaths under the sun would come pouring forth. I don't reckon it ever leaves people. I only saw a little piece of action in that dream in the Blitz and the images have stayed with me ever since … The Creeper never looks back. Well, folks don't if you think about it. How many people walk forward looking back over their shoulder? I saw a man in glasses do it once. Walking round a corner. How he missed me I still don't rightly know. But I immediately thought 'You idiot'. Either he was a complete fool or he was doing it for affectation … My Miss Parker file is going to bulge to overflowing at this rate … Why try and improve a boy anyhow? … There's something really exciting and dangerous in following someone. Tailing them. I have to pinch myself to remember he is a killer of young women. Her attacks young girls so he wouldn’t think nothin' of taking care of a boy with a broken arm. But heh, even with this plaster-cast weighing me down, I just know I can outrun him …

He's turned left into Hurlingham Road, looks to be heading for Putney Bridge … Heigh-ho, I can keep him in sight. It's just no good; I've got to do it. I promised, didn't I. Well, I mean it's OK to lie if you have to, but breaking a promise, particularly when it's extracted from you in the fashion that Nick did it. Well, it's hard, especially when it's your much older brother who, in spite of yourself you just can't help liking … I've just decided that very good-looking people with winning personalities and oodles of charisma are highly dangerous. Because these so-charming people probably believe from the positive reactions to them all of their lives that they can just about get away with anything … Not like this Creeper fella … Christ, he's stopped. What's he doing? Oh no, he's looking straight back down the road. Quick, inside … Ah! … As luck would have it I was right by the side of a telephone box. Would you Adam and Eve it! Now that I'm in this box I've got to go through with it, haven't I … A terrible smell of putrid damp in this kiosk. A puddle of water on the floor … Come to think of it I've never, ever seen anyone clean a telephone box … Just what is he doing! Now he's lit a cigarette and is looking casually up and down the road as if expecting to see someone. Well, he can't see me, not unless he's got x-ray vision or eyes like a hawk. The frames of the telephone box obscure the view. Forget him. Act naturally. That's it, just be normal … I'm sweating … Now, make this telephone call and get it over with … Two scribbled 'phone numbers advertising massages and another above the black telephone crossed-out and replaced offering a blow-job and a Miss Eva who calls herself a Dom … Domin … Dominatrix, has left her calling card wedged in by this 'phone … Must look that word up. Miss Parker has promised to buy me a new Oxford Dictionary if she finds my list of words impressive … The Creeper hasn’t moved. Forget him and concentrate on this call, if I lose him, so be it. Catch up with him on another occasion. The art of the Detective is to stay cool under pressure and expect the unexpected, prepare for the unusual. What was it? … Having eliminated the impossible, what is left, no matter how implausible, must be true … I just don't know if I can do this with my left-hand. I've only ever done it once before, That was a flaxman number, I never had a number as big as the letter U in Fulham, that's going to have to be tapped out twenty-one times … I know what I'll do. I'll stand on a telephone book on tiptoe and tap with my right thumb. Mustn't for the life of me look uncertain. I don't want that Cyril Stocker coming back down the road and offering me help. My cover would be totally blown and I don't possess any underworld contacts like the Great Detective. In fact, I'm all on my own. But heh, you know what, that makes it all the more exciting … Right, well, if it doesn't work, I'll just have to use up the fourpence, I guess. Rick Maghoo taught me this trick. You tap in clearly the number of times for a letter. So for F it's six taps and so on … Go on, don't hesitate, you can do it. Then the numbers. It will never work. Useless. Just keep going. I can just about reach … Arm hurts … Don't stop … Don't panic … God, it's ringing! … It's ringing … Press the metal button in. Press it! … I can't use my right thumb. Quick. Shift over to my left hand. Come on! …

“Hello, is that Fulham six-o-four-two?”

“Yes. Who is that?”

“Well, my name's Bobby Clayton and I'm ringing on behalf of … ”

“Stop right there! Come here, Mother, there's one of those Claytons on the telephone line. You had better deal with him before I do the telephone some permanent mischief!”

“Hello there … ”

“Sandy … Can I speak to Sandy please?”

“No, you cannot! Who is this!”

“It's Bobby Clayton, Nick's brother, we'd better be quick. I've only got fourpence and it will soon run out.”

“She is in hospital, no thanks to your brother. She could very well have died! You Claytons are a right shower. By rights we should call the police and put them on to that worthless good-for-nothing brother of yours. Do you hear me!”

I do hear her loud and clear. But for some reason my eyes keep straying to Miss Eva the Dominatrix's card and this little drawing of a whip …

“Will she die then?”

“We sincerely hope not. But you can tell that brother of yours never to ever, repeat ever, contact Sandy again. If he ever shows his face … ”

“Do not over excite yourself, Mother!”

“Well, you have received the message, young man. She should be alright, but no thanks to the Clayton family. Now, goodbye and do not telephone this number again!”

Click …

She put the 'phone receiver down on me. I reckon I got far more than fourpence worth. Magic. It just goes on forever …

Thank God Sandy never died. I really like Sandy. To think I was only standing with her in Marinello's Chip Shop just the other day. She was so nice to me … I must stop using the word nice … It just creeps on in … Talking of which … Hell! He's nowhere to be seen. Now, even though I was fully focused on that telephone call, excepting Miss Eva's calling card, I'm sure the Creeper never came back past this telephone box … Drat it! I've gone and lost him and the Great Detective would be very unimpressed … In fact, he would not approve at all …

I'm standing now by the bright-red telephone box, looking up and down the Hurlingham Road, but it is still empty of people. No sign of the Creeper and only one Austin Minor car slowly tootling along. Ah well, head back homewards and call it a day. Disappointments must be the stock-in-trade of a Private Detective. Hours upon hours just spent watching and nothing ever happens. The key, I guess, is to fight off all the growing frustration. Being a Detective sounds exciting, doesn't it. I never realised before today that it's possibly a very frustrating occupation. When you read about Detectives and Private Eyes in books it's always non-stop action. Dead bodies, painted dames, flaring guns, screeching cars, a blackjack slammed over the back of the head and you see stars … Whoa! Just wait on there. I don't believe it! … Step back sharply and stand behind this telephone box. That's it. A little bit of cover. But he never looked this way once. The Creeper just appeared from out of a house on the opposite side of the road about twenty doors along towards Putney Bridge. What was he doing in there? Has he really spotted me tailing him and is just leading me on. Well, it doesn’t matter, back on the case again in no time. What was I saying about the frustrating moments. None of it. This Creeper is a live one and no mistake …

I stay walking on the opposite side of the road to the Creeper. Must keep well back and try and keep my plaster-cast hidden as best as I can … He's reached Putney Bridge and disappeared. Now I've got to run fast to catch up. Mustn't let him get away. So hard to run quickly when the weight and balance of your body is altered. Must be akin to running, lugging a heavy bag of potatoes along … My family, except my Nan, all think I moan far too much. Even Rick Maghoo has said it. But heh, they aren't Detectives, are they. They're not following a murderer of young women across the years, running softly on a wet, damp, Sunday afternoon … I've reached the station at Putney Bridge. Up the steps, the smell of the sea hanging on the river water and the cries of circling seagulls. I'm looking hard, but no sign of the Creeper. Crossing over the bridge. He could not have got more than halfway over by now. He must have taken the underpass and gone into the park. He could have snuck into that café the bus crews use, but I don't think so … Quick, use the underpass. Be watchful, he might just be lying in wait for you. My excitement will get the better of me and be my downfall … This underpass is full of puddles of dirty water and the smell of urine and sick. Graffiti daubed across the sloping tunnel-shaped walls. Some red paint scrawl proclaiming Johnny Haynes’s relation to God. Wherever I look today, whatever I see, there is God. He's dominating this Sunday, but a miracle of sorts has occurred. I haven’t thought of or seen the face of the Pharaoh's Daughter in my mind's eye this last half hour or so. I just know that from now on her presence is guiding me … Mustn't tell anybody that. Not even Nan. Folks will think I'm going loony. Hearing voices inside my head. Before you know it they'll be carting me off in an ambulance over Putney Bridge on my way to the children's section at Banstead! … I wonder if they do have a section for crazy children? …

Out into Bishop's Park. Suddenly there are people all around me. All over the place. It's like I've walked down a long, dark tunnel and come out into the light and discovered a party … One good thing though, even with all these bodies milling around I can quite clearly see the Creeper. He's so distinguishable with that pronounced thrusting walk and that red and yellow scarf that he donned after church this morning. I shall refer to him from now on as Cyril the Creeper. I like that. Makes me think of some kind of wayward dragon. Stop it! Be serious. Take caution from the Great Detective. This is a very dangerous person indeed and you are treating it like a game or some great adventure when all the time death could be lurking around the next corner. Take care! … But isn't that true of life. Death is always lurking around the next bend and it ain't always Cyril the Creeper awaiting for you … I mean, just what is he doing here this afternoon? … I can hear music in the distance. All these people are heading in the direction of the Bandstand. Streams of them heading along the pathway by the Embankment, staring in at the murky River Thames. A lot of strangely dressed people … I know what they are. They're Beatniks, Beats. Would you Adam and Eve it! I want to call them Sputniks. They must be mad. On a cold, damp day in January there are some guys here wearing only sandals on their feet without socks. Most of them seem to be wearing glasses, some are sporting beards, a lot of them wearing beige duffel coats and corduroy trousers. Some of the women parading in corduroy skirts which seem to go baggy around the bottom. I would never be seen dead wearing corduroys … Bishop's Park, the glory of Fulham. Henry Compton, who was the said Bishop, some time in the distant, distant past, say two hundred and fifty years ago. He was the Bishop of London. He even had the Fulham Palace built which is dedicated to him. And, of course, Johnny Haynes, the maestro of the cottage. His speciality the reverse pass and hands cocked on hips giving his own players what for. Tosh Chamberlain and Johnny Haynes are almost a music-hall double-act with Club Chairman, Tommy Trinder, the comedian, their big-chinned, loud-mouthed agent. 'You lucky people' his monotonous catchphrase … Well, now that I can hear the music more clearly I don't feel lucky today. It's goddamn Trad jazz! I hate Trad jazz! It's so boring. The music of all these Beatniks, that's why they are gathering here. It must be a free concert in the park. But only about one third of the people drifting along here seem like Beatniks. The rest are just folks at a loose end looking for something to do on a miserable, wet, Sunday afternoon in January. Something for free always pulls them in. Well, it's certainly pulled in Cyril the Creeper. Would he dare attack a girl on a Sunday afternoon in broad daylight? I seriously doubt it … But as we get closer to the Bandstand he might. This Trad jazz music makes you go soft in the brain. All mushy and trilling and leaves you unprepared to meet with your fate. It's sort of barnyard hideous … Miss Parker would never be a Beatnik. Much too fashionable and self-aware for that. It's brainwashing music, that's what it is. In fact, I'm surprised the Russians or the Chinese haven't cottoned on to it yet … Well, maybe they have. This is some fiendish Chinese plot to weaken our moral resolve, wear down our defences, infiltrate the minds of the young and leave them helpless before some dastardly invasion force … Cyril the Creeper could kill a young woman right here in broad daylight with this insidious Trad jazz playing and nobody would even lift a finger to stop him … He's definitely creeping along towards the Bandstand. Standing out in a crowd of chattering Beatniks and hesitant Fulham families along for the free ride …

My teddy bear, Odd, contains more rhythm in him than this awful music. I mean, have these people never heard Eddie Cochran's 'Twenty Flight Rock', Buddy Holly's 'Peggy Sue'! I don't particularly like Elvis Presley that much, but have they never heard 'My Baby Left Me' or 'Heartbreak Hotel'?

This music playing now is from the ancient past. They must all be stuck in some kind of mind warp or something. Living on Planet Zog … ”We must be wary of the Planet Zog, Captain Dare” … ”It's not the Planet Zog that we should consider, Digby, it's the Mekons who are truly dangerous and threaten the survival of Earth!”

He's still firmly in my sights. Crowds are great for following people, especially when the moving target is wearing a scarf that resembles some kind of coded signal to deceive the enemy. The Great Detective sprinkles some words of caution. Be wary of complacency. Nothing is ever that easy … The truly terrifying sensations around this music, as we all approach the Bandstand and it gets forever louder and louder, hanging onto the wet, January afternoon, air, is that after a bit it starts playing inside your head. Infiltrating your being with its catchy mush. I'm trying hard to fight it off, but nothing will work. I've tried replaying Chuck Berry's 'Maybelline' in my head, then the Everly Brothers' 'All I Have To Do Is Dream', but this horrible Trad jazz wins both times … I know just who these Beatniks are. They are the Angry Young Men. The Aldermaston Marchers. They are vegetarians and conscientious objectors and the Russians really mean us no harm and are our friends … I can hear my Mother's disenchanted voice ringing in my head. Condemning them all out of hand. Well, some of the Beatnik girls look very attractive which is what has probably brought that evil Creeper fella Stocker here today … My Mum would send all these Beatniks on a long swim to China and so she would … Me? I don't know. But I definitely wouldn’t wear sandals without socks in the wet and cold of a January day and I can hear my Mother's voice singing out again in my head declaring that all these Beatniks will contract Athlete's Foot … I quite like some of the duffel coats and I'm fortunate that I don’t have to wear glasses. But heh, this Trad jazz music will drive me stone-bonkers crazy, clean out of my mind. I don't know about the politics and the rest. I guess I'll just have to wait until I'm older to make up my own mind. One thing I do know for sure though is that none of these people, be they Beatniks or families just out for a Sunday afternoon stroll in Bishop's Park, can hold a candle to the Pharaoh's Daughter. She would have all these Trad jazz musicians instantly eliminated for their eternal salvation …

Having reached the Bandstand the music promptly stops and the musicians clear the stage. There's a buzz of anticipation passing through this crowd which must be some two hundred strong by now. The clustered bushes, plants and trees all look on soggily and dripping wet. I can plainly see the outlines of the football stands at Craven Cottage. Fulham are still one of the few First Division sides without floodlights.

“And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, let me introduce to you, without further ado, the one and only Mister Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band!”

The announcer hands over the centre of the stage to Acker Bilk. There’s just no escaping this Trad jazz music today. A half-torn fly poster is blowing away through the trees as all the Beatniks clap and cheer loudly. This is who they have come to see. The music is better, much more lively, but it's still this Trad jazz bilge. A strange, pungent, sweet smell is wafting on the air. It's coming from a couple of Beats close by me who are sharing a cigarette. I’m keeping my distance from people today so as not to get this plaster-cast banged into. Cyril the Creeper has edged up close to the Bandstand, watching on. Can he really be an Acker Bilk fan? That pungent smell must be what my brother, Nick, refers to as pot. He was at great pains to tell me that when he stayed with his new-found friends in New York last time he smoked some mary jane with his coffee …

I'm trying hard, but I just can't get the hang of this music. A lot of the pretty Beatnik girls are starting to dance around and laugh and the guys as well, they all seem happy and full of fun, it must be this sweet-smelling smoke and the bottles of cider I keep seeing them all swigging from. The rest of us just look on and wordlessly wonder. I suppose if something is free then it has to be enjoyed, if it's bad you just don't say anything. You can't really complain because it would cast you as a mean-spirited moaner … I'm stood watching on as all these beards and horn-rimmed spectacles, duffel coats and sockless sandals prance and dance and cavort all around me to the Trad jazz music of Acker Bilk, who seems very popular in a jocular kind of manner. He introduces the next number in a heavily-accented West Country voice and tells a joke which I don't get … I can see Miss Parker pointing her red-varnished fingernail at me and mouthing 'No sense of humour, Bobby Clayton' … I take things too seriously, don’t see the funny side of life … Good! Cyril the Creeper hasn't moved a muscle. Stood stock still concentrating on the Bandstand, the stage and the Paramount Jazz men … I'm fantasizing about a free concert here in January next. My favourite line-up would be Chuck Berry, Ricky Nelson and the Everly Brothers. But heh, that ain't never going to happen, is it. Certainly not in little Ol' England, down Fulham town way on a wet, murky, Sunday afternoon. I bet they don't ever play for free in America. Maybe sometimes just to promote a new single somewhere …

Acker Bilk is a very strange name. I've never heard of a person called Acker before. But I do know … And yes, it will go down in my Miss Parker file … That to bilk is to cheat or deceive someone. Also, I shall try to remember to use it the next time I play cribbage with Nan. Though it's hard to play a blocking card and bilk at pegging when there are only the two of you playing … The crowd is still growing, must be close to three hundred strong by now. I must confess that even though I detest this Trad jazz music, everybody here seems to be having a great time and enjoying themselves immensely. This Acker Bilk seems to have the ability to make people smile and have a good time. Who am I to complain! What do I know? If everyone else likes something that you don't, I suppose you just have to accept it with good grace and retire discreetly. No good trying to swim against the tide. Overwhelmed by the ebb and flow of public feeling that surges fast and swims away from you … The Great Detective is reminding me once again to focus in on the now and ignore what is happening about me … Concentrate … Must not let myself go soft in the head from the pungent smell of these funny cigarettes trailing on the breeze of this music … What the hell! … A motorbike is revving ferociously and is roaring through the park. I'm sure they are not allowed to do that! Now more and more motorbikes coming in from all manner of different directions and heading straight towards the Bandstand with menace. I don't think a lot of the crowd have cottoned on yet. These are Teddy Boys out to spoil and cause havoc on a Sunday afternoon in the park … Some of the Beatnik men are protesting. One of the Teddy Boys with huge sideboards and wearing a leather jacket has leapt off his motorbike and punched a Beatnik wearing glasses straight in the face and knocked him to the ground. Women and children are screaming. Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band play on. There are about twenty of these Greasers. I hate Teddy Boys. All swept-back greasy hair, long sideboards, leather jackets, studded belts, drainpipe trousers, winkle-picker shoes. Shiny rings all over their fingers, tattoos on their white, hairy arms. They are Neanderthals and I don’t mean to be disrespectful to our ancestral cousins … The forehead, hands and feet are used as weapons. Rings flashing, wielding bicycle chains in the watery, afternoon sunshine that's broken through at last. There's not a policeman to be seen. Most of the families have scattered and quickly left and I, for one, don’t blame them. I can spy Cyril the Creeper wedged up tight against the Bandstand with his back to the Paramount Jazz Men, just watching on. He doesn't seem that bothered. Seen it all before, I guess, a dozen times. Not a policeman or park keeper in sight. It’s just the Beatniks and the Teddy Boys now and the poor Beatniks plainly don't stand an earthly. I'm not a great Beatnik fan, but at least they have brains and care about things. All these Teddy Boys want is a tear-up and to wreak some carnage. I bet they all like Elvis Presley and dig rock and roll and are giving the music a bad name. They would thoroughly dislike Chuck Berry, Ricky Nelson and the Everly Brothers and would probably beat them up with bicycle chains, knuckle dusters, knives and axes, and are doing just that to the Beatniks remaining here … One Teddy Boy with a big runny nose and luminous red socks is staring hard at me. Sort of deciding whether to smash my head in or not. I'm stood rubbing against the bark of a horrified tree for support, showing my broken arm for all it is worth. Buckling slightly at the knees to seem smaller. Trying to look younger. The greasy-haired, Edwardian-styled thug thinks better of it and turns his attention onto a duffel-coated Beatnik curled up on the ground in the foetal position, trying to protect what is still left intact. A few good hefty kicks from a pair of chisel-toed shoes should do the trick. Whoops of pleasure rend the air as the Beatniks are mercilessly beaten to pulp. I'd like to set the Pharaoh's army on these Teddy Boys … Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band have stopped playing. The Teddy Boys have kick-started up their motorbikes and are roaring off across the park. Most of the people have run away, leaving some thirty or so Beatniks, laying prostrate and bleeding on the bloodied ground. A few Beatnik girls are crying and trying to administer small crumbs of comfort. Some police have arrived when it's all over and finished. The Creeper is making his thrust-kick way out of Bishop's Park with me in attendance at a safe distance away …

That fight was savage and one-sided and a stain on Bishop's Park. These Teddy Boys are vermin. They were lying in wait like large, greasy rats ready to pounce and destroy the Beatniks and ruin everybody's free Sunday afternoon, in this wet and now blood-stained, tearful Bishop's Park.....

Three silver shillings

I'm running hard, being chased by a gang of boys … Hiding in a basement yard as this scruffy, tattered band of yelling urchins thud on by me … The stench and smell of this basement yard is almost overpowering … I'm frightened and elated, scared and relieved, all at the very same time … Quick motion to check on my right arm. Feeling it and peering down to confirm the touch and no plaster-cast. Cut adrift yet again in Dreamland. I'm immediately shocked to discover that the sleeves on a sort of jerkin that I'm wearing are ripped and filthy dirty. The next shock is that when I look downward in the half-light of this dingy basement I see that I have no shoes or socks on my feet. Just what am I doing going bare-footed stood in a basement yard of slime and grease? Is this some kind of dream-time joke … Slightly unnerved by the now familiar sound of scuttling rats. That smell, this horrible stench that seems to be attacking my very nose, eyes and mouth. Burrowing away, inserting itself in all my senses. It reminds me that smell is the sense that we choose most often to ignore yet it provides the hidden backcloth to our lives. The shocking realisation that half this noxious stench is coming from me! … I can distinctly hear the echoing sound of pounding feet. More of a slapping quality than a heavy, thudding tread. Those gang of boys chasing me must go barefoot as well … Where am I? This must be London, but not the city that I know. I'm dressed in rags, barefoot and smelly. Still feeling scared about that chasing pack of boy ruffians. What have I done exactly? … A lamp is being lit inside one of the these grimy basement windows. It's a gas light. A face is now peering out at me. Showing toothless and grinning. I'm so frightened I seem riveted to the spot. My breathing is becoming difficult, sort of heaving slowly with fear. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears. The decidedly wicked and toothless face at the grimy window is now glaring at me, mouthing obscenities through blackened gums and lips. I have to run for it and take my chances out there on the streets before this grinning, gruesome figure comes out into this basement yard and nabs me … I must try and remember that this is only a dream. Nothing can happen to me. I cannot come to any real harm. But it doesn't feel like that. It feels all too real and terrifying … I'm inching up these winding basement steps. I appear smaller than usual. I've definitely shrunk. Can you shrink in a dream? Terrifying thought that I might be the size of Tom Thumb or some such creature. Maybe that is why the yelling and screaming gang of boys racing through the streets are after me. They want to capture me and sell me for money to some freak show proprietor … It is so very easy to convince yourself of virtually anything. Without hardly a thought or the barest detail of fact or any evidence, you can assume the most grisly of aspects and images, the gravest of events and pretend they are really happening. Except that this ain't no pleasant dream. I'm not outside of this one observing the mesmeric beauty and manner of the Pharaoh's Daughter. Hearing her beautifully modulated voice inside of my head. I'm stuck right in this one and scrambling for my very life …

Up and out from the basement. The streets are all cobbled and broken at the damaged edges. Fragments of glass, bundles of rubbish, scattered shreds of orange, lemon and potato peel. Rats foraging everywhere. The smells nearly knock me over. The stench of urine and shit is so strong I feel like I'm running in a latrine … The streets are so narrow, the strange lighting casts pools of shadowy shades. I like this hiss and hush of soft light and just know somehow that these are gaslights … I've been spotted. I can hear the barefoot pack a-gathering together to continue their chase. I'm the one on the end of this hunt and experience the sheer adrenaline rush of the pursued. The quarry must give off a strong scent of fear that encourages the hunting pack. Leads them ever onward in the eager chase … Time to think is at a premium. Where the hell is Eldritch! He is my Guardian, supposedly my Protector and my special Dream Guide. But he is never around when I really need him. Probably sat somewhere in Ancient Egypt. Maybe gliding through the blue, blue waters of the Nile in a flat-bottomed looking barge and smiling serenely at my predicament … What really surprises me is the toughness of my feet. These cobbles are half-broken with sharp edges in some places, covered in slime, strewn with gunge and rubbish yet I skate over them effortlessly. My feet must be as tough as old leather. Hard as teak. Springing me along as if I have always had to do this, run like merry hell for my very life … I can run so fast it truly amazes me. In waking-time I am by no means the most accomplished of athletes. Rick Maghoo, for example, can best me at almost anything. Brian Holt and Stuart Spear openly laugh at my poor attempts at playground football. I may love the game, but I would struggle to pass muster as a match day ball boy … I seem to know where I am racing to. Leading this pursuing pack away from my intended destination in the hope that I can gain an edge then slip by them and get home without being seen. I'm inside of this boy. I can watch him. Yet I know that part of him is not me. I can't for the life of me see or hear inside his panting thoughts. Any notion of what is passing through his mind is a complete mystery to me … I am shocked! Really shocked! Horrified! Public houses everywhere with men and women lolling around menacingly outside in states of undress, drinking and smoking. Everybody seems to be laughing and cackling in a ribald manner. Everyone I can see seems drunk or, as my waking-time Father would say, 'At least three sheets to the wind'. Funny that, come to think of it, because he was never a sailor that I know of. Not like my brother, Nick. I must stop thinking of them. This is Dreamland and desperate and they are not here and cannot help me … A drunken woman with huge, fat breasts half hanging out from a red cotton blouse sticks out a bare fat foot and trips me up and roars with raucous laughter as my head bounces against these slimy cobblestones and I see stars that send a blinding flash of pain searing across my brain.

“Fallen over, ducky, 'ave we. Poor little bleeder. Want a helping hand up, do we, dear? Let out Poll stand you up then, my little boy!”

This horrible, lecherous woman named Poll grabs me firmly by the hair and wrenches me to my feet as the stars continue to blaze across my brain … The pounding of barefoot pursuit has stopped abruptly down the cobblestoned street behind me. The hunting pack is eyeing me, red-eyed and victorious. Savagely snarling at the lips …

“Be this the one you want, you young varmints?”

“Hand 'im over, Poll.” shout at least four voices in high-pitched and excited unison. “He's ours, see.” chorused in shrill frenzy.

“Well, you’ll 'ave to give Poll something, dears, now, won't you.”

This pack of barefoot, young ruffians seem to growl as young wolves out on the prowl and menacingly all take a step forward as one … The fat, lardy and reeking of gin woman, Poll, still has me gripped firmly by the hair. A large, bewhiskered man has suddenly appeared from out of the shadows of the soft-hued gaslight.

“Need any 'elp, Poll, my pretty girl?”

She laughs in a way that could frighten me forever where women are concerned. Grins in a slack-faced manner as if too much gin has loosened all the muscles in her face like half-unscrewed bolts.

“Why, Jed, my love, your timing is as good as ever. This 'ere scamp should be worth a sixpence or two, doncha think … C'mon, cough up, boys, if you want him. Give Poll her due and me and Jed 'ere will stand aside and give him up to you … What say you then?”

I'm struggling fiercely, but to no avail. Her face may appear slack, but her gripping hand is like an ironclad fist … The pack of bare-footed boys are jabbering among themselves in ill-disguised whispers. It seems the price on my head tonight is on the slide, it's down to fourpence. That is all that I am worth and I can't think, don't want to know, what this bare-foot pack intend to do with me if this ginny-soaked wench, Poll, hands me over.

One of the band of Ruffians steps forward as the instantly elected leader. Stands firmly, bare feet planted, in this narrow, stinking street. He's got a sallow complexion which shows worse under this gas-light. His shoulders are hunched and they look slightly concave. There is something drastically wrong with one of his eyes.

“Fourpence is all we got, Poll Parker. Hand 'im over and I'll give you the four pretty pennies!”

Parker! Did he say Parker? Surely not. Cannot be!

“Fourpence, my fine little specimens?” queries Poll Parker. “Now, Poll don't do nothing for fourpence, see. Nothing! … Wilf, isn't it, ducky?”

Wilf starts hopping nervously from one bare foot to the other, squinting hard. The pack are restless behind him. They could depose him in an instant and produce a new leader to deal with this awkward bitch, this Poll Parker.

“Now, fourpence ain’t gonna do it, is it, Jed, my love.”

Jed laughs loudly in a threatening manner, moves forward and stands squarely in the gaslight next to Poll Parker … The band of ruffians are considering it. Feverish wolverine eyes are calculating their chances. But Jed has the advantage of being a big, muscular man and could dash them all as they advanced like so many coconuts being knocked clean over at a fairground shy. Poll Parker is cackling lecherously with the fun of if all. She is thoroughly enjoying this confrontation. Would love to see this pack of ruffians take their chances and rush them. A couple of other men have suddenly staggered from out of nowhere into the gaslight. This is enough to dissuade the pack from any thought of attacking for now.

“C'mon, Poll, fourpence. He ain't worth a whole lot, see. Hand 'im over please!”

“Nah, nah, Wilf, my lovely, he’s worth more to me, see. Now, you young varmints scram before I set Jed here onto you. And when he's finished with you, Wilf, you’d wish you'd never clapped eyes on us tonight. Now get!”

The pack of boy ruffians huddle together with leader, Wilf. Some high-pitched voices are all for action as other, more pragmatic, views realise that these bare-foot street urchins stand no earthly chance of victory. The two fresh, drunken men move well in to sight to stand alongside Poll Parker who looks for all the world like she could swing a polecat above her head then kill them stone-dead with the fumes from her foul-smelling breath.

“We'll be seeing you some night on your own, Poll Parker.”

The last idle threat to try and save a little face before their unsavoury elders … Poll Parker leers back and her massive, fat breasts seem to shake with laughter in the gaslight and almost flop out from her rose-cotton blouse.

“Get!”

All this while Poll Parker has never once loosened her grip on my hair. The very roots in my head seem on fire with the pain … I just cannot for the life of me believe that this salacious creature, Poll Parker, is in any way related to my lovely Miss Parker. I mean, are all people with the same surname related to one another? Well, maybe it’s her married name. They say that all people are related under the sun. That scares me stiff. I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. It is like when you just know secretly that something is true … You really don't want to believe it. You deny it constantly to yourself by inventing other plausible excuses that you kid yourself make perfect sense. The more you tell yourself these porky pie stories the more the truth recedes from you bit by bit, but you just know deep down inside that you will have to accept the barefaced truth someday … This Poll Parker reeking of gin, showing her fat body and leering before these three drunken men is probably my Miss Parker's great-grandmother or her great-aunt or something and I am somehow just going to have to live with it. No wonder Miss Parker is considering emigrating to New Zealand. If she ever so much as saw or bore witness to a relation of hers like fat Poll, why, she would surely jump straight onto the next available ship sailing out to New Zealand immediately.

“Now, what we gonna do with this 'ere little one then, Jed, my handsome?”

“Keep a tight grip on him, Poll, my lovely. I's got just the right job for this little shaver … Stay you here, I'm a-going inside to fetch Rolly and Jasper. They could well have a job on where this one would come in real handy like.”

Jed disappears off inside the public house. One of the other drunken men sways over to Poll Parker and hands her what looks like a tumbler full of neat gin. If my waking mother ever drank this stuff she'd be dead within a month and so she would …

Funny how all these old Victorian slang-style phrases keep a-popping out as if from my Nan's own mouth. Except that I just know this is before my Nan's time. Poll Parker never loosens her vicious grip. Drinks straight from the tumbler of neat gin as if she is simply quaffing a glass of fresh orange juice. Seems to deliberately show one of her fat thighs to the drunken man stood alongside of her. But he thinks better of it. Just looks on in a sort of glazed way and then staggers off for some more refreshment, blowing great swathes of blue, curling tobacco smoke as he goes. The blue-grey swirling smoke catches in the soft-hued gaslight and looks amazingly attractive. I would like to capture it and hold it in my hand, but it would only evade me. Pass on to nothingness.

“Just you and me now then, little one. Don't think that Poll 'ere is gonna let you go because I'd know you'd be off like a shot, see. Proper little runner, you are. Just like a jack rabbit with a human head on 'im. Pretty Poll could teach you a thing or two and you could be my pet, see. Do secret little naughty things for Old Poll. And I'd be real good to you and so I would. Treat you like one of my own. But we can get a good price for you tonight, see. Have to be another time. But if you ever feel lonely and lost, you seek out Old Poll Parker. Jus' ask around, everybody knows me, see. No need to look so scared. We ain’t gonna hurt you, ducky. You be too valuable to us. You're what they call a comm … commod … somethin' like that … ”

“Commodity.”

“You're sharp as a darning needle, you are, yo little varmint. It all helps to build up the price.”

Jed returns with two very dangerous-looking characters. Instantly recognisable as thieves of the night. Crooks and robbers, housebreakers and murderers and whatever pays the best that comes their way today.

“Well, Poll, my lovely, here’s Rolly and Jasper as promised. Now, you show 'em the goods in the light like and see if we can fix a going price that suits all parties.”

Jed is trying to impress Poll who just laughs coarsely and when she laughs hard I can feel the whole of her body shake and jiggle around and it ain't a pleasant sensation. Not something you'd want to remember.

“Well, how much you very special gentlemen want to pay for this 'ere boy then? Lively he is. A real good runner. Slippery as an eel. Gotta keep him under tight control else he'll slip away before you know it.”

“Come on, Poll, out wid it. How much you asking then?”

Poll Parker laughs. It’s a heartless sound that has in all probability depressed many a man so far in her world.

“Now, you should know better, you don’t catch Poll Parker out with that one, Rolly. You make an offer and me and Jed 'ere will consider it, see. That's how I do business. You come to me, it's not the other way round, see. You make the offer first. Do I look like I was born yesterday, boys!”

“Two shillings, Poll, that's what he's worth to us.”

“Make it three shiny ones, my boys, and you've got yourself a bargain.”

Rolly and Jasper step quickly back to one side in the shadowy gaslight and whisper together. Without further ado, they turn around and come straight up to Poll Parker.

“You drive a hard bargain, Poll Parker, but he could be worth it to us, see. You keep a strong hold on him while Jasper here puts a halter on him. When it's done I'll give you the three silver shillings and drop them into the palm of your pretty hand.”

Before I even have time to think, the other thief, Jasper, has slid a rope around my neck and has me held firm like a tortoise on a tight piece of string … Poll Parker laughs loudly with a raucous intent. Receives Rolly's three silver shillings covetously. Lets go of my hair at last. Bends all the way down with her fat breasts a-flopping towards my reddened and sore face and plants a huge, whopping great kiss on me. The smell of her gin-sodden breath almost knocks me sideways. Only a tug on the rope around my neck saves me from completely falling over …

I am led along with the rope held taut around my neck through the night-time streets. All protest is to no avail. Rolly and Jasper have paid their three precious, shiny shillings and I'm theirs for whatever purpose suits them tonight. Pulled hither and jerked through these stinking, riotous, gas-lit streets of noise and drunkenness, refuse and rats, bawdy women and knaves eyeing everybody up as a potential victim to be beaten and broken … On we progress and suddenly the streets are much wider and brighter. Far more gas-lights; a lamplighter would have to really earn his corn in this part of town. This is a very posh neighbourhood … We've stopped quietly on the corner of a very rich-looking square of large houses. Suddenly Rolly and Jasper are taking extra care over all of our movements. I hear them whisper the word 'Peelers' back and forth a couple of times. They slyly look around the streets to ascertain whether we are being watched or not. The boy I'm inhabiting seems hell-bent on somehow making a blind break for it. I see his mind considering whether to try and chew through this haltered rope or not. It's far too thick for that and anyway, Jasper would foil this attempted trick and just yank the rope tighter … We are stood gathered in the gas-lit shadows right by a street sign that proclaims Eaton Square. I have heard of this name. In waking-time it's not that far from my Nan's as the crow flies, but this is different-looking, more prestigious … Rolly and Jasper ponder over whether privately-hired security forces patrol through these streets to protect the high and mighty, rich and famous, from the filthy peasants. The unwashed, illiterate hoi polloi, all shabbily dressed, tottering around and up to no good on gin and strong beer … I'm collecting so many new words for my waking-time Miss Parker file, that I seriously don't think I shall remember them all to write them down when I finally awake … Still this shrunken boy is fighting in his being to make a run for it. That's all he is ever thinking about. Escape … I can hear quite plainly these two villains whispering their intent.

“Right now, Rolly, I'll take this little varmint 'round the back. There'll be a window half-open somewheres, there always is. I'll get 'im to shin up and break in real easy, like.”

“But supposing he tries to make a break for it or screams out real loud and wakes up all the sleeping folks in theirs beds?”

“Well, he won't, see. He's with us and he knows it. Who's gonna believe a skinny, little bleeder like him anyway! He's in our gang, see, if we get caught then so will he. I won't cut the rope 'til he's almost inside, that way he can't do a runner. He'll have to drag the rope along after him once he's inside. But no matter, he's sharp enough to handle a simple little problem like that, ain't he.”

“What about waking up the servants? Guard dogs? A watchman in the basement safeguarding the premises, like?”

“Well, Rolly, my wicked old friend. See, I got a good look last night and so I did. All the nobs gone away to the countryside, I reckon, gone on their holidays and so they 'ave, bless 'em. No watchman in sight. And all the servants will be sound asleep and snoring, see. I knocked on the tradesman's door round the back yesterday afternoon, I did. 'What you be a-doing 'round here?' 'I gather all them rich folks have gone away and left you all behind and you an' the others got a chance to play' says I. 'Wot you mean?' say she, down-to-earth, friendly like, one of us, see, not stuck up like them know-all footmen and butlers. 'Well, lookee here', says I and shows her three large bottles of the home-made stuff. And with that she smiles, see. Well, then I know she's hooked. 'What's your name, young lady?, says I. 'Elsie', grins she. 'Here', I says, 'Three large bottles of granny's best home-made gin you'll ever drink', says I, 'and only fourpence for the lot. It's so good, Elsie, my gal, you'll think it's been distilled in Schiedam', says I … 'Wait 'ere', says Elsie. She's gone about five long minutes then returns, smiling, with these four magic pennies, see. I politely give her the three bottles with a wink, making very careful not to drop them. Don’t want no accidents to draw attention like. She presents them four pretty pennies into my expectant palm and I says to be sure and add some spoonfuls of white sugar to that gin, Elsie, my luv. 'Mix all them glasses of gin with it, Elsie.', says I. Then I was off real quick, see. If any one of them is awake right now I should think they’d be a-seeing we're red devils with horns a-grinning all over them. So don't you go a-worrying yourself; Jasper's done a good job, see.”

Rolly has nodded all the while and grunted in exact same rhythm … Without much further ado we proceed around to the rear of this large and luxurious house. Even in the half-light reflected from these gas lamps this house looks white and splendidly daunting. Built with the money of the Empire and riches of plunder I shouldn’t wonder … It's quickly explained to me in a cut-throat manner as to what I have to do. Just to make certain I don't get no fancy ideas as I'm clambering over the garden wall then shinning up a drainpipe. Jasper whispers quite audibly for me to hear, “He'd make a lovely corpse, Rolly, and so he would.”

These two crooks are right. They've done their homework good and proper. There is a little window half open on a catch to what seems to be a bathroom. Just enough space for a small hand. It's so easy to open it. Makes you truly believe that these 'ere rich folks want to be burgled so as you can fully appreciate their good fortune and exquisite fine taste … The only slight problem is this dragging rope. But this boy is so slippery and clever. That salacious Poll Parker was right about him. He instantly finds a cake of soap in the bathroom. Digs his dirty fingers deep into it and manages to rub the soap around his filthy neck. And what do you know, but heh presto, that chafing halter of a rope is quickly slipped over the head and gone and we are away through the small bathroom door and out into the upstairs hallway and all ready to make our ways downstairs to unlock the front door for Rolly and Jasper … A large German Shepherd dog barks ferociously. Bounds along the upper hallway stairs and is about to devour me like so much rotten meat. Done for! The boy has wet himself and I'm frozen to the spot with fear. Suddenly the Alsatian dog stops abruptly in mid-air and goes to ground on all fours with its white fore paws out in front of it and whimpers continuously. Eldritch is beside me. His unmapped face appears bent in concentration, raising up some ancient animal spell probably divined from dealings with those gigantic feral cats that guard the granaries in the Lands of the Pharaohs.

“No time to stop and ponder, Young Angel. Quick, follow me before this animal changes its mind and remembers its savage forbears!”

In a thrice we are downstairs and I am sliding back bolts. These hands are so deft and nimble I feel as if no lock or bolt or chain in London town this murky night could withstand me … Eldritch seems to hold me back with his mental force. Implants the idea into my mind that I must only half-open this front door then crouch down low and dive between the legs of whichever one of these night-time robbers, Rolly or Jasper, should come first … Without any further delay or voiced instruction I edge the front door slightly ajar as easy as you like. Drop into a very low crouch. Swing the door back and scramble through Rolly's bowed legs and away before you can say Jack Robinson … Out and around this posh Eaton Square in the hissing gaslight. Running like mad and feeling free. Flushed with excitement tingling all along the nerve ends and delighting the senses. Free from the clutches of Rolly and Jasper, those murderous robbers and bawdy wench, Poll Parker, and heading homeward, wherever that may lead us.....

Smoking Moses

“Well, just look at what the cat's dragged in!”

“That Tiggy's not back, is she?”

“Don't be so silly, Robert Clayton, it's just a saying to describe the way that you look, dear. You're angry with me. You look like you've been up half the night. Just exactly what do you do in your dreams, run a marathon or something!”

“Mum!”

“Well, go ahead and eat your cornflakes and you can get that fat bird of yours to stop staring at me all the time. He's starting to give me the creeps.”

“Aren't these cornflakes nearly finished yet? Won't we be a-needing a fresh packet soon?”

“Another three days worth, I reckon, before you can go out searching for those Coco Pops you so dearly love, Robert Clayton … I can't get over how your hair always seems to stand up on end. Your brother, Nick's, always looked immaculate, even first thing in the morning … God! Did you hear that!”

“What?”

“Wake up, boy, wake up. There's forever somebody always a-knocking at our front door. I won't get any peace 'til I'm six feet under. I've already had her upstairs this morning marching down here bright and early with her list of complaints. That Missus Gumby of hers wants to know what you were doing yesterday lunch-time hanging around in the street. Said you were acting very suspiciously … Alright, alright, keep your hair on, I'm bloody well coming whoever you are! Nearly taking that bleedin' door knocker off with their banging! Where's it written, I'd like to know, that says you have to answer your front door? We could all be out. We could all be hard of hearing. We could all be para … para … what is it, boy? C'mon!”

“Paranoid, Mum.”

“Thank you. Now, don't pull a face and don't go feeding that bird. He's so fat now he wouldn't fit in that Tiggy's mouth.”

“Mum!” …

“Good morning and who might you be then, Officer?”

“I nearly went. I didn't think there was anybody at home. But I was sure I could hear voices. Detective Constable Rose, Ma'am, at your service. I'm just knocking on a few doors and asking some questions regarding the murder last week of that young lady, Charlotte Evans, on the Eel Brook Common. A few words might just jog someone's memory. Dredge up a reminder of something out of the ordinary. A little detail that might assist us with our murder inquiry, Ma'am.”

“Missus Clayton, Constable Rose … Oh, I should have said Detective Constable, shouldn't I … My, but you are so very young and probably the best-looking policeman I have ever seen and it quite throws me. I can see why they've sent you door-to-door, all the ladies around here will be having fainting fits at the gorgeous sight of you and so they will!”

“That's very kind of you, Missus Clayton. Just a few words will help me with my report.”

“Come right in, Constable … I mean Detective Constable Rose, come in … ” …

“We have a visitor, Robert.”

“Crikey, the Peelers!”

“The Peelers? Just where do you get these quaint expressions from, Robert Clayton? Have you ever been called a Peeler before, Detective Constable Rose?”

“Rosie, Missus Clayton. Everybody calls me Rosie and no, I can't rightly say I have. Usually it's 'The Filth' or 'The Old Bill', sometimes 'The Rozzers' and many, many more besides that I can't repeat, but never 'The Peelers'. That went out with the Ark.”

“This is my youngest, Rosie, Robert Clayton … My oh my, they say that when the policemen start looking young you're getting old and you look very young and handsome to me, Rosie.”

“Missus Clayton, I have to say you don't look a day over thirty if I might be so bold.”

“Cup of tea, Rosie?”

“Why, thank you, Ma'am.”

“Stop sniggering, Robert Clayton! We don't want to hear any of your lame jokes and if that Sunshine of yours keeps giving me the evil eye like that I'm going to chase him out with my broom handle. Now, you've been warned, you fat-sized, yellow bird. I can't speak plainer than that … Now, you can see what I have to put up with, Rosie. A troublesome boy and a stroppy, fat budgerigar and that's not all! Still, you don't want to … Have a custard cream, Rosie?”

“Why, thank you, Missus Clayton, that's very kind of you. I don't mind if I do. I see you've broken your right arm, Robert, how did you do that?”

“Everyone calls me Bobby, Officer, except my Mother here. A car driver knocked me off my push-bike and the bike sort of landed on top of me and, as you can see, I broke my right arm … ”

“Don't you listen to him, Rosie! He'll drive you plum loco with his fibs and so he will. That's a likely story if ever I heard one! … Now, just exactly how can we help you, Rosie, my love?”

This Police Detective Constable whatever he calls himself certainly does look young. Very friendly like, but sharp underneath it. One of us, but quite clearly on the look out. Taking it all in. Infiltrating homes and families in this quiet, friendly, affable manner. My Nan always says never be fooled. The Police in this country have always considered themselves above the law. They only answer to the higher ups, royalty, politicians, the clergy and such like. And will shop us all at the drop of a policeman's helmet … It's a crying shame that they don't have those spikes on top of their helmets any more. They looked real great. Made them resemble soldiers of the Kaiser …

“Well, just a few questions, Missus Clayton … You don't mind if I take notes, do you?”

My mother is batting her eyelashes. Cursing herself for not having got dressed up properly for breakfast, if only she'd known. Making a right fool of herself in front of this young copper. It's proper embarrassing and so it is … Funny, I just can't stop it. Finding myself talking and half-acting, using the speech and mannerisms of those two murderous crooks, Rolly and Jasper, all the time. My dreams just won't let me alone …

“Well, now, I thank you. I will have a piece of cake, if I may, Missus Clayton.”

“Victoria Sponge cake. It was baked specially yesterday, though our Nick seemed right off his food and so he did. My eldest son, Rosie, on leave, home from the sea.”

“Immm! Great cake, Missus Clayton. Royal Navy?”

“No, Merchant … Didn't even finish his breakfast in bed.”

“I wonder why … ”

“Now, I don't want no sarky comments from you in front of Detective Constable Rosie here, young man, and if that bird of yours doesn't stop giving me the evil eye he'll be so much cat meat. You hear that, Sunshine! … Will you just look at the size of him, Rosie! Eats us out of house and home, he does.”

“Mum! Don't be so ridiculous. He only eats bird seed.”

“I've seen him eat at least three of your soggy cornflakes so far today and look again, he's got milk splashed all over his beak … Sorry, Rosie. We mustn't squabble. But if you only knew the half of it. Hell, Rosie, Mister Smarty-pants here knew the name of that poor dead girl before they even announced it on the wireless. Don't ask me how. Psychic or something, I guess. Just like my mother. You'd better ask him, Rosie.”

Would you Adam and Eve it. My very own mother has gone and put me right in it, all for the sake of an attractive copper who she fancies and who isn't much older than my brother, Nick. Feckless. Sell one of her own for a compliment or two and so she would. I want to knock these demons and wraiths off my left shoulder, but Sunshine is perched there watching everything. Taking it all in. Reading Detective Constable Rosie like a feathered book. Can see right through his little game … What do I do? I'm trapped. I must try and remember never to tell my mother anything secret again. But it's not that easy. I find myself talking sometimes and it all sort of spills forth and slips out before I've quite realised what I'm doing …

“I saw that murder, Officer, and I've seen another one too.”

This young policeman with his smart, clean uniform and his helmet resting on the kitchen table by his left elbow nearly chokes on his second slice of Mum's Victoria Sponge cake. Desperately reaches for his second cup of tea as Mum removes the teapot in readiness to make a fresh brew.

“You what, Robert? … Sorry, Bobby … Tell me that again.”

“I saw a murder and so I did, Officer.”

“No need to be so formal, Bobby. You can call me Rosie or Terry if you prefer it … Please explain. Were you in the vicinity of the Eel Brook Common last Monday night? … Where is this other body to? Go slowly while I take notes.”

“I dreamt it, Officer Rosie … I see murders and terrible things in my dreams. All the time. That lovely Charlotte never stood a chance. He jumped out from behind some bushes, catching her unawares and strangled her from behind … Dorothy is the name of the other woman and she was killed some time ago in the Blitz. I believe the killer just left her body on a bomb-site down by Harwood Road and she got counted in as one of the casualties of the bombing. A lot of unexplained deaths like that, Officer Rosie.”

“Well … I see, Bobby.”

“Don't you listen to his stuff and nonsense, Rosie. Have another cup of tea and some more of my home-made Victoria Sponge cake. There will be a speck of truth in what our young Master Robert Clayton here says. He's not stupid, just very fanciful, Rosie. For example, that bird of his, Sunshine, wouldn't say boo to a goose, but he believes this fat-sized, yellow bird talks to him all the time. But never in anybody else's hearing, you understand.”

“I think I get the drift, Missus Clayton. And thank you, I don't mind if I do. You're a really good cook, Missus Clayton. This is the very best sponge cake I've ever tasted in my entire life … Now, Robert … I mean Bobby … Can we go slowly again over what you've just said. Just so I can pick the bones out of it. I have to prepare a report of all my findings for my Detective Sergeant, Tom Dust, and he will quiz me like billy-o if I don't assemble cogent facts and data. Now, tell me again about your dream and the murder of Miss Charlotte Evans and what you thought you might have seen and I'll do my very best to extrapolate some facts from it.” …

“Has he gone yet, Bobby? What the hell did he want? … I've been laid here sweating, waiting for him to come clod-hopping up them stairs and apprehend me!”

“Mum's still talking with him at the front door. Doesn't want to let him go. She's all over him. It was really embarrassing. She was literally throwing herself at him. I didn't know where to put my face. It quite unsettled, Sunshine. Do middle-aged women always go funny like that and start eyeing up every young guy?”

“I don't rightly know, Bobby. If Dad was to find out he'd have kittens … You say he didn't ask about me. What's his game then? What did he want again?”

“He's a young copper called Rosie, real name Terry Rose, who drinks a lot of tea and was quite cute. He played along with Mum giving it all out. Couldn't quite believe his luck, I guess. I tell you what, he can't 'alf eat. Putting away slices of sponge cake. I reckon he had at least three wedges of that Victoria Sponge cake baked especially for you … I didn't think you ever got really nervous. You always seem so calm even when everything is going against you.”

“Don't you believe it, Bobby. I'm like one of those beautiful swans gliding along at Ham Common. You look at me and I haven't got a care in all the world. Serenely contemplating the flowing waters of the Thames. But if only you could really see, you'd notice my webbed feet going ten to the dozen under the water's surface. What would you call it, Bobby? You're the clever one with all the words. Come on, surprise me. Cheer me up on a dull, grey, Monday morning.”

“Well, Miss Parker is going to go wild for me with this one. It might even tempt me to write a composition for her about one of her forebears. How about … Nick Clayton is cynosure for admiring eyes … Will that do? Can I put that in my Miss Parker file or am I being too flash and getting above myself as our Mum likes to say?”

“That's brilliant, Bobby. Really brilliant. If only I knew what it meant. But I gather you are paying me a compliment … Well, did you make that telephone call like I asked you and, if so, how did it go? Is Sandy okay? Did you get to speak to her? … Tell me. I want to know. Leave that bird alone, he can manage well enough on his own. You're always stroking him or nuzzling his beak with your nose, looks downright weird to me and, by the way, how can you write that Miss Parker of yours a composition with a broken arm I'd like to know?”

“Hurrah, he's gone at last! Our friendly, neighbourhood copper is striding down Studdridge Street looking for all the world at least five pounds heavier than when he stopped by here earlier. Would you Adam and Eve it, Mum's come out waving after him and he's turned around and saluted her back. Joking like. I bet she shouted 'Rosie'. Missus Gumby's eyes will be pinned like slits to the inside of her twitching net curtains. It'll be the talk of Studdridge Street within the half hour. By the time Missus Gumby gets into the Post Office on Wandsworth Bridge Road, everybody will know about Mum flirting with handsome, young Detective Constable Rosie, from Putney Bridge to the World's End. It makes you wonder how anyone has ever managed to spy for Russia in this country with so many Missus Gumbys around. She'd swallow gossip in smoke from a chimney and so she would. When Mum walks down Studdridge Street next all the neighbours will nudge one another then wait until she's walked on by then tittle-tattle like crazy. If it was me they were talking and gossiping about my ears would be on fire. Sending up smoke signals for assistance … ”

“Don't go on so, Bobby. Put me out of my misery and tell me what happened!”

“Well, bad news, Nick, I'm afraid. All they really told me … it was that posh-sounding mother … funny, Sandy's so pleasant, you'd think … ”

“Get on with it!”

“She's in hospital, but she will live. Lost a lot of blood and our family name ain't what it used to be around their house. I don't think you'd win any popularity stakes where they are concerned. They weren't that friendly to me either, but I can understand that in the circumstances. The message they gave me for you was never to show your face around there or darken their doorstep again. And definitely stay away from Sandy.”

“I thought as much. When I was in the Durrell Arms with June last night an old school friend warned me that Sandy's cousin, Eric, is looking for me. You know of him, Bobby?”

“Isn't he the former boxer, used to be West London amateur middle-weight champion. Hangs out with the Bindon gang or something … ”

“That's the one. Well, I guess that's neat. You've just confirmed all of my worst suspicions … What's so funny? What are you laughing at? It's no laughing matter. Sandy's cousin, Eric, is a real hard case.”

“I wasn't laughing at that. It just tickled me that you'd take that big-boobed barmaid, June, to a pub on her night off, that's all.”

“Well, smartarse, where would you have taken her on a Sunday evening in this bloody country! It's like they close off all sign of life for the day. Nothing ever to do. Nowhere to go. Everything's shut up tight with all them middle-class hypocrites praying lip-service to a God they don't even believe in!”

“I like the idea of 'praying lip-service', may I use that?”

“If you must.”

“What about the pictures?”

“It's always the movies with you, isn't it. Not everybody wants to go to the pictures all the time, you know. And anyway, I'd seen the double-bill at the Regal, as you well know. You've evaded answering my other question so far. Do I have to repeat it or will I have to trust to that good sense of yours?”

“Smoking Moses.”

“Who's he when he's at home then?”

“I just like it, that's all.”

“Go on, don't keep me in suspense. You know what you are?”

“No, what?”

“A little tease. Just like that barmaid, June. Though she turned out to be a big tease even after the five vodka and oranges I bought for her. Arrh well!”

“That copper, Rosie, was out hunting for clues to that young girl, Charlotte's, murder on the Eel Brook Common last week, that's all. I told him I dreamt the murder and he went away thinking I imagined it or I'm not quite the full ticket. You know what coppers are like. They only deal in hard facts and are not to be trusted. If Nan finds out how Mum flirted with that young copper, Rosie, she'll tear her off a strip. You know Nan, she still goes on about how it was the police who let the working-class people of this country down during the General Strike of nineteen-twenty-six. If they'd have given their full support to the Strike we would have had some kind of revolution. The country was … ”

But Nick is not listening now. He's vanished, vamoosed. Gone since the copper, Rosie, wasn't looking for him. He's not wanted for assisting an illegal abortion. The Merchant Navy hasn't asked the Fulham Police to track him down and whatever else Nick's gone and done that he's not telling me. I can tell from his demeanour though that even Sandy's sad state worried him only a little back there. He didn't jump ship just for Sandy's unfortunate pregnancy. But you never fully know with Brother Nick. As I say, it's the really good-looking guys who are the most dangerous …

“Smoking Moses … Smoking Moses.”

“I just knew you'd like that, Sunshine. That's really made for you, isn't it, babe.”

Isn't it just great. No bloody school today, tomorrow, next week, and I've got a while before Mum comes padding up the stairs with some chore for me to do. She's sat right now in the kitchen, daydreaming over that young copper, Rosie. Imagining them sat together in deckchairs on Brighton Pier or somewhere. A fish and chip supper then walking along the front holding hands as the tide goes out and all our dreams are washed clean away …

“Smoking Moses.”

“Now, don't interrupt, Sunshine. I've got to press on with this book and finish it to get to Miss Parker's reading list.”

“Smoking Moses.”

“Stop it, Sunshine; the Riders of the Purple Sage are a-calling me.”

Miss Withersteen, I knew how you'd take it. But, if anythin', that makes it harder to tell you, an' I'd got fond of my job. We bed the herd a ways off to the north of the break in the valley. There was a big level an' pools of water an' tip-top browse. But the cattle was in a high nervous condition. Wild – as wild as antelope! You see, they'd been so scared they never slept -

“Smoking Moses … Smoking Moses … ”

“Stop it, Sunshine, you're distracting me. It's just getting exciting!”

I ain't a-goin' to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off out there in the Sage. But there wasn't a day for weeks that the herd didn't get started to run. We alles managed to ride 'em close an' drive 'em back an' keep 'em bunched. Honest, Miss Withersteen, them steers was thin. They was thin when water and grass was everywhere. Thin at this season – that'll tell you how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, one night, a strange runnin' streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak was a coyote – with an oiled an' blazin' tail! Fer I shot it an' found out. We had hell with the herd that night an', if the Sage an' grass hadn't been wet, we, horses, steers an' all, would hev burned up. But I said I wasn't goin' to tell you any of the tricks -

“Smoking Moses.”

“Stop it!”

Strange now, Miss Withersteen, when the stampede did come, it was from natural cause – jest a whirlin' devil of dust. You've seen the like often. An' this wasn't no big whirl, fer the dust was mostly settled. It had dried out in a little swale an' ordinarily no steer would ever hev run for it. But the herd was nervous an' wild. An', jest as Lassiter said, when that bunch of white steers got to movin', they were as bad as buffalo. I've seen some buffalo stampedes back in Nebraska, an' this bolt of the steers was the same kind.” -

“Smoking Moses.” …

“I want to have a serious talk with you, Bobby Clayton. Don't malinger there with your head stuck in a book. You spend far too much time reading, you do. Gives you ideas above your station. You won't learn anything of real value from books. You should get outside in the fresh air and take part in life.”

“But I've got a broken arm, Gran! … What do you want to see me about anyway?”

She's got a right cheek and so she has, with a nod to Rolly and Jasper. She never even knocked on the bedroom door, just barged straight in and started talking to me right in the middle of a stampede and Venters trying hard to explain the loss of all her cattle to poor Jane Withersteen. I suppose Gran thinks that because she owns this house it gives her the right to come and barge in on me and criticise my reading books. I find it quite funny. One the one hand, I've got people like my Headmistress, Miss St Helene, and my class teacher, Miss Parker, encouraging me in every which way to read and develop. Education is their byword for future success in life. Then I've got my Gran and my Mother going on about me reading all the time. I wish I had a penny for every time someone's said to me that I've always got my head stuck inside a book. That's why I like my Nan, she's seen it all at least three times over in her life, but she doesn't make any comment. Kind of leaves it open and encourages you to come to your own conclusions about things … Is it such a crime that I like reading. You would think that I'm just laid on my bed all day staring up at the ceiling. Daydreaming, playing Chuck Berry and Everly Brothers records and dreaming of Janice May. Fantasizing about the Pharaoh's Daughter. Pretending that lovely Miss Parker can somehow hide me in her luggage if and when she should set sail for Wellington. But then I would never see Jimmy Greaves slalom through defences again and coolly slot the ball home. That great picture of the three Chelsea under-twenty-three players is sellotaped up on the bedroom wall, winking down at me right now. Mel Scott's face is just behind Gran's left, protruding ear as she speaks. I read somewhere that as people get older their ears and noses grow a little. Kind of accentuates the ageing process, I guess. It must be horrible to get old and infirm … I just love the word accentuate, must stick it in my Miss Parker file …

Chelsea have got Aston Villa at home in the fourth round of the F.A. Cup this coming Saturday. Maybe I can go. But it won't be like the Portsmouth game, it will be a huge crowd, possibly sixty-thousand people plus and I'm sure to get knocked, banged, barged into, have my feet trodden on …

“Are you listening to me at all, Bobby? I've been talking these last few minutes and you've been staring off into space … Don't look so helpless and don't try and pretend you're gormless, you know that won't wash with me. Now, come upstairs with me this minute.”

Now captured and sat in Gran's sitting room staring at the moustachioed picture of her Father hanging up above the mantelpiece. She's got a coal fire burning. I haven't got the heart to tell her that they've just been made illegal. She'll have a fit. We are now officially a smokeless zone. So as to cut down on all this fog and pollution. Some clever scientists have produced a report for the government of the day as they say which concludes that coal and wood-burning fires contribute greatly to the peasouper fogs. I just wish someone had told poor Dorothy. At this rate, these scientists will decide that lorry and car exhaust fumes and folks smoking cigarettes should be verboten as well … I think I shall introduce a few foreign phrases and words like verboten to improve my Miss Parker file. Try and find some current New Zealand slang words. Maybe a few Maori sayings and a little bit of Maori history and culture …

“Come back, Bobby, and stop looking so deeply into that fire like that. You'll only conjure up fairies and demons who will carry you off. That's where all your excessive reading will get you. Before long, boy, devils and ghosts and all manner of strange, unworldly creatures will start invading your thoughts and your mind and it won't be your own any more. You trouble is you're too impressionable, Bobby. Don't look at me like that. Have a Rich Tea biscuit and don't dunk it, they always slip into your tea. I only speak to you like this because I like you best, you know that. All the others are a mess, a complete waste of time. Now you mustn't repeat what I am going to say to you to another living soul. Always remember, Bobby, that I have high hopes of you. That, whatever anybody else says about me, especially that Joan, your mother, that I am a woman more sinned against than sinner … My best friend, Missus Gumby, saw you acting very strangely yesterday, Bobby Clayton. Hanging about in the street trying to look all innocent and wide-eyed and plainly up to something. Now, I know that a serious injury like that broken arm of yours can play tricks on you. But that doesn't satisfy me. Now, why exactly did you go a-following Cyril Stocker yesterday, Bobby? Tell me why, we'd all like to know!”

“Well, Gran, thanks for the tea and biscuits. Do I really look like your late Father? Maybe if I drew on a black moustache and wore a high-collared, starched shirt like that one. Funny how they used to wear their ties sort of outside of the collar.”

“You may well fool some people like that, Bobby Clayton, but not me. Yes, you do look like him. But that's only to be expected. You are after all his bloodline. I repeat, explain yourself. I've got my friend, Missus Gumby, very worried about our family at present. Your Father seems all over the place. Your Uncle Charlie's electrical business seems to be going down the pan. Your sister, Maggie's, gone and left her husband and poor little Susie, bless her, is virtually homeless. Your brother, Nick, can't look me in the eye when I ask him a simple, straightforward question, and your Mother thinks I'm the reincarnation of the Devil's Daughter and goes and throws herself at some young policeman this morning because, my son, your Father keeps leaving her on her own too much. Now you're acting strangely. I thought that at least I could rely upon you. Because you seem the most sensible one of the lot. The only one who might make something of himself. When I die I'm going to have to leave my money and this house to someone. I don't see why no charity should get it. They say that charity begins at home, well, you have to believe it. I've been thinking lately of making a new will and testament and leaving it all to you. Have it held in trust for you until your twenty-first birthday. All assuming I should die before then. So don't you go and disappoint me. Tell me what on earth you were up to!”

“Well, I'm quite taken with the idea of the Christadelphian Church, Gran, and I found out that Mister Stocker is a lay minister. So I sort of thought I'd kind of follow him and, if the opportunity presented itself, I'd introduce myself and manage to get invited along to a special service for newcomers. Particularly seeing that neither Mum nor Dad show any interest in religion and don't seem to believe in anything except the power of money. No-one else in the family seems to have any religious convictions excepting, of course, you, Gran. Well, that was it really, plain and simple. I guess if I looked suspicious and acted strange it was because I was nervous. Now, thank you for saying you will leave me this house, but I guess it should be Dad's by rights, though I do so thank you again.”

Gran stares at me hard like for a few moments. Surprises me and produces a cigarette from out of nowhere. I don't think I can ever remember seeing her smoke before.

“I've got to hand it to you, Bobby Clayton, you do so try. That's one of the reasons I like you, Bobby, you just love to lie, don't you. Not downright nasty lies, but you enjoy it for the sake of seeing if the lie will work. Now that is where you are like your great-grandfather. His tricksy lying helped make him a fortune and gain a position and status in society. But that's all by the by … I'm going to give you one more chance, Bobby. I don't expect to see any more fanciful dragonflies dancing about your head like so many Devil's darning needles helping you to conjure up more falsehoods and evasive deceptions. But, my boy, you are a pathological liar and so you are. Now, drink some more tea, have another biscuit. Don't pretend that broken arm is hurting you any. I'm not that easily fooled, now try again.”

“Well, you are the only one in the family, Gran, who can always spot when I'm lying … To tell you the truth, I had a dream about the Second World War in which I saw someone killed. Now, I didn't see the face of the killer and couldn’t rightly distinguish him by his clothing, manner or walk, but I did see Mister Stocker in my dream and I believe he may know who the killer is or was. I fully understand that Mister Stocker is a well-respected member of this community and a devout and regular churchgoer and I know him to be a good man. I just thought that he may know something from long ago or be perhaps covering up for somebody close. I got carried away, Gran, and thought I was in a detective adventure and that Mister Cyril Stocker, bless him, might be some kind of clue or that he could lead me towards finding out who that killer in my dream was, if he is still alive that is. But I guess I'm just not very good at playing the detective and you and Missus Gumby spotted my odd behaviour straight away. I wouldn't be very good like that Dixon of Dock Green you always watch every Saturday evening on your television set now, would I, Gran?”

Gran beams in my direction and pours herself yet another cup of tea. Satisfied at her skill of eliciting the truth from a confusion of lies.

“You're a good boy, Bobby. At least we've got to the truth. Of course, I understand, but Cyril Stocker wouldn't hide the identity of a murderer from long ago. Detective work is not like you read about in books, real life is far more strange and difficult. I’ve warned you against too much reading, Bobby. But I'm pleased at least we've cleared that little mystery up. Well done, boy. Missus Gumby will be ever so relieved, she was so very worried about you, my dear. But now we can all rest easy in our beds at night knowing that you were only playing at being the amateur sleuth.”.....

The Old Ways

With a heavy heart, I set off for school. You would think that they would forget all about me. Better things to do. But none of it. My Mother received a letter from the school this morning asking me to go in before midday. What now! I mustn't tell them I'm learning to write with my left hand. Only encourage them to ask me to attend classes. I'm learning already that you are never free of them. Schools cling to you like barnacles. I like that. Barnacles. Makes me think of an old seventy-eight record my Gran used to have, 'Barnacle Bill the Sailor' … Now I'm realising that schools are just the beginning. Life seems made up of societies, organisations, companies, groupings, where you have to belong. If you don't, you are on the outside peering in and, unless you are very clever or super-talented or both, you end up living on the margins of society like my Father and Uncle Charlie. Just getting by. Yet really my Father is still living off the good fortune and business acumen of his Father … Acumen has already passed into the Miss Parker file … It seemed like I would never, ever have to go to school again. I mean, even twelve weeks can seem like an eternity. I could well be Montgomery Clift in 'From Here to Eternity', afraid to box because I've killed someone in a previous fight in the ring. But eventually bullied out of it by big, nasty Ernest Borgnine and, in the end, Monty overcomes his fears and fights on and wins …

It's horrid that I've got to go in school … Now, if … I've just seen Cyril Stocker creeping along Peterborough Road and turning left into Hurlingham. Would you Adam and Eve it. All the best of intentions go clean out the window at the mesmeric call of the Great Detective echoing in my ears. Miss St Helene and the Holy Cross School can wait awhile, more important matters at hand … There is something really exciting about following someone. That rush of excitement tinged with fear. You could get caught out and fully exposed. The Creeper could murder you. Though up until now he has only killed young women that I know of. But there is always a first time for everything … Following carefully the instructions of the Great Detective. Stay well behind your intended target. Make sure you are dressed inconspicuously. Be anonymous. Keep at least one other person between you and the intended target … It's not so easy to be invisible with this plaster-cast on. I didn’t want to wear my mac today and I couldn't get the arm of my jacket sleeve over the cast. I bet that every Detective that's ever lived always has a problem. I'm already learning fast that nothing is straight-forward. Nothing is easy or what it seems. There is always a distraction. An irritating nuisance. Something that gets in the way and threatens the pleasure of detecting … I'm hanging back by that red telephone box just as yesterday. Sure enough, Cyril the Creeper has gone into what looks like the self-same house as before … I am going to have to be brave. I never feel courageous. Not like my brother, Nick, who is always so out-front. My Mother says I'm timid and I so hate that word. It makes you feel that at the slightest provocation tears will come cascading down along your cheeks. Big boys are not supposed to cry. If only I could feel moody and brave like James Dean in 'Giant'. Lousy film with a brilliant James Dean. Maybe all that new-found oil money gave James Dean confidence. No. He was a punk kid who couldn't care less and wasn't afraid of anyone or anything … Right, enough boosting myself to gather momentum. I shall walk straight past the house, but I've got to get the number. I can't always see that well. Oh, never mind, just do it! Be resourceful like Burt Lancaster, pretend a couldn't-care-less punk attitude like James Dean … I'm walking slowly past the house now and, of course, the number is obscured … Odds and evens. All the streets in London seem divided that way. There must be regular people who only ever live on the odd side of the street. Perhaps folk that live in even numbers are more successful. Our house is, of course, an uneven number. Twenty-seven. Funny though, that number feels lucky to me, maybe the number twenty-seven is an imposter … Cease wondering and concentrate. Fifty-one is as clear as you like in bold white lettering. Cyril Stocker keeps going to number forty-seven Hurlingham Road. Slip further along then casually cross over the road … Mind that car! That's torn it! That guy in the Hillman Minx tooted his horn. M neck is burning red-hot. I feel like the whole world is looking at me. Pointing the finger. “It's him!” … ”He's the one!” … ”Well, what do you expect!” … But nothing. The Creeper hasn't suddenly lurched out into the street clutching a shot-gun and threatening to blow me away … I'm watching now from a safe distance along. Making notes. My writing is getting quite good with my left hand. In fact it's easier to read than when I write normally. Except that it's not properly joined-up and looks like a neat and tidy exercise by a seven year old … What's this? A large, blue van has driven up outside number forty-seven and two men have got out. One knocks on the front door while the other is opening the back of the van … Cyril the Creeper and a skinny woman with blonde, straggly hair have appeared. They are gesturing. A bring-it-in signal. This skinny, blonde woman must be his accomplice. People who commit real-life crimes over a long period of time always have an accomplice or an unwitting stooge who keeps quiet and doesn't give the game away … Boxes. Large oatmeal coloured boxes that look to be cardboard. I am going to have to somehow find out what is inside of them. I don't really know why. My Gran said that Mister Stocker is a pillar of society and he probably is and I am such a fool. I spend far too much of my time in films and books. But I sense secrets. Your inner feelings can betray you badly in day-time. In dream-time it is all happening and you don't really have time to think or question yourself. It's as if you are swimming under water. Everything seems the same as waking-time, but the quality of life is somehow muffled. That sense of daily predictability vanishes. Absolutely anything extraordinary can happen. But in waking-time, if you start to feel for your intuition, it leads you astray. You imagine secrets and conspiracies that just aren't there … They've dropped a box and the contents have spilled out and the skinny woman with the blonde, straggly hair is giving one of the van men a right earful … What's that guy holding up? It looks like a bible. They are delivering bibles to number forty-seven Hurlingham Road. This must be an outpost for the Christadelphian Church, but if so, why is this blonde woman so agitated and angry with the van men? After all, it's only a bible he's dropped. I mean, no offence to God and the good book, but bibles must be two-a-penny even in the Christadelphian Church … Just think how many Christian bibles there must be on the planet Earth right now. Bibles with ragged and missing front covers. Bibles with pages torn out and ripped. Some probably propping up wonky tables and chairs. Many stored in strange places. All the Christian churches of the world, on a Monday morning deserted of people and stuffed full of bibles … There's more to this than meets the eye of that I'm sure … Think about it! Why haven't these good books been delivered to the Christadelphian Church on Wandsworth Bridge Road? … More and more boxes. Stacks of them … A piece of wrapping paper has come loose from one of the boxes and landed in the gutter. Pray no gusts of wind appear from out of nowhere to blow it away. If this was a dream then this piece of wrapping paper would mischievously whip up and blow in my direction for me to catch it … Must concentrate and watch. Every time I think of dreams the image of the Pharaoh's Daughter comes spinning into my mind and I feel myself going weak at the knees just at the sight of her. She seems to radiate a breathless beauty that comes from the mind and the soul. A magical power that transfixes everything … Good! The blue van has finally driven off. A third person, a bald-headed man has appeared from out of number forty-seven and is carrying the remaining boxes into the house … No sudden gusts of wind. No plague of locusts to blind and deafen me with their beating wings … Must capture that discarded wrapping paper … This is it. No point in pretending otherwise. Be smart. If this house number forty-seven has just taken in a delivery then for the moment they will be concentrating upon that since what was going on outside their front door is finished … A little time gap beckons. Take a chance and go and pick up that scrap of wrapping paper or whatever …

Oh, miracle of miracles, I did it! I just crossed over and walked down the road as casual as you like. Bent down outside number forty-seven and picked up this piece of wrapping paper … I can't believe it. This piece of torn wrapping paper says 'Atlantis Enterprises' and has a New Jersey address. Those bibles have come all the way from America. From New York …

I'm heading off now. No point in pushing your luck. The Creeper's probably been watching me and is all ready to report back to Missus Gumby and the world at large, but I don't care. But it makes you think, doesn't it. Don't we produce bibles in this country, any more? Are they so special that we have to import them from America? Is the Christadelphian Church bible so quirky that it can’t be faithfully produced over here? Maybe it's plain charity. America's Christadelphians supporting their English brethren or, more likely, poorer cousins. But the expense of sending them here. It must cost a small fortune to have them shipped over. I must remember to ask brother, Nick, about likely costs when I see him next …

I thought I could slip quietly in through the side entrance by the girls' toilets. But no. Thwarted. The caretaker must have forgotten to unlock the door today. Cutler. Nobody ever calls him Mister Cutler because he is just a caretaker. Already some of the children I am growing up with have become snobs just like their parents. Though precisely what Janice May has to be snobbish about I couldn't rightly say. Pretending to all manner of airs and graces. It annoys and perplexes me. But I just can't take my eyes off her lovely face. I spend hours imagining the smell and taste of her. The more I daydream of her the more her image and presence seem to merge with that of the Pharaoh's Daughter 'til, for some moments, they become one in my mind. I cannot separate them out and find myself coming upon the word reincarnation. Could Janice May really be the Pharaoh's Daughter in disguise? This stuck-up, sultry, little bitch who thinks she's the Queen of the May, a modern day representative of the Pharaoh's Daughter. I think not. I mean, she knows full well that I like her and constantly treats me like dirt. The Pharaoh's Daughter in Memphis is only a couple of years older than Janice May yet they seem world's apart … I'm laughing at world's apart, but they are separated by five and a half thousand years and all the incalculable passage of dream-time in between … I am going to receive a few gold stars today, that is for sure. Incalculable itself must be worth two gold stars at least … I'm stood by this locked school door and trying to think of anything that will delay my action. Imagining the world as upside-down with us all living in cities high in the sky. Anything to avoid what I have to do right now. Because of following Cyril Stocker, the Creeper, I've arrived at school during the lunch-break. Unlike me, most of the children stay for school dinners. Now, because of that locked door and Old Cutler's inefficiency, I've got to walk across the packed playground. Take my life in my hands. Must try and remember to be like James Dean. Make today a James Dean day. Yet when I see Janice May, which I'm bound to do, I'll get all embarrassed inside and start doing silly things. Feeling exposed and all manner of gibberish comes shooting right out from my mouth at the simplest of questions. Why, oh why, do I have to feel like this? It's like being saddled with a curse. Do adults feel like this all the time? Maybe when I grow up these hurtful feelings and fantasies that plague my days and dreams will just drop away from me and I'll be normal again like everyone else and not really care too deeply about other people, at least that's the way it seems to me … Here goes. Offer up a prayer to James Dean for help. He'd probably sneer at me and tell me to just do it and take whatever comes my way. Accept the consequences … The noise of the playground from the outside is like one giant, high-pitched scream echoing and reverberating. It rises and falls sharply, modulates out then rears up again to a pulsating crescendo. A pitch of intensity that cannot be matched. Not even an ecstatic football crowd can project this amount of energy.

“Well, look who's here. Are you coming back to school, Bobby?”

“Hello, Danny. No, I've got to see Miss St Helene and Miss Parker.”

Danny O'Shea suddenly shies away from me as if he's just received a secret signal to leave me alone. I didn't know that broken arms were catching … Halfway across the school playground and my worst held fears materialise right before my very eyes. My tormentors in chief, Brian Holt and Stuart Spear, the inseparable Siamese twins, are stood right in front of me. Blocking my progress. Smiling at me with a ferocious intensity. They have this superiority of super gloss surrounding them. They think they are better than anybody else, smarter and harder, bigger and cleverer, and more talented. Well, maybe they are, but hell, if they would only just leave me alone. But they won't. I'm like a red rag to a bull to them. They just can't resist it.

“Well, look who's here, Stu! It's little Bobby Clayton with his head stuck in the air!”

Other boys are gathering around and a chant is starting up.

“It's little Bobby Clayton with his head stuck in the air – it's little Bobby Clayton with his head stuck in the air.”

Out of the very corner of my right eye I can see Janice May skipping with four or five other girls. They are so clever with their skipping ropes. They can count and skip to complicated patterns and rhythms yet, all the time, they are watching us intently. Pretending indifference yet secretly fascinated because we are all joined together whether we like it or not …

I'm completely encircled by now, I cannot move backwards or forwards. This group of boys leads by Holt and Spear are squeezing in on me as they chant my name. Playing the shame game. Trying to shame me in front of Janice May and her girlfriends. I cannot see Rick Maghoo anywhere. If he’s got any sense he's stayed well out of it … Having my feet trodden on. Pushed and shoved about. Swinging the plaster-cast and catching a fat boy, Andrew Edwards, on the side of the head. That does it! I'm going under at this rate. I’ve noticed before that Holt and Spear like it even more when I fight back. It encourages them. Makes them feel they've got a worthy opponent to crush. All their crazy words whirling around and around inside my head as Brian Holt, my tormentor in chief, snatches my satchel setting up shrieks of delight and whoops of joy. I can still see Janice May skipping with her coloured rope. I'm about to go down and take a right good kicking when the encircling boys part like the Red Sea and my saviour strides through them brooking no interference … Oh, Miss Parker, I love you and only you. If only I were twenty years older I would throw up everything and emigrate to New Zealand with you. I'd do anything. Shear sheep, drive a truck, work in a factory, sweep the streets, sing for my supper. Anything to be with you, Miss Parker …

“Sit yourself down, Bobby Clayton. Don't look so scared. You are not in any trouble though you are very late … Jennifer … ”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Go into the playground and see if you can retrieve Bobby Clayton's satchel on my say-so, will you?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Jennifer Lewis unwillingly with a sigh of 'why me' goes back out into the school playground.

“What exactly do you do to excite such attacks, Bobby? Everyone was enjoying their lunch break, playing sensibly, then you appeared and all hell broke loose! What did you say? What exactly did you do?”

“I didn't do nothing, Miss.”

“Anything, if you please. I find that very hard to believe Bobby Clayton.”

She's smiling at me. I've caught her on a good mood day. All the clever words and phrases that circle inside my head. When I'm in her presence on my own, the pounding of blood ringing in my ears, confusing my brain, makes me feel stupid and I become monosyllabic. I just can't think of anything to say. It is a curse being in love with three separate women all at the very same time.

“Well, maybe I'm just a scapegoat, Miss.”

There, I've managed to say something that sounds half-intelligent to my ears. Enough for her to glance at me in a thoughtful manner.

“Well, whatever it is, Bobby, you certainly do raise up the demons in the other children … My, but you are a sight for sore eyes. That plaster-cast already looks very discoloured. How are you coping with that broken arm?”

Before I can reply to her solicitous question, Jennifer Lewis comes prancing back in as bold as brass and presents my satchel to Miss Parker like a gift from an acolyte to a teaching goddess …

“Thank you, Jennifer, you can go now.”

With obvious disappointment at not being included in this little moment, Jennifer Lewis reluctantly retreats back out into the lunchtime mayhem of the school-yard. Did Miss Parker say that everybody was playing sensibly before I appeared! She must be living in cloud cuckoo land wherever that is.

“Why did you want to see me, Miss?”

“Well, we have to keep tabs on you, Bobby Clayton. You are one of my special pupils, believe it or not. With the Eleven Plus coming up in June we somehow have to prepare you properly, broken arm notwithstanding. Well, Miss St Helene, the Headmistress, Mister Whittingham and myself, have high hopes of you, Bobby.”

I can't help it. I can feel myself going bright red in the face much to Miss Parker's amusement, who seems to take delight in unsettling me. I've become tongue-tied as well and can only gesture awkwardly towards my watching satchel dumped on a nearby desk by Jennifer Lewis, without a word, as if we can communicate soundlessly. Miss Parker opens my satchel and without hesitation comes up with my blue-bound Miss Parker file book. My face is really burning now. Pray to God and James Dean and anyone else who may be listening in or looking on, please don't open the file at certain pages. I just couldn’t bear it if she read what I've said about her. But no, the Goddess of good fortune is smiling on me today. She's turned to a recent page. And in that beautifully clipped English voice that only Miss Parker can produce, so sharp and ringingly crisp that glasses and bottles feel in danger, she reads aloud …

“Pukeko – meaning a wading bird, an imitative sound taken from the Maori – brightly coloured plumage.”

Fortunately, the end of the lunchtime break allowed me to escape. Miss St Helene, the Headmistress, had a meeting arranged with one of the school's governors and just had to let me go. I feel lectured and talked at. Praised, prodded and pushed, cajoled and compelled. Miss Parker attacked me for reading what she called escapist westerns. When I protested and said I particularly enjoyed Zane Grey and Max Brand she laughed right in my face. Reading is not meant for enjoyment she said. I mean, that is madness. I didn't dare disagree with her, but I draw the line at that. Already I've noticed that if you really enjoy something you learn really fast. If I just glance at a Chelsea football programme at a game against say West Ham United, a team I have never, ever seen play before, they were in the Second Division until this season, within seconds I've completely memorised all the names of their current players because I'm really interested and it excites me. I just don't get it. Why is learning at school supposed to be difficult? Are you not allowed to have fun. Why not! It seems to me that being a grown-up doesn’t appear to be much fun either. Most of the grown-ups I know have that furrowed line between their eyebrows. Darwin's grief line. Grieving for their lives that have slipped clean by them. All the cherished dreams and giggling laughter is gone and they end up propping up the bar of a pub like my Father in the Eight Bells all the time. My brother, Nick, is still free, but already I see life impinging on him. Sooner rather than later a girl will capture him and he'll be forced to settle down against his will and all of his wistful fantasies and hopeful dreams will be squashed …

Miss Parker only gave me three gold stars and I felt that was unfair and a great disappointment. Then she smiled right at me and I almost lost my mind. That's what a smile can do … She interrogated me about my recent entries in my blue-bound Miss Parker file book. Rather suspicious, I thought. As if I didn't really have a broken right arm at all. Maybe she should emigrate to New Zealand and leave me alone. I sense already that love is fickle … I said that my brother, Nick, has been making the entries for me. When questioned about the quality of the writing I simply said that he was trying to make it look like mine. His writing is much better than mine and Miss St Helene will know that if ever Miss Parker should mention it in passing … Miss Parker's lovely brown eyes gleamed at me and she asked to see my brother, Nick. Quick as a flash I said he would be going back to his ship any day soon. That would postpone any new entries … Some talk about whether my arm would heal in time for me to sit the Eleven Plus exam. Miss St Helene even proposed the idea of putting together my selected school work from last year so that I could be assessed. But the Examiners appointed to the task don't like this method. Too chancy. Too open to abuse. If I was Crispin Carruthers at a public school they would, of course, accept it. Funny how private schools are always called public when the opposite is true. I can't help but notice the class divide. Everything that you say or do seems to drive it home to you. Even Fulham Borough is regarded as a working-class stronghold compared to our rich and classier neighbours over the way in Chelsea … I briefly saw Rick Maghoo as I was leaving the school. His mother has had a new baby and he now has five sisters. Will I go over for tea one evening next week? Why, yes, of course I will, only too pleased. But I mustn't mention it to Mum. She doesn't approve though I can't rightly see why. Rick was a sight for sore eyes and no mistake. I realised two things when I saw him that had never been quite so apparent to me before. Firstly, how he is truly my only real friend and secondly, how remote and aloof he is with the majority of other children. A form of protection, I guess. Building and buttressing a high wall around you so that nobody can get in and hurt you. We all fear being hurt yet slash out and wound at the slightest provocation …

Oh, if only I'd worn my mac; I'm heading for my Nan's and walking to save the bus fare. I've got all the time in the world. A flash of lightning just lit up the dark sky over the New King’s Road. I count carefully by the second. One, two, three and bang! Thunder erupting like the sound of massive cannon fire. The storm is three miles away and heading towards us, I guess …

“God, just look at the state of you, Bobby! You're soaked through to the skin. Come in and sit yourself down by the fire and we'll get those wet clothes off you. Now, why on earth didn't you wear a mackintosh? Couldn't you see that it was going to rain!”

“They said on the radio, Nan, that it wasn't going to rain today.”

“Never trust the wireless, Bobby, you should know that by now. You have to believe in the old ways.”

“What are the 'old ways', Nan, when they're at home?”

“That's right, you go ahead and mock me and make fun of your old Granny … Now get that jacket off. Don't make such a fuss, Bobby Clayton … Here, let me help you … I had a nasty accident when I was about your age. Well, let me see, I must have been about twelve years old because it was just before the great Queen died.”

“Why, yes, great Queen Victoria, bless her … A horse and cart half rode me down and trapped my left leg against a wall … Here, use this towel … Well, it never really healed up properly and as I get older, Bobby … Here, let me rub that hair dry … My, but you've got a marvellous head of hair … ”

“Do you really think so, Nan?”

“Yes, fortunately you have your mother's hair … Well, every time there's a storm brewing, my left leg hurts like merry hell. Simple as that really. The old ways. Being true to the ancient beliefs that have got us here so far … ”

“But what about modern science? Everything can be explained now, Nan. After all, the Russians are putting spaceships into orbit. We'll soon be colonising the moon and have intergalactic space travel!”

“Yes, that may well be so … Don't flinch away like that. Here, let me rub your head properly. Lord, but you're just like girl and so you are, Bobby Clayton … Don't put all of your trust in scientists, boy. Look where they've got us so far! Before you know it some crazy nutter will set the atomic bomb off and try and blow up the planet. It strikes me that the more scientists find out the less we really know … There, that's better! And don't you go holding your arm in a funny way like that. Try and be as normal with it as possible and it will heal quicker … You scoff at the old ways. When I was a child, if you broke your arm the doctors didn't encase it in heavy duty plaster-casts. You had it bound up. You just had to be extra careful not to knock it and let nature take its course. Heal it naturally. The bones mend stronger for being constantly exposed to the air. Look at you. Why, that poor broken right arm of yours has almost forgotten already what sunlight and fresh air feel like. Not that we ever get much fresh air here in the middle of this city, do we!”

“Are you saying that the old ways were best? That modern life isn't better! I just can't believe that, Nan. Why, just look at all the advancements, discoveries and new inventions in your lifetime. Cars and aeroplanes, telephone and radio, television and records, submarines and antibiotics, the atom bomb and space travel. All manner of material improvements and masses of scientific discoveries. Life is a whole heap better now or so it seems to me, Nan. I mean, I love you dearly, but very old people seem to always live in the past and pretend that everything was better in their day. Whereas life seems much easier and improved now.”

“Do scientists believe in the power of dreams, Bobby? Do they really care about nature, animals, the earth and the very air. The quality of life that people experience today. All rushing hither and thither in a frantic push to make more money to buy what has just been advertised to them as the latest craze that they must possess. New cars, new washing machines, new television sets, new refrigerators, new gadgets, new this and that. The old ways were a part of people. The way we had lived for thousands upon thousands of years, Bobby Clayton. Now all that ancient wisdom and knowledge is being thrown out of the window with the baby's bath water. Any form of religious belief is ridiculed. We are all presumed to be fools if we pray to anyone at all. That's precious knowledge of how to live and just be. The old ways that got us here are being totally disregarded in the scientific belief that humans can control life itself. Why now, these so clever scientists of yours will soon be proclaiming that they have discovered the secret of eternal existence. Giving people false hopes and ideas if you ask me, Bobby. Before long, when people like me are all dead and buried, Bobby, the old ways will have become almost completely forgotten. The ancient knowledge will not have been carefully passed on. I fear for the future, Bobby Clayton, I really do.”.....

The Age of Infinity

The blindingly hot sunlight seems to be pounding onto my eyelashes and forces me to awaken from a listless dream where I was continually struggling to go to the toilet. Every time I tried to pee, expanding green shoots would emerge from out of my willy and get longer and longer until I had produced a whole plant. Now I am awake on the great Pharaoh's Daughter's flat-bottomed boat and we are about to disembark at Saqqara.

“Well, Young Angel, now you can truly conceive of the magnificent beauty of Ancient Egypt. The great, golden times that have long since been lost.”

Eldritch seems to lean ever closer to me with that vague impression of an indecipherable face and whispers into my trembling ear.

“She of all beauty and purpose has chosen you to communicate with, my Young Friend. You have been selected for special privilege. That is a great honour indeed and reflects so very well upon me.”

I cannot reply to him. I am speechless, tongue-tied. My mother always says that I was the first one in line when tongues were handed out. But not right now. I can only stare in wonder at the extensive preparations taking place before my blessed eyes. All to receive the Pharaoh's Daughter on the shore at Saqqara. Scantily-clad soldiers with square-shouldered bodies line the quayside. A fanfare of trumpets blare out on the air as a glittering and bejewelled procession of high officials and local administrators await to greet her, the Pharaoh's Daughter. She of the celestial presence and mystical power. I can feel her vibrating thoughts inside of my very being. Radiating warmth and good feeling. I want to hold this moment and carry it with me forever. Never let her go, never let this warmth of understanding fade away from me. To bask forever in the glow of her presence. Just being is enough to enhance every precious second of eternal time. I am at one with her and feel her voice running right through the length of my body …

Eldritch leans close to me again and whispers, “We are indeed fortunate and highly honoured today, Young Angel. The official in the scarlet robes at the head of the procession awaiting to greet the Pharaoh's Daughter is Imhotep, the Great Pharaoh's Chief Architect and the designer of this new style of Pyramid. I say it carefully for he is the second most powerful man in all the Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt. He is High Priest of Heliopolis … ”

“What is Helio … Heliopo … ”

“Relax and let Her thoughts say it for you, Young Angel. Heliopolis. The high cult centre of Re … We are in the very privileged position of being able to behold the building of the Great Pharaoh's Pyramid at Saqqara. Watch and learn, Young Angel, you are about to bear witness to a great moment in the Earth's history … ”

With that, Eldritch ceases talking into my mind and we just seem to glide along behind the Royal Retinue …

Slowly making our way from the Quayside and through this town of stone buildings. Saqqara seems like a small provincial dwelling place compared to the glittering golden and white palaces and residences of Memphis. All the inhabitants prostrate themselves on the light-brown dirt as we slowly pass on by in stately procession. I can only marvel at the calm and poise of the Pharaoh's Daughter, her magnificent headdress and the swathes of clothes must weigh very heavy upon her. No actress in the entire history of Hollywood has ever carried herself so well in such a dignified manner. She must be the most mature and beautiful twelve year old girl who has ever lived on Earth … This procession seems to move so slowly and take forever. Each meticulously-robed official exulting in the presence of so grand a personage as the Pharaoh's Daughter. I realise that this must be the high point of their lives for many of these immaculately-robed and oil-anointed figures stepping so slowly with the Royal Procession …

I am impatient for us to move on in a quicker step, but these highly-honoured officials wish the journey to take forever. So as their lives are embellished for all time and emblazoned with gratitude for the Royal prestige bestowed upon them today. Years of bowing and scraping, ceaseless work and endeavour and municipal servitude to experience this moment …

At last, after what seems like an eternity to me, we have left the confines of the city of Saqqara behind us and are now making our painstakingly-slow progress out into the early reaches of the encroaching desert. The fertile plains are quite narrow and already you can see the whispering desert starting to impose itself upon the outlines of the rich deposits of alluvial soil …

Suddenly, the whole earth is alive with the sound of people working. So many half-naked bodies moving, lifting and carrying. I couldn't begin to count them all if I dream from here until the time of our existence ran out. Great constructions of levers and wires and pulleys moving huge slabs of stone. The dust rising up around this construction site is like a giant storm cloud hovering to transform itself into the most wonderful, golden structure on the Planet Earth. As the Royal Procession approaches, each group of dark, brown workers, stripped bare to the waist, stop working and prostrate themselves on the ground. Stone slabs and concrete-looking blocks hang where they are suspended in space as if they too are in thrall to the Pharaoh's Daughter. For they are the very pieces of stone and concrete and marble that will go to make up the first ever Step Pyramid constructed in honour of the Great Pharaoh. His burial tomb and we are here today because, whispers Eldritch in my mind's ear, “The initial constructions are being put together in preparation for the famous Sed Festival … ”

Before the question has even been precisely formed in my mind, I am told it is a Festival to mark the rejuvenation of the power of the Great Pharaoh. He is represented by his Divine Daughter visiting here today to inspect and see that the building of the Great Pyramid is well advanced and to bestow honour on the Great Imhotep … The area under construction is so vast to my sleep-filled mind. As if the whole of the Boroughs of Fulham and Chelsea could be swallowed up in this ground and would disappear in the haze of stone flakes flying up in this hot, stifling air. I marvel at all the constructions before me, great columns towering up high into the blue, heat-filled sky. The many religious symbols displayed on stone tablets that worship and honour the deity of the magic Sun God, Re, that breathes life into us all and is, in truth, the only God worthy of worship. I hear delightful, understanding sounds murmuring in my ears from the Divine voice and persuasive lilt of the Pharaoh's Daughter … Slowly, inching ever so perfectly forward towards the outlying works. We pause and it is as if the whole ancient world of Egypt is suspended in slow motion today. The very earth seems to quake in admiration of the delicate tread and heel of the Great Pharaoh's Daughter's golden slippers … If she says the sun in the form of Re is the only God worth worshipping then I will pray that way forever. Devote myself to the glory of sun worship in her presence … The penetrating eyes of Her whose name I am not at liberty to divulge, sparked inside my brain and seemed to flash in the shape of a figure eight. The word lemniscate forms in my mind and I know that I must strive very hard to remember this magical word for when I revisit waking-time next and enter it into my Miss Parker file. I have just been introduced to the Symbol of Infinity and the Pharaoh's Daughter is laughing and giggling inside of my head. Laughing with me at my acceptance of such powerful knowledge and acting, I guess, as a timely release from the heavy responsibilities of Her Royal Duties borne out today at Saqqara …

Imhotep is so very impressive. I am almost afraid to listen to his conversation with the Pharaoh's Daughter. I am openly amazed at how he talks to Her. His voice is couched with the utmost respect and regard for Her. A thought flashes through my sleeping mind that the structure of power on Earth has changed significantly since ancient times. Just a look out of place in the olden days and you could be dead before you had even the time to protest your innocence. Imhotep may well be the earthly representation of the Sun God, Re's, cult at Heliopolis, but he still knows his place in the greater scheme of things and just who he is talking to … Wow! I mean, can you just imagine a grown up, powerful man addressing Janice May with such special consideration in our modern times. I think not. But then, Janice May is not the Pharaoh's Daughter and does not retain the knowledge and power that are gifted to Her. I suddenly have an understanding that secret knowledge separates you out from other people. It is an onerous task to possess such a gift. It is surely better to just be normal and fully experience the whole range of the human existence as it happens without any forethought and prior conditioning … The Pharaoh's Daughter’s voice and face are forever inside of me and I realise that she is using me as an outlet to lessen the burden of her Royal duties. I am providing comic relief from across time and space and I don't care. If my role is to be that of a clown then I will gladly accept that. Any kind of role is better than being invisible. I have no real understanding of what is happening to me. How I can exist here and see everything without being a part of it in actual flesh and blood. The role of Eldritch. I have been told not to worry, not to fret, how that is a modern condition, an illness of the twentieth century. We think and worry too much, unlike our forebears who just understood acceptance and servitude. To perform appointed tasks to the best of your ability is all that is required. Each of us has an allotted duty to perform in our chosen lifetime and it is up to us to carry out these functions without questions or supplanting our own selfish thoughts across what has been gifted to us … The Pharaoh's Daughter is gently talking to me as she listens so carefully to all the complicated explanations and architectural plans outlined to her by Imhotep. Now I fully understand his reverence in her presence. Most of us struggle to concentrate and perform one task at a time correctly. The Pharaoh's Daughter is studying designs and plans for her Father, the Great Pharaoh's, burial chamber, fully aware of her own future Pyramid which will be constructed not that many years from now. Relating her enjoyment and talking to me and knowing full well that I have complete and total unconditional love of her without ever knowing or questioning what that is. If it's just in truth a divine feeling that captivates and is beyond all thought and purpose. I understand that the Pharaoh's Daughter likes to play games and gambol across the time of the twentieth century with a young boy like me. Through my eyes she can see what is to come and, strangely, is not that impressed at all. The cult of the individual appals her. How can this be? She is asking me a question with those flashing, black eyes that have burned themselves so deep into my very soul. How can I ever tell anybody about this? Nobody will ever believe me. Everyone considers me a fantasist and a liar anyway so these dreams would be perceived as another of my tall tales, a story gleamed from books and recounted to impress in some given moment in the future back in the twentieth century. Bold lies when I am under pressure … The Pharaoh's Daughter's beautiful black eyes and exquisite mind are now always appearing in the shape of the figure eight. The lemniscate. The eternal symbol of infinity tracing my dreams to drive the point well home, I guess. Our modern minds are like jumping fleas compared to the Pharaoh's Daughter. I see that many of the officials surrounding her today have the ability to retain thousands upon thousands of pieces of complicated knowledge and Ancient Egyptian folklore and recite them all at will. If we are so very clever today, how come I don't know anybody who can do that. About the most anybody I know can do is to remember a few poems or sing some popular songs from the nineteen thirties and forties. Perform like my Dad and stand up and sing them in the Eight Bells when he has had too much to drink and is egged on by his fellow drinkers to entertain. Whether they are laughing at him or singing along with him, I can't rightly say. Probably a little bit of both, I guess … The Pharaoh's Daughter does not consider the cult of the individual in the twentieth century useful or instructive. It is to her a fault of our modern civilisation. I understand through her that the ever existing human race is like one giant, humming beehive. We all have our given tasks to perform, our special gifts to display. The Queen Bee is chosen, she has no choice in the matter. It is preordained. We must all play our parts. I now fully understand that and can see it everywhere on display operating in Ancient Egypt. I realise now how the Pharaoh's Daughter must look at modern living with such askance. We are out of control because of the cult of the individual. That will lead us to eventual destruction. Only by sacrificing ourselves to the common good like worker bees can real progress be achieved. I sense that, when and if, I should ever remember all this knowledge and understanding that it will gradually fade away from me. Just like shadow rain it will drip away from me. Lost droplets of wisdom. I will be back to thinking of Janice May again …

Imhotep is explaining very carefully and in great detail as if the Pharaoh's Daughter herself were a great builder and architect. How, in the grand design for her Father's, the Great Pharaoh's, burial place, He, Imhotep, has combined all the previous traditions. Fusing together what was the great enclosure system and the burial mound. He has also added his own innovations which is what makes him such a great architect. The burial mound has now become a giant Pyramid. Built as a series of steps rising up to the heavens to greet the Sun God, Re. These golden steps represent the solidified rays of the sun and act as a magical stairway for the Great Pharaoh's soul to ascend to heaven. The Egyptians believe in the original mound of Creation that emerged from the Chaotic Waters … And the Pharaoh's Daughter is flashing the name Nun into my brain … As the accepted wellspring of Creation from which we all sprang … Imhotep is now explaining as all the officials and members of the Royal Retinue watch on in profound silence. Directly below the Giant Pyramid will be a deep, wide pit, cut vertically into the bedrock like a giant lift-shaft, that will terminate in a dark space with a sarcophagus chamber, the burial vault, at its centre. Right at the bottom of this pit, explains Imhotep, choosing his words very carefully and slowly in the presence of the Pharaoh's Daughter, will be many doorways leading to a network of rock cut passages. Many of these will store calcite vessels containing food and water to sustain the Great Pharaoh on his journey into the afterlife. One massive doorway will lead to a corridor decorated with three panels, each one depicting the Great Pharaoh performing Sed rituals. There will also be many dummy doorways and false panels to confuse unwanted intruders and possible robbers. All these panels will be of blue faïence tiles and will imitate the classic ancient reeds, the symbol of Egypt and also display the Great Pharaoh's name, epitomise and paint the history of his reign … The Pharaoh's Daughter takes it all in and seems to perfectly understand every exact detail. She is, after all, in very simple terms, making plans and discussing with the most famous architect of the Ancient World, the design and construction of her Father's proposed grave …

The audience with Imhotep has stopped for now and the Royal Retinue continues on its slow way, inching towards the golden steps leading up to the Great Pyramid construction at Saqqara … The Pharaoh's Daughter has flashed into my brain again in the shape of the lemniscate of infinity and she laughs and corrects a misapprehension I have gathered … The Pharaoh's Daughter honours both the Sun and the Moon. They are two halves of the cycle of life. But she is a lunar child and a Goddess of the Moon … Her dark eyes sparkle and reveal the Ancient Egyptian moon. It is the same moon as ours though something seems forever lost in translation. I can only smile back and am lost in total wonder and admiration for Her, the Pharaoh's Daughter …

I'm awake again and it is pouring with rain. I'm stood at the back of an angry crowd looking on. The first thing I do is check to see if my right arm is broken. Yet again, no plaster-cast. Dreams upon dreams keep spinning on. It is as if each time I reach out to touch the Pharaoh's Daughter she slips away from me. Escapes back into the past and I cannot find her. I have a question for her and I don't rightly know what it is. But I sense and know that somehow this unformed question will reveal something special to me when I need to comprehend.

“Burn the Kraut bastards out!”

“String them all up!”

“Death to the bloody Hun!”

The crowd is angry and nasty. As I look to my right I can see the sign for the World's End pub so I know where I am all right, but this is not of my time and place. I know the story well enough from my Nan, but I am now going to have to witness it for myself … Pictures of the sad tale overlay my dream vision and I seem to be following the action in distorted fragments. The well-loved German butcher and his family with their famous shop at the World's End. As I see through this story, bricks are being hurled through the German butcher's shop window. I just know now that it has to be late nineteen-fourteen. Probably a few week's after war with Germany was declared following the invasion of Belgium. October nineteen-fourteen. Yes, that feels right as yet more bricks and stones are thrown and the angry crowd band closer together and advance … I look closely at my forebears and I do not like what I see. Many strange shapes and sunken, hollow-eyed features. People clad in no more than rags or so it seems to me. Some so thin you would think a puff of wind would blow them over. Others so fat that it is as if they have eaten all the German butcher's meat for a week or more. Toothless faces and smouldering eyes and everywhere the smell of alcohol …

A desperate face appears at the upstairs window above the butcher's shop front. Red and sweaty and afraid. Howls of derision. Calls for a hanging. Repeated use of the word blackguard. The face at the upstairs window is pleading. Almost cartoonish with rolling eyes and imploring gestures. As if you were my best friends in all the world only a few weeks ago. Now this! What have I done to incite such wrath. Such venomous hatred. What have I to do with the Kaiser? I feed you. Look after you. Ask after your children. Provide tick for half the families in Chelsea and Fulham and you treat me like this! As if I am a savage criminal …

Somewhere in this hostile crowd, I see a fellow with longish red hair and an eye that seems somehow scarred. He has lit a wooden torch and the angry mob, for that is what they are, are kicking viciously at the butcher's shop door. Pushing and thrusting 'til it caves in and they all go to rush in at once with shuddering shoulders catching in the doorway. Shouts from the back of this crazy crowd to make way in haste. I sense the sheer blood-lust and enjoyment of the mob. Was it always like this, a kindled scapegoat and we all band together as one and attack in unison. Hollering as with one voice. Punching as with one fist. Killing as with one mind. Surrendering up our individuality to mass hysteria and demonstrate and demand and kill as a single unit, united in hate … I am very afraid and it is only a dream. I do not want to see what is about to happen. Before, it was only a tale. Old folks tell you stories and they sound exciting, thrilling and adventurous. You smell the colour and imagine the scene and it all seems so real and quite glamorous. Now, suddenly one of these enjoyable stories recounted in front of a cosy, warm fire with tea and biscuits, has become reality and is so scary because you can see it being replayed time after time right out in front of you. Endlessly down the ages, and I suppose you are partially scared because it is in you. Because you are either part of the vicious mob or contain the potential to be the scapegoat. Which is why it is not a pleasant realisation at just how mindless and wicked we can all be and I don't want to see. Don't want to be part of this dream. Yet no matter how hard I try I just cannot wake up. I search around desperately for Eldritch, but as usual, when he is really needed he is nowhere to be seen. Probably still back with the Pharaoh's Daughter and watching the building of the Great Pyramid at Saqqara …

“Crash!” … ”Shatter!” … ”Crinkle!” There goes the glass frontage. I bet the insurers won't pay out. They'll find some exclusion clause to exclude Germans on the grounds of wartime, I should imagine. No payments for the enemy. They might have been our friends only yesterday and we loved their little ways, laughed at their mispronounced jokes and showed interest in the progress of their children. We welcomed them in to our community and even clasped them to our bosoms in times of fear and desperation. What have they done to deserve this? Because they were born in Düsseldorf and had the effrontery to come over here to work. Now they will get what they deserve … Sudden understanding of how open to chance is your place of birth, your nationality and the colour of your skin. What may have seemed a brilliant place to arrive at a hundred years ago can well be hell later through no fault of your own. Helpless people stranded before the march of circumstances and events …

The butcher's shop is on fire now in the rain. The shop door lays battered on the pavement in the King’s Road. Some of this vicious crowd have blood on their hands from the strands of broken glass, but they seem not to care. I saw a woman lick her bleeding fingers with relish … Crazy laughter as sides of beef are tossed across the surging crowd. Strings and strings of shiny brown sausages are swinging around like to many pieces of soap dancing on a rope … The nasty-looking, red-haired man with the deformed eye is leading the charge up the stairs and into the German butcher's flat. The screams of the wife and children can barely be heard above the exalted anticipation of a murderous mob. Only blood will assuage this glee, this killing spree set in motion by the jingoistic press and warmongering generals hungry for the action …

I want to cover my eyes. I don't want to look. I sense that you can see too much too young and that it scars the rest of your existence, but it is already too late. As hard as I try I just can't wake up, can't get away from this awful scene being played out before my astonished eyes …

The shop is truly ablaze now and I can smell the taste of meat cooking on the night-time air. The gas-lamps are aglow and puttering with that gaslight hum … The German butcher and his wife are led screaming out into the street by eager hands wet with hate. The frantic and devastated butcher is pleading for his children. Offering himself as a sacrifice if only they will spare his two children, his kinder … The fat, butcher's wife is struck dumb now with shock and fear as a helpless, French aristocrat being led forth to the guillotine …

The red-haired firebrand has strung a length of rope from a gas-lamp and, with tears, the poor German butcher is choking for his very life. Eyes bulging almost out of their sockets. The murderous mob are cheering. I can see police constables in old-fashioned spiked helmets cheering along with them … This is not a good hour in the history of Chelsea. I find myself hating my own kith and kin. This cheering crowd with blood on their jubilant hands won't stop now 'til all the Germans are dead, children and all. They will have done their bit for the war effort and the authorities tomorrow will condemn such bloodthirsty actions with a stern, knowing wink. It couldn't happen here. Well, bloody Nora, please excuse my French, Nan, it's happening here and I am watching a young German girl no older than me being hung to death right before my very eyes amid much cheering, maniacal laughter and a blood-lust that is ever our history. I am crying and cannot stop watching. Cannot get away. Cannot escape to safety. Dead bodies hanging limp from wet gas lampposts as a jubilant crowd celebrates. All the World's End pub doors have been flung wide-open to greet them and there is much back-slapping and the offer of casual sex and instant gratification to anoint the moment when fair-minded German burghers originating from Düsseldorf were strung up to help this crusade of a war and celebrate death to all Germans and especially the Kaiser.....

Detective Dust

“Sit yourself down, Bobby, Detective Sergeant Tom Dust shouldn't be that long. You like reading, Bobby, or so your Mother says; well, here's a copy of yesterday's Evening News. Have a gander at that while you're waiting.”

“Thank you, Officer Rose.”

“Now, don't you go a-calling me an officer, I'm a Police Detective Constable and you can call me Constable Rose, but I would prefer it if you called me Terry. Keep it friendly, like.”

“Thank you, Terry.”

Constable Rose disappears abruptly into the bowels of the Fulham Police Station and leaves me to sit on a hard bench in the makeshift reception area. They are redecorating the Police Station, giving it all a fresh lick of paint. At present, these battleship-grey, faded walls are all bubbly and peeling. The Police Station with peeling paint. Do policemen have a sense of humour? Maybe a macabre joke or two to keep the day fresh … I wouldn't like to be a policeman. Forced to complete all of those reports you would have to fill in. Having to answer to the higher ups in authority all of the time. No sirree. The Great Detective didn't have to answer to anyone or anything. No official case paperwork for him. No detailed accounting of a freshly-solved mystery to be explained in depth to the Chief Constable … I should put in a good word for my Father and Uncle Charlie while I'm here. Maybe they could get some electrical rewiring work … A quick glance at the Matt Marriot strip in the Evening News … Would you Adam and Eve it, as if your own mother would give you away. I suppose she was desperately trying to impress that Constable Rose fella. Fluttering her eyelids and showing off her freshly painted red fingernails. I mean, just how embarrassing is that! Telling him all manner of stories, I shouldn't wonder. I reckon by the time she had finished with him he was fully convinced I could help with every unsolved murder since Robert Peel himself originated the Metropolitan Police Force. Betrayed by your own Mother for some fanciful idea that she can attract some young policeman … Matt Marriot and sidekick, Powder Horn, are taking part in a rodeo competition in Santa Fe and trying to locate a notorious horse thief and outlaw at the same time … God, my arm is hurting me today. It must be all this damp weather. My Nan always says that. The walls in her flat and on the stairs of the Peabody Estate just run with water when it is truly damp. She told me that when they built those flats in the early nineteen-twenties they experimented with using seaweed mixed in with the clay and sand for the bricks. How true that is I don't rightly know. It sounds good though. I find that people, adults, are always telling me tall stories that they like the sound of …

“Whatcha be a-doing here then, young man!”

“I'm waiting for Detective Sergeant Tom Dust, sir.”

“I'm the Duty Sergeant not your schoolteacher, boy!”

“My schoolteacher is a miss.”

“Well, lucky you! Now, just you sit still there and keep quiet 'til Detective Dust appears. You get me?”

“Yes, Duty Sergeant.”

“An' none of your lip now!”

That's what I hate most about the police and people in authority. It is just the same at school. They can't leave you alone, can they. Have to try and impose their will on you. He had no need to talk to me. I'm just sat here, minding my own business, reading the Matt Marriot strip in the Evening News and he had to go and announce his presence to me and warn me. They try and scare you in advance so that all of your life you will defer to policemen. I call him sir in the hope that he would leave me alone. Fat chance. People must become policemen to exercise some deep-felt doubt that they possess about themselves. I don't like it. Well, thank you, Mother. I hope a saucepan of water boils over while you're daydreaming of Constable Rose … Matt Marriot has noticed that one of the competing Rodeo Riders has tied his right-hand tightly with overlapping strands of rope to the pommel of his horse's saddle. You can tell he's the villain because he's been drawn with a beard or more likely what they call a five o'clock shadow … I hate the thought of having to take up shaving. Maybe because I'm blonde I might never have to shave … Matt Marriot gives Powder Horn his cue for action … Police stations are very dull. A poster on the wall for a missing girl who hasn't been seen since last July. A Carole Anderson aged fifteen. But the photograph of her makes her look much younger. It's not a good shot of her and looks like it was taken on holiday at the seaside. On the seafront somewhere like Margate or Clacton. I mean, just where could she have gone to? Does the White Slave Trade in girls still exist? Smuggled out from Blighty below decks to Marseilles then transported east before you can say Jack Robinson. Maybe she's just a runaway who hated holidays at the English seaside and imagined more exotic climes. Nice or St Tropez in the summertime and rich Greek shipping magnates … I must get all this down for Miss Parker, though she gave me a really funny look yesterday when she glanced through my blue-bound file. Like I was the Devil's Disciple or Rasputin incarnate. It was like, 'What have I started here' …

E.M. Wellings on the back page is giving it to the English cricket team and the selectors. I do so love the Evening News. They're all chuckers and draggers he says. Meckiff, Rorke, Loader and Lock have all been called for throwing and Trueman is the king of backfoot draggers … Well, Mister Wellings, the fact is that we are being thoroughly thrashed and you said in print only last November that this was the strongest MCC side ever to leave these shores and set sail for Australia. Just goes to show you what most sports journalists know. Or, as my beloved Nan would put it, 'Sweet Fanny Adams' …

“Bobby Clayton, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tom, boy, call me Tom.”

“He wants to call us all sir. Thinks we're his schoolteachers and so he does!”

“Thank you, Sergeant Birthwright. I can deal with this in my own way, if you don't mind. Maybe you could busy yourself and tidy up the Reception desk if you've got nothing better to do!”

“Yes, Sergeant Dust.”

“Good … Come on, Bobby, let us go see if we can find a vacant office for me to use. Goddamn decorators all over this place. This oil paint plays havoc with my sinuses and so it does.”

Clever these police folk. Already trying to lure me in with the common touch. The just like you and me script. We are all in this life together. Somehow I think not. That Constable Terry Rose has got my Mother half-believing he fancies her. Tricksy people these police folk. Must be very careful. Before you know it this Dust Detective will get inside of my head and implant suggestions. Thoughts I'll never, ever be able to get rid of all my life. That is what the film director, Alfred Hitchcock, said in an article I read the other week in the magazine 'Weekend'. They target you when you're very young and get a hold of your mind and bend it to their will. Scarred for life just like Natalie Wood's Debbie in 'The Searchers'. To what ends though? Just to suit their own controlling purposes, I guess.

“Arrh, this should do us nicely, Bobby. A spare interview room that hasn’t been plastered with paint yet. Here, sit yourself down, lad. Would you like a drink? Do you drink tea?”

What does he think I am! Do I drink tea? Does Jimmy Greaves miss open goals for fun! I mean, I ask you! The cuddly, warm approach and he used the word nice. Well, nicely. Still, I don't rightly suppose that future policemen are selected for their facility with language. More likely for their size. All policemen seem to have huge feet to me. Though Detective Sergeant Tom Dust seems to have small feet by the looks of them. And his shoes look like handmade, black brogues to me. How can he afford handmade shoes on a Detective Sergeant's salary? Be careful …

“Tea will do nicely, thank you, sir.”

“Tom, Bobby. Call me Tom.”

“Yes, Tom.”

Feed his own words right back at him. I've noticed that if you copy the words and mannerisms that people use towards you it automatically makes them feel at ease with you. As if you are possessed of the same thoughts and ways and will help them in any shape or form that you can …

“Well, what do you think of this room then, Bobby? Attractive, isn't it!”

“Are Police Stations meant to be such joyless places, Detective Dust? … Sorry, Tom … I mean, there's nothing on these grey walls and that small, grimy window doesn't look like it's been opened for ages. A cold cell-like room that’s meant to scare us, right.”

“Constable Rose said you possessed an unusual turn of phrase, as they say, for a young boy.”

“I'm not a young boy, I'm ten, Tom! And anyway, who are 'they'?”

“Why, all of us, Bobby lad. We are all 'They' on a bad day … That's what this decorating business is all about. To make this station a place of joy and not so gloomy with overtones of a torture chamber … Why, thank you, Sylvia, that's really very kind of you and biscuits as well! You're spoiling us … Say hello to Bobby, Sylvia. He's here to help us if he can to catch that Eel Brook Common murderer. The killer of that poor girl, Charlotte Evans.”

“Hello, Bobby, sorry to see you have a broken arm. Is it painful?”

“Sylvia Sims, the kind, attractive nurse in 'Ice Cold in Alex'.”

“I don't know who you mean, Bobby.”

Haven't you seen the film, Sylvia?”

“Why no, I hardly ever go to the pictures.”

“Wow, don't you like the movies. That's amazing! I thought everybody loved films!”

“Not everyone is a film fan, Bobby. I happen to know that our young policewoman, Sylvia, here, loves dancing and that her speciality is the tango. Isn't that right, Sylvia?”

“Well, I do try my best, Sergeant Dust, I must confess.”

“Thank you, Sylvia, that will be all for now. Mustn’t get carried away with ourselves now, must we.” …

I just can't get the picture out of my mind of policewoman, Sylvia, dancing the tango with some handsome, young latino-type bloke, with her all dressed in her police uniform with a frilly and starched white shirt … She didn't know who Sylvia Sims was. Well, that just goes to show you how out of touch the police can get … Of course, the biscuits are as plain as plain can be and I've gone and dunked one in my tea and lost it … I've started coughing and now, bloody Nora, sorry Nan, I've gone and got the hiccups. It never rains, but it sneezes. I like it much better that way. Must enter it in the Miss Parker file.

“Got a bout of the hiccups, have you, lad … Well, just take a minute, it will pass.”

But it hasn't. I can't stop it. Just like that story my Uncle Charlie tells about his mother-in-law. Jean, I think her name is. She had the hiccups on and off for over two years and just couldn't get rid of them. Went to see all manner of doctors, quacks, faith healers, bent little old ladies in darned shawls who assured her that their method for a hiccup cure was the best. You would think that what with the Russians launching the Sputnik into space and the French setting off atomic tests in the Pacific Ocean that doctors could cure a case of the hiccups. But none of it. Uncle Charlie's mother-in-law, Jean, just had to get on it. She managed somehow, but the daily effort of continually hiccuping might have nearly killed her. Can you just imagine that on the death certificate, cause of death, hiccups. I mean, you'd laugh yourself silly, collapse crying and probably catch hiccups yourself … Can you catch hiccups? Stick out your hand and just grab them. There goes a passing hiccup on the lookout. I'll just see if it wants me … I know, I know, it's only a spasm in the throat … Must develop my sense of humour. Somehow get Miss Parker to giggle once before she sets sail for Maori Land …

“I tell you what, Bobby. Try holding your nose with your good hand. Stop breathing and count to thirty and see if that does the trick.”

I'm doing it. Got to humour him. I can see the headlines now 'Famous Detective Tom Dust develops cure for hiccups in Fulham Police Station'. Just on the off-chance, like. “Well, it just sort of happened”, says Detective Dust to the Fulham Chronicle reporter … Must concentrate. I'm running away with myself. That's just what this Dust Sergeant wants. He's made me comfortable. Now showing concern about me hiccuping, but really he's sat there with those piercing, china-blue eyes looking right into me.

“Well, that didn't work, lad, did it. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Why should I … hiccup … It's all the same to me … hiccup. I mean … hiccup … Everybody smokes around me so it doesn't really matter … hiccup … makes no difference, does it … hiccup … ”

“But you don't really like it from the sounds of your voice … Try holding the teacup and drinking from the far side of the cup lip … Yes, that's it. Though some of the tea has spilt down the front of your shirt. Go on, try again. It might well produce a little gulp of a shock.”

Little shocks, he says. A shock like James Stewart received in the film, 'Bell, Book and Candle' when he discovered that his girlfriend, Kim Novak, is really a witch and has him under her spell. Relieve me of these hiccups, Kim, I'll do anything. Stroke the magic cat, Pyewacket. Dance the fandango. Tell lies for you that will make your on-screen brother, Jack Lemmon, envious …

“I'd like you to look at a police line-up for us, if you will, Bobby … Well, that's gone and caused a fit of coughing and gone and done the trick and got rid of those dreaded hiccups … I must remember that … Just simply mention a police line-up and the hiccups disappear. Maybe it's a cure-all, a pana … a pana … what do you call it, lad?”

“A panacea, Sergeant Dust, and this grey room could do with a large poster of Marilyn Monroe on its wall. Be great! That colour shot of her singing in a saloon bar in 'River of No Return'.”

“I take it from that you don't wish to help me. I'm on your side, lad. If you saw a face that you thought might be that of the killer … ”

“I told that Detective Constable Rose fella, Tom” … Keep it friendly, never know what you might need in the future … ”I didn't see his face. It's so frustrating. I never see their faces in my dreams when I need to. I wake up dripping with sweat, desperate to know who they are and can only visualise the gleaming eyes of the Pharaoh's Daughter.”....Oops, that's gone and torn it!

“So who's the Pharaoh's Daughter when she's at home then, Bobby?”

I'm laughing inside of my head, squeezing out sparks, but this is getting dangerous. If I tell him any more, he'll have me locked up as a head case …

“Just a slip of the tongue, Tom. A story I was thinking about writing for my schoolteacher, Miss Parker.”

“But you have a broken arm, lad. Are you left-handed or what?”

“No. Just shows you how stupid I am, Tom. I go and keep on forgetting that it's in a plaster-cast. I know it is and it really hurts today … Thank you for the tea and biscuits. How can I help you? … I can't really stay that long since I've promised to go and visit a friend of mine.”

“Busy little bee, aren't we … Well, I don't really believe in the power of dreams, though I wouldn't go so far as to call it all stuff and nonsense. But as you can gather for yourself, we are so desperate with no real clues to speak of, so you see, I'll look into anything. Now, why don't you tell me in your own words. Recount your dream if you can still remember any of it. Take your time.” …

I tell Detective Sergeant Tom Dust as best as I can. He just sits there, smoking incessantly, and is totally non-committal. It's like I'm sat in a blue-grey cloud of swirling smoke. My eyes are starting to smart and water. I think he's smoking those Woodbines. What my Nan calls coffin nails. She doesn't smoke. She used to when she was very young. One time she told me that when she used to 'do' for the Bonham-Carters, she would come to work early in the morning and find smoked cigarettes left in the ashtrays in the lounge in their Chelsea house. Long tube-like coils of white ash flecked with grey. She would use some of the whitish ash mixed in with polish to clean with. But then Nan said she noticed that after the Great War as they used to call the First World War the cigarette ash no longer stayed in a clinging coil held together like a little thin tube and the ashy remains had turned to a dirty colour of grey. She said she realised then that the cigarette companies had changed what they put into the cigarettes and that prompted her to give up smoking right away. She was also pregnant with my Auntie Vi at the time … A bit like the Coca-Cola Company, I guess, taking out the essence of cola leaves, the ingredient of the drug cocaine, from out of their dark-brown fizzy drink. I prefer Pepsi-Cola myself …

“Bobby … Bobby … You still with us, lad. You disappeared somewhere else there, I though I'd lost you altogether. A dangerous habit that. My wife does it when she's driving the car sometimes. Almost crashed us into a brick wall the other week. You would never do that and get away with it if you become a policeman, lad!”

“But I don't want to be a policeman, Sergeant Dust … Sorry, Tom. I keep forgetting.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up then, lad?”

I do so hate that question. How do I know. I could say I'd like to play for Chelsea at football, but I'm useless. I could become a cowboy except I'm not living in America and anyway the time of the Old West is long past. It's all concentrated farming today and the business management of big cow herds bred for slaughter. I just don't know what I want to be. Do I have to decide on a career path and stick to it, or maybe I'll just fall into something. A bit like my Dad and Uncle Charlie. Most people don't seem to be anything. All the adults I've met seem to have a special talent, but it's not what they do to earn money. I mean, my Mother, bless her, is a good singer and dancer, but she could never earn a penny at it. Only one in a million if they're especially lucky makes it. I could play chicken and race cars, daredevil style like James Dean in 'Rebel Without A Cause' and die young. But unlike James Dean I'd die unknown and be totally forgotten within a week and anyway, that's all in America and exciting. This is little, old, grey, damp, wet England and nothing seems to beckon that is fantastic or even mildly interesting.

“A funambulist.”

“A what?”

“You heard, Tom.”

“What would you do then?”

“I should be a tightrope walker.”

“If you think that, lad, you're dancing with the blind … Now, enough fun and games, Bobby boy. You will study the parade of criminal types I've produced for you in the line-up. Then you can shoot off and see your friend.”

“But, Tom, these men will know who I am. Word will get out around Fulham and beyond. People will tell my Mum and Dad and other members of my family. My life won't be worth living. I'll be classed as a copper's nark. A grass. A tell-tale snitch. I’ll be done for and you know full well the killer of poor Charlotte Evans won't be in that bloody line-up, excuse my French, if you had the real killer you'd know by now. He will find me and so he will. I'll have to run away to sea after this and join the Merchant Navy!”

“You're too young, lad!”

They had twelve year olds in the Navy in Nelson's time.”

“You're still only ten, Bobby boy!”

“I'll lie!”

“Well, that's as may be. Look, don't be so scared. We will protect you and look after you, no harm shall come to you while I'm around.”

“That's what they all say, Sergeant Dust! Will you give me and my family a new identity? I doubt it. I don't want to move elsewhere, I like living in Fulham. If perhaps you could relocate us to America, say Phoenix, Arizona or Pasadena, California, or even maybe San Antonio, Texas, then that would be okay.”

“Can't be done, lad. These aren't hardened criminals, just a few faces we've gathered together and mixed in with a couple of suspects.”

“Can't I look at them from behind some kind of screen? Maybe a two-way mirror?”

“You watch too many films and read too many fanciful books, my lad. C'mon now, you want to help us catch this evil killer, don't you. Do you want the death of another Charlotte Evans on your conscience for the rest of your born days, Bobby!”

“No.”

“Well, there you go, lad. I'll even give you a shilling afterwards to ease the pain.”

More like shame. What can I say. I know full well that I'm done for. All credibility is blown. The killer won't be amongst them. I'm thinking of poor Charlotte again. Her face just won't leave me. Now that last terrible picture of Wilcox coming off his push-bike and being run over … Would you Adam and Eve it! Bribed by a policeman. Arrh well. Get it over with. Just have to take what's coming to me, I guess …

I really hated that. As I thought, I knew half of the faces. There were six men in a line-up in a windowless room in the depths of Fulham Police Station. They were all about my Father and Uncle Charlie's ages. Nervously shuffling from foot to foot. Anxious. As Mister Hitchcock says repeatedly, everybody is guilty which is why we can all be arrested and arraigned. I suppose that is why we do so love his films. We are often watching someone else experience our pain and discomfort for us. And then we can all leave the cinema scot-free without having been caught and exposed for a dirty, rotten dark secret that we all hide even from ourselves … Wally Clarke was one of the men in the police line-up. He drinks in the Eight Bells and is friendly with my Dad. Well, at leastways, he was before early this afternoon. He stared hard straight at me when I stood before him. I thought he was going to say something to me. But I suppose he looked at Detective Sergeant Tom Dust with his right arm half cradling my left shoulder and thought better of it. How can you go about disguising a plaster-cast and a broken right arm. I could drape a coat over it, but that's a dead giveaway, isn't it … As I thought, I didn't see anyone who looked remotely as if he could be the Creeper. The only surprise would have been if Cyril Stocker had been present in that police line-up, but at least I managed to keep away from discussing any of that and the strange activities at number forty-seven Hurlingham Road with Detective Tom Dust. I quite like him which is a dangerous thing to own up to where a policeman is concerned. I reckon he could smoke for Britain if he had to … What was I supposed to do if I'd recognised the killer by the look of his shoes or some twitch or mannerism that I'd noticed in my dreams and had forgotten about until now. Lost in waking days and the daily round of events that overtake you and wash your dreams clean away … Detective Sergeant Tom Dust said don't let on. Wait until later when I give you the shilling then tell me … Given money for fingering a killer and at my age too … I'm walking towards Rick Maghoo's house now. Crikey! Some birds, crows I think, just flew really low over my head. Gave me quite a shock. What is it old weather prophets chant at you … If birds fly low then rain we shall know … Well, what a surprise that would be. It seems like it's rained so far on every other day of my life. I do so hate getting wet, but I guess I'm just going to have to get used to it … No! I'll never get used to it … Children snitching. That's what happened in Nazi Germany. That was one of the ways that Adolf Hitler and his cohorts induced fear into half the grown-up German population. They appealed to the children. Gave them power in the schools and youth organisations. Told them repeatedly that they were the Chosen Ones, the Master Race, the Wunderkinder, and ordered them to snitch on all the adults around them. Mothers and Fathers, Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles, Cousins; all suddenly looking twice and scared half to death of all the children in case they went along to the local party headquarters and reported them … ”My Father said the Fuhrer is not a clever man. Not the Chosen Leader. Just a failed Austrian painter with some Jewish blood and a chip on his shoulder that could turn the world lopsided” … Well reported, young Wolfgang. You shall be duly rewarded and will earn special marks. The Fuhrer himself shall hear of this.” … Hell, the German kids couldn’t believe their luck, could they! Can you just imagine me and Miss Parker. Why, she’d turn cartwheels in mid-air just to get me to agree with her … The German generation of Wunderkinder … Adolf Hitler was a very clever fellow to use the children … Well, they said it could never, ever happen here. Well, with the likes of Detective Sergeant Tom Dust around that just goes to show that 'They' were wrong. I'm now branded as a child snitch and my Father and Uncle Charlie will be lucky if they get served another pint of beer again in the Eight Bells pub after this stigma.....

The Angel in the House

“Where have you been? … You should have been back here hours ago! It's almost eight o'clock! You had me very worried. I almost went and 'phoned that nice Detective Constable Rose and reported you missing … Don't you go a-looking at me like that! Explain yourself, Robert. You had no right to worry me like that. I was imagining all manner of terrible accidents that could have happened to you. Just when I needed you here as well!”

“I've been over at Rick Maghoo's house … Is there anything to eat? … And anyway, what did you need me for? Where's Nick and Sister Maggie? I'm sure they would both be more helpful, whatever it is.”

“Questions, questions! That's all you ever do is pose questions! As if the whole wide world is an answering machine designed especially to supply you with information … Where are you going, you've only just come in!”

“Christ, Mum, I'm only going to get Sunshine. What's the matter with you?”

“Don't Christ me! I don't like you using that word. You think more of that bloody budgerigar than you do of me … Didn't they feed you at that Rick Maghoo's house … Well, I'm sorry about that. Why you have to go there and see him for I don't rightly know. Can't you make a better kind of friend than that?”

“You don't really choose your friends, they just happen and anyway, I like him. I just don't know what it is you have against him. His family are very sweet and always very considerate towards me. I feel quite at home there.”

“But they didn't bloody well feed you, did they! If you like them that bleedin' much then why don't you go and live there! … Sorry, Robert. I didn’t mean that. I'm all upset. Why don't you go and get that fat bird, Sunshine, of yours and I'll cook you some beans on toast if that is alright with his Highness.”

“I don't like baked beans on toast and you know that!”

“Funny, any other boy would jump at the chance of baked beans. Your brother, Nick, used to beg me for them. But not you. Not grand enough for you. Well, that's all you're getting so make the most of them. Now, hurry up, we haven't got all evening and, in answer to your question, it's you I need to talk to, believe it or not. I don't exactly know where Maggie and little Susie are right now, but I'm expecting your brother, Nick, back at any moment. Now, get a move on. Don't hide behind that broken arm, this is important. Can't you see that I'm very upset. Stop living in your own little world for once and wake up to other people. It's time you grew up a little and took some responsibility. Why, when Nick was your age … ”

“Nick, Nick, Nick … Yes, yes, yes … I'm not as smart as he was … Well, you don't know the half of it! … Sorry, Mum, I must go and fetch Sunshine, I can hear him whistling for me … ”

“Well, you say you don't like baked beans on toast, but you wolfed that down like a one-armed bandit without a second glance. And anyway, you love cowboys and they all lived on baked beans, didn't they?”

“You make it sound in the past, as if there are no more cowboys any more.”

“You know full well what I meant.”

“Just because I go and like something doesn't mean I have to absorb it all lock, stock and barrel. Look me in the eye, Sunshine, and tell me I'm wrong.”

“Total silence as per usual, Robert Clayton.”

“He's shy when you're around, Mum.”

“Arrh, it's me now, stopping him from talking, is it … In your dreams, boy, in your dreams.”

“Well, as I was saying, I love Sunshine, but I wouldn't go and eat birdseed now, would I!”

“Very funny … Now, I've got some very bad news for you. Are you ready?”

“What! Please … no! You're going to tell me that Chelsea have gone and sold Jimmy Greaves to Manchester United for a record British transfer fee of sixty-five thousand pounds!”

“There you go again, living in your own little imaginary world. No, this is real life stuff, Robert, not fantasy.”

“Football is real, it's what makes the world go around. I read only last week that when Wolves win a match at home, car production in Wolverhampton goes up markedly the next week because the Wolves supporters are happy that their beloved football team won. Not that I can stand them, mark you.”

“Alright, alright, you've made your point … Oh, there's no easy way to do this, is there. Because there never is and I should know that by now … Your Grandmother from upstairs is dead!”

“What!”

“Hell of a shock, isn't it.”

“How did it happen? She was as right as rain when I was with her yesterday. Full of herself.”

“Well, Robert … Here, boy, have a bowl of pears and custard.”

“Do people always do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Give you food to eat when there is an accident or really bad news. Helps ease the pain, I guess. Yes, I do like pears and custard. How did it happen? Did she fall down the stairs? I've always thought they were dangerous up there. They narrow and twist as you go up and that carpet can be lethal if you don't watch out.”

“She was run over and killed on a zebra crossing in the Wandsworth Bridge Road. Right outside that big church. You know the one.”

“The Christadelphian Church?”

“Yes.”

“Did they catch the driver?”

“No. It was a hit-and-run and there doesn't seem to be any witnesses. Terrible! … Terry – Detective Constable Rose – came round and broke the news to me.”

“He's been busy with our family today, hasn't he.”

“You don't seem very upset.”

“Well, people seem to be dying on me all over the place. And anyway, you didn't like her. In fact, you hated her! She was always 'That bitch upstairs' to you!”

“Don't talk like that, Robert; whatever next. We may have had our differences and I do confess that we had a few, but she was still my mother-in-law. But listen, there’s more.”

“More than death! … What do you mean? How can there be more than my Gran getting knocked down and killed on a zebra crossing! Has she spoken to you already from the other side? Said something and reprimanded you or what! She won't have passed over yet … ”

“Don't get so angry. I know that you liked her. What I can tell you is that I'm shocked. Really shocked. I never realised how much she loved you, Robert. Thought the world of you and so she did. Missus Gumby came round after Terry, sorry, Detective Constable Rose, had been here … They, your Grandmother and Missus Gumby, had been to the solicitors only this morning at the top of Wandsworth Bridge Road. And Missus Gumby was one of the witnesses to a new will. Danvers and Dooley, I think they're called. Anyway, surprise, shock, astonishment! You have been left this house in the new will and all of her worldly belongings including her money, Robert Clayton. Can you believe that! It all goes to you! … Now that she's dead, I guess that means your Father, if we can locate him to tell him his Mother is dead, will have to look after everything which will be held in trust for you until your twenty-first birthday. Effectively, the solicitors, Danvers and Dooley, or whatever they’re called, will be responsible for the property and all your affairs. Can you believe that, Robert Clayton!”

“I don't really care. I just wish Gran was still alive … How can someone drive so fast and knock down and kill an old lady on a zebra crossing, right outside of a church as well. Though I reckon that Christadelphian Church is jinxed. Instead of that Detective fella Constable Rose coming around here and eating up all of your home-made cake he should be out there catching this murderous, killer driver! … Poor Gran. She must have thought she was quite safe crossing there. You would, wouldn't you. A zebra crossing all clearly marked. You don't expect that a speeding car will appear from out of the blue and knock you down and kill you without even a second glance. I've noticed that people driving cars are very selfish. They seem to hand in their humane personalities when they get inside of a car, at leastways, that's how it appears to me. Pedestrians become a nuisance and are cannon fodder to be mown down. Little old ladies getting in their motor privileged way!”

“I knew you’d be very upset. But oh, can you believe it! She's left it all to you, Robert. Your Father, when he finds out, will be livid. You would think it would go to the oldest living son. Your Uncle Charlie, by rights. But she must have had a real tender spot for you. Taken in by that sweet charm of yours, Robert Clayton. And now, my God, you are my landlord! Well, it won't change anything, my lad, just because you now own this house and have inherited all of her money, I guess, when that new will is read … You're crying, boy … Don't cry, Robert. She had a long life. Not like some of the young lads I used to know who died in the war.”

“That's not the point and you know it! You never liked her!”

“Well, will you just look at what the wind has blown in. It's your brother, Nick, looking all handsome and carefree. We have some bad news to tell you, I'm very much afraid, Nick.”

I just had to leave them alone. They were rattling on as if nothing had happened. All gay laughter and isn't it awful. You would think that Gran had just won at the Bingo rather than been run over and killed by a hit-and-run driver. It upsets me. I'm not jealous of my brother, Nick. You can't really be that envious of someone who is ten years older than you and anyway, I wouldn't want to be him for all the tea in China. Yet when he and Mum get together, I feel totally excluded. It's as if I'm surplus to requirements. I'm in the same room with them, but I might just as well be somewhere else. That's is why I came upstairs to my bedroom. “I'm happier here with you, Sunshine … Yes, you! Don't look at me that way! … What can I say … ”

I'm upset. I hate it when people die. Why do folks have to disappear? Why can't we all live forever? But I suppose there just wouldn't be enough room to go around.

“Just think, Sunshine, of all the millions, billions, trillions of people who have lived and died, if they were all alive today … why, your own country of origin, Australia, would never get to see the sun properly, blotted out by all the flocks and flocks of your ancestors flying in formation, all talking at once. You'd all be chattering away to one another and not a single one of you would understand anything. Of course, there must have been loads of your ancestors who spoke in Aborigine. It must have been so. Why, I bet you birds even talked in the dream-time … If everybody came back alive then we would have all those Roman soldiers still living here with us. That Roman geezer, Julius Caesar … Sunshine, you just have to learn this, listen, pay attention, stop hopping along from one foot to the other … That Roman geezer, Julius Caesar, squashed his nose in a lemon squeezer. Go on. That Roman geezer … Try it … That Roman geezer, Julius Caesar, squashed his nose in a lemon squeezer.”

“Smokin' Moses.”

“No, no, no. Smokin' Moses never squashed his nose in no lemon squeezer. It was that Roman geezer, you know the one, Julius Caesar.”

“Smokin' Moses.”

“I give up. I know it's hard. I should learn some Aborigine to teach you. To draw upon the memory of your forebears.” … Must note down 'forebears' in my Miss Parker file. I wonder if Gran suffered very much pain? I've noticed before that when someone is dead, folks seem to sever all connections with them in weeks. They even stop talking about them. If you mention a name like 'When my Great-Uncle Herbert used to open that tiny silver box of his and take a pinch of snuff' the adults around you look at you as if you are really weird. Mustn't do that, Sonny Jim. It sort of appears unhealthy to talk of the dead in that way. Why? I bet the dead are only too pleased every time you mention them. They probably get a gold star tick wherever they are. The more mentions the better. Are they all trapped in some kind of limbo space-time like Eldritch? …

“Roman geezer … Roman geezer … ”

“By George, you've got it! Smokin' Moses, you've got it! … Well, a bit of it. Say a third.”

“Roman geezer.”

I liked Gran, not as much as I love my Nan, I must confess. “But still you don't apportion your feelings out, do you, Sunshine.” I approached Gran cautiously. I just sat there and listened like I was always on show. Hidden, penetrating questions waiting to trip you up then she would go into a story. Put the whole world to rights with the help, of course, of her very best friend, Missus Gumby. Then sort of agonise over people; all Miss Parker file material … All the goings-on around Studdridge Street and describing everybody's weaknesses then slipping into another story before giving me my marching orders. Not the same as Nan when I walk into her Peabody Estate flat, I just feel immediately at home and can say anything I like. I'm not on guard … In fact, she is the only person I know, besides you, Sunshine, and I must remember that you are only a budgerigar and not a human being, who gives me confidence, makes me feel happy in who I am. Gives me the belief that I can achieve anything … I've just realised something. Budgerigar must be an Aborigine word … I didn't want Gran to leave me this house and her money. It will only cause problems. I can hear Mum and Nick going on about it downstairs right now. And I don't even have to be in the same room, Sunshine, do I!”

“Roman geezer.”

“Very, very good. Now, that Roman geezer, Julius Caesar, go on!”

Of course, the Aborigines won't have any word names for Julius Caesar. He never got that far. The Romans only conquered the known world. America, Australia and China missed out on Roman justice and jurisprudence. I don't rightly know what that last word means. Must look it up. Miss Parker has promised me a brand new dictionary. Oxford she said, if I continue on apiece with my Miss Parker file. In the end I gave her a cock and bull story about my sister, Maggie, helping me out with the writing and Rick Maghoo as well. She looked at me as if I'd lost the art of lying. Two different sets of handwriting would have been required to support that lie plus a bit of Nick. And how would they have been so clever as to make it look like the half-printed attempts of a stuttering five year old child …

I just don't know what to do. I can hear them laughing and joking downstairs. They're playing music. Mum keeps playing that Semprini Serenade stuff which I can't stand. Why she has to play that I have no idea.

“You can't dance to it, Sunshine, can you!”

“Roman geezer … Roman geezer.”

“Good boy! … That'll have to do, I guess.”

I've noticed already in life that money and houses seem to cause problems. In the little bit of Dickens that I've read, the stories are always concocted around that. People seem to spend all their waking-time thinking about money and property. Striving hard to get it and when they do everybody else is envious of them and talks about them behind their backs or so it seems to me. I know full well what will happen now. Later, when Mum and Nick have finished having their good time show before the rest of the world, Nick will come gliding up here all glowing and photogenic like James Dean in 'Rebel Without A Cause'. His American clothing putting all British fashion to shame. Then he'll throw himself down on the other bed, stare hard up at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head. Then prop himself up on one elbow, light up a Lucky Strike cigarette and tell me all about the problems he's been having of late. Girls and money. Dollars and girls. Then maybe he'll try and cheer me up and put on a Chuck Berry record, 'Sweet Little Sixteen', he just knows that's my favourite. Then a very quick 'How terrible about Gran' and 'I wish I'd spent more time with her'. I don't believe he has ever been to see her since he's been back home … Strange that. For a while you find yourself still talking about dead people in the present tense as if they take a while to die in your mind. They live on in the memory, but die in your mind because they are not here in the present. I shall miss talking to Gran. Missus Gumby will miss her terribly. She won’t have anybody to gossip and bitch about with. It won't be the same. I used to like it when I was a small boy, say around four years old, on a Saturday morning, when Mum would leave me with Gran. For all of her yelling at 'That bitch upstairs', she was never afraid of asking her for a favour. And I would sit quietly with Gran and Missus Gumby while they talked and gossiped about everyone and everything and we drank a pot of tea dry, Typhoo tea, and as a treat had chocolate éclairs or cream slices. They used to take it in turns to buy the cakes. What I also noticed is that they always called each other by their surnames. Yes, Missus Gumby, no, Missus Clayton. Very respectful like. Even though they had been friends for over forty years or more.

“Smokin' Moses … Smokin' Moses.”

“You've gone and lost that Roman geezer, Julius Caesar again. Sadly, I'm in too sorry a mood to attend to you, Sunshine, you'll just have to sit there awhile. I want to catch up on 'The Riders of the Purple Sage' before Nick appears and tries to borrow some money off me which he will never pay back. And which anyway I haven't even received yet. Who knows, Sparky, maybe a magic piano when that Danvers and Dooley, as Mum calls them, read out the will. They might well discover that Gran has gone and left all of her money to a cats' home down Battersea way … No, that's Dogs' Home, isn't it! … That's what would happen. Dad would lose it all at the dogs and Nick would go to the dogs …

“Now, stay still, Sunshine, stop running up and down along that perch please.”

Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened? He had left the valley to go to the Cottonwoods. Why? It seemed that he had gone to kill a man – Oldring! The name riveted his consciousness upon the one man of all men on Earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Venters recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Oldring. He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple-black hair and sweeping beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself repeating 'Oldring, Bess is alive! But she is dead to you' and felt himself jerk and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun and he saw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitality of him – that awful light in the eyes – only the hard-dying life of a tremendously, powerful brute? A broken whisper, 'Strange as death', man – why – didn't – you – wait! Bess – was – and Oldring plunged face forward, dead -

“Well, young brother, you’ve certainly come in to your own. For the love of money, how do you do it? You must have the luck of the Devil on your side … Guess who's just appeared downstairs looking all the worse for wear and very upset? … I'll tell you. A red-faced Dad before you frown your guess away. I didn't realise how much he must have loved Gran. That just goes to show you, Bobby boy, you never can tell … Guess who's died?”

“You’re full of guesses tonight., Nick. I would have thought it was fairly obvious!”

“No, no, someone famous who I know you like.”

“Oh no, please … not Jimmy Greaves!”

“No, no, no, not a footballer, but a famous, well, kind of sportsman, I suppose … ”

“I'm not very good at guessing games. Once I’ve been told the answer it always seems so simple and I just know I should have got it right. I hate it when people play that game with me. It seriously always makes me feel like a fool. Then the answer is announced triumphantly, usually accompanied by lengthy laughter and I want to hide my embarrassment and I can feel myself going bright red in the face like an over-ripe tomato!”

“I reckon that's why you spend all your time up here with that budgerigar what’s-his-name.”

“Sunshine. You know that!”

“And that schoolboy friend of yours from Mauritius?”

“Rick Maghoo.”

“Yes, him. Mister Maghoo. Ha-ha.”

“It's been done to death a thousand times or more. Now, please put me out of my misery and tell me who this famous person is who's just died on the same day as Gran?”

“Mike Hawthorn, the racing driver.”

“Hell … But there's no Grand Prix racing on a Monday. How did he die?”

“They said on the news on the radio that he was killed in a car accident on the road near Guildford. Would you believe that. All those Grands Prix he’s won and he goes and dies as a normal motorist. What do you think of that?”

“That’s terrible! First Collins, now Hawthorn. I really liked Mike Hawthorn, he was my favourite English racing driver and a World Champion. It'll be Stirling Moss next, just you wait and see. They all die young in the end!”

“Was Mike Hawthorn the best then?”

“No! … Fangio is the greatest!”

“But he's not English, is he?”

“You’d like him well enough if he was American, Nick. He's won five World Championships. He always beats Stirling Moss, only Mike Hawthorn got the better of him. And anyway, I just love the name Fangio. If ever I was lucky enough to become a racing driver that is the name I'd want.”

“But it's already taken, brother.”

“That wouldn't matter over much. I’ve noticed that Brazilian footballers take the names of past players without blinking!”

“Fangio's Brazilian then, is he, I thought he was … ”

“He's Argentinian, not that it makes any difference what he is.”

That's really shocking news about Mike Hawthorn. With his blonde, floppy hair, good looks and clipped speech, he always seemed so quintessentially English. That's the word I've learnt for today for my Miss Parker file. It's taken me about an hour to learn how to say it. I want to knock Miss Parker's eyes out when she reads the file next time. I've noticed a real improvement in my writing today. I kept writing that long word out and wasn't aware that I was using my left hand. Any word that has over thirteen letters in it I'm going to class as a long word. When Miss Parker sees that she won't ever want to emigrate to New Zealand. I mean, just what have they got! The Maoris, sheep, plenty of dangerous steaming geysers and stranded at the very ends of the earth. That's no place for a lady like Miss Parker after Fulham, is it. Why, she wouldn't find any ten year old schoolboy making use of the word quintessential within a fifty mile radius of Wellington now, would she … I've just got to improve my sense of humour and put the boot in on Wellington, ha-ha. I read somewhere recently that to tell a really good joke you should never laugh at the punchline, just watch for the reaction. Gain friends and influence people by making them laugh. Not like those Charles Atlas adverts in the newspapers and magazines, where a muscle-bound, handsome man, has developed himself from a puny, weak specimen so that other aggressive males won’t kick sand in his face on the beach in front of his girlfriend. I reckon it's cleverer to make someone laugh and get them to like you rather than to punch their lights out and make an enemy or win an argument through strength, and fear. I guess Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar would disagree. That Roman geezer, Julius Caesar, never got down New Zealand way either and since Brother Nick came gliding effortlessly into this bedroom, Sunshine has hopped back into his cage and kept shtoom.

“Are you going to go and see Chelsea play this week, Bobby?”

Here it comes. I can just feel it. Getting friendly, asking all the right questions then wham.

“I'd like to. I think they will beat the Villa, but what with the death of Gran and all, it just doesn't seem right somehow.”

“Arrh, don't be so silly, you can go to a football match. You're worried it will be a really big crowd and you'll get your broken arm hurt somehow. I tell you what, I'll go with you … ”

“But you don't really like football, do you? Aren't you a new convert to baseball? Didn't you go and watch the New York Yankees play? … Am I right?”

“So what … Look, I'm gonna level with you … ”

He's even starting to sound like an American. I'm torn between liking all things American and being English …

“I'm in big trouble, Bobby!”

“What?”

“Well, the real reason I jumped ship was I'm in terrible debt.”

“How, Nick?

“Well, you know full well I'm always a sucker for cards. There's never that much to do on board ship in your spare time and I always get into card games. Poker, brag, pontoon. I love playing, but I always seem to lose. I'm just not lucky like you, I guess, Bobby.”

“How much exactly do you owe?”

“Well, I'm not proud of this, Bobby. I just kept playing on, borrowing credit to see if I could recoup my losses, but it just got worse and worse … Hell … ”

“How much?”

“Sssh! Keep your voice down, they'll hear you downstairs!”

“They can't hear.”

“We heard snatches of you pretending to be that budgerigar of yours and talking.”

“Money? How much? … Fifty pounds?”

“More like five hundred pounds, Bobby!”

“Christ! No wonder you jumped ship … Who do you owe it to? … All the crew?”

“No, no, just this one lucky sod, Jenkins. Colin Jenkins. He's the ship's purser and is an evil son of a bitch and so he is … I just don't know what to do, Bobby. It seems like everything is against me and all I really want to do is get back to New York City. Now, that's not to much to ask for, is it!”

“First Sandy, now this. I don't know. Christ! I'm sounding like Gran already … I haven't got that much money, only about five pounds saved as I talk to you plus my Post Office book money which I can't really touch … I suppose I could now that Gran is dead. I could always try and borrow some, I guess, against what Gran has supposedly left me. But you can’t go on playing cards for money, Nick … Now, this purser fella. This do-dah Jenkins geezer. He's taking you for a ride. Has he got some kind of hold over you or what? … Oh, no matter!”

Nick just looks at me with glazed, pleading blue eyes. All I can think of is his dead baby and poor Sandy. I would really have liked Sandy as my sister-in-law. She's a lovely person. And now this! Stitched up good and proper, done up like a kipper by this do-dah Jenkins Purser who's probably something akin to a Long John Silver character. He must have seen Nick coming. Probably really jealous of his James Dean good looks, his American clothes, all those girls chasing after him. This Jenkins fella only too pleased to fleece him. Never play cards for money with strangers. Why, I bet this Jenkins guy is probably beating him with a marked deck and Nick falls for it every time … Christ, that's Dad coming through the door and he's giving me the evil eye straight away. All red-eyed and glazed, looking like he's angry, upset and mad all at the self-same time …

“Well, you're a right one, aren't you, Bobby Clayton. A proper little monkey on a stick and a smart arse with it!”

“Hello, Dad.”

“Don't you hello Dad me. I didn’t know 'til today I'd sired a nasty little viper hiding out in the bosom of my own family!”

“I didn't know, honestly, Dad.”

He's staggering slowly across the bedroom towards me. Sunshine has hopped to the far end of his cage. Nick has leapt up from the spare bed to protect me. I'm already experiencing what the power of expectant money can do …

“The magic of property turns sand into gold, I guess, Dad. You can have this house, I don't want it. I'm only a boy. What would I do with a big house like this anyway. It's all yours, Dad. Promise.”

“You little shite. I've a good mind to … ”

“Hang on there, Dad. It's not Bobby's fault and remember, he's got a broken arm.”

“If I had my way right now he'd have two broken arms and legs!”

What can I say or do now. Nick has stood right in front of me and is acting as my saviour. Good and trapped. Oh Gran, why did you have to go and do this. Leave me this property and your money. Of course, she must have known full well what would happen. That's one of the reasons she went and did it. She'll be laughing now some place as we all fall out … Dad has stopped threatening me and just sort of stands there looking dejected and sad and reeking of booze. He gives me a tearful look. Coughs … coughs again. The angry moment is past. His tone is softer. “Well, it seems, Bobby boy, that you're the Angel in this house now.”.....

Blue Horizons

It's murky and I'm breathless and I don't know why. I'm not running. I'm not even walking fast. It's night-time, but I can see clearly. Blue horizons. I keep seeing the phrase blue horizons writ large and I'm not sure of that either. It sounds like a B-side of a Ricky Nelson single release that get left off and changed at the very last moment … Quickly feeling for my right arm and it is not broken. Oh, that is so lovely to awaken in a dream and not have a broken arm. Free to move, to touch, to press. I wonder, do people who have to live in wheelchairs come awake in their dreams and run. It must be marvellous for them to be able to just run and run. The sheer release, then that awful feeling when you suddenly have to wake up and you're back, confined to a wheelchair again, limited by a disability. It makes me feel lucky even though I have a broken arm in waking-time. I mean, that's nothing, is it, compared to a permanent disability. All the handicap expressions would drive you crazy, I guess. Legless for drink. Spastic for retarded. Cripple for maim. He was quite 'armless as a sick joke. To know that your crippled state makes healthy folks feel better must be quite sickening … All this is sort of drifting through my mind as I'm stood by a wall at the end of a dead end road. Threading my eyes down along this road for signs of movement. If I slightly swivel my neck around and glance over this damp brick wall I can see the outlines of the top of the bridge which signifies Parsons Green underground station. Just the other side of the Eel Brook Common. That thought sends a shudder right through me and I try to think of happier things. Blue horizons and what they might mean … No sign of Eldritch. I'm not lucky enough to be back with the Pharaoh's Daughter. The Lands of the Ancient Pharaohs are lost to me tonight … I can just make out the street sign. Epple Road. Why make them hard to read? They never make them plain for everybody to see. I mean, this may only be a dream-state sign, but it is still worthy of being highlighted. Make it blue. A bright blue street sign for everybody. But already I’m learning fast that making things easy is not the English way. Complicating street signs is just one manifestation of working folks justifying their existence. My Miss Parker file is winking at me in my dreams and indicating manifestation as an immediate entry. If only I could write in my Miss Parker file in my dreams then everything would become simplified. But the waking-time it takes to do the simplest word or phrase, why I could take all of two weeks and more to complete my Eleven Plus exam later on this year. A special dispensation for that injured boy. He may be accident-prone, but he deserves a golden chance. Fat chance is what I say. The examiner will take one hard look at me and declare me unfit to sit and I will instantly be catapulted onto the Secondary School scrapheap of life … Still, I worry too much. This right arm should have healed up in my waking life in plenty of time … I know this street. Rather it connects with me in some way and I can't think why … Oh, you are such a fool, Bobby Clayton, and so you are! Janice May lives in this Epple Road … The brickwork behind me holding me up has suddenly gone very cold and damp. Is that a warning? I must remember that nothing is to chance. Everything that happens is already pre-ordained. Laid out in advance in some other room somewhere across the Universe and we still have no idea … Shall I go and stand under Janice May's bedroom window? I could call up to her. Dance the fandango in triple time in the middle of Epple Road in this dark, sleepy night and nobody would see or hear me … It is very dark. Why exactly am I here? This is not a full moon country. What little moon is available is partly obscured by thick cloud … Something dreadful is about to occur and I am going to have to witness it! Why me? Can’t dreadful events and potential tragedies take place without me having to watch them. Am I in training to be a ghoul when I grow up! Am I going to have to stand here transfixed to this damp brick wall at the end of Epple Road and watch in horror as Janice May becomes endangered! … It's funny about dreams, isn't it. I know it is really deep into the night-time. Way past midnight because all is quiet save for the rattle of the underground trains yet I know full well with my logical hat on, a blue fedora, I guess, that the Tube stopped running hours ago, but I can still hear the rattling click of the Underground trains. I can make the Underground trains run all night in my dreams. Dream rolling stock with dream-time passengers all sat bolt upright in the glass-reflecting carriages in their stripy-blue pyjamas and see-through pink nighties, all wondering what exactly they are doing here … I feel clammy and cold in this dream and that is always a sure sign of imminent danger … I am going to go and check out my fears. Stand right underneath what I think is Janice May's bedroom window and sing a love song. 'Donna' by Ritchie Valens will do just fine and it helps that I know all the lyrics … Before I can take my leave of this clingy brick wall at the very end of Epple Road I hear a familiar sound that sends out an alarm signal and puts my teeth on edge. It's the Creeper throwing that leg forward and making that staccato click with his shoe … He's suddenly stopped and seems to be hanging back by a lamppost which has no working street-light. Hanging back in the night-time shade and gloom and waiting. I am frozen to the spot. I want desperately to move, but this brick wall holding me up is suddenly very comforting … I can hear giggling and the clip-clop of high heels. A young woman has just turned the corner into Epple Road and has a young man with her. They've stopped and are having a passionate goodnight kiss and embrace. I can feel myself going bright red in the face with envy and embarrassment. That girl is Janice May. Much older and curvier and kissing a man adorned with what looks like a moustache … Silly thought to hide embarrassment. I can only think that it must tickle and scratch terribly and that this young man will give Janice May a sore on her cherry-red lips. It's strange, the thoughts that come whirring into you, brushing against the emotional churning in the stomach. How come I no longer have a broken arm in my dreams yet I still blush like crazy and feel awkward and embarrassed? … The Creeper silently watches and bides his time. Janice May is having trouble getting rid of her boyfriend with the hairy upper lip … Don't let him go, Janice, for Christ sakes! Sorry, Nan … Let him in. Invite him into your house. Wake up your startled parents. Have a healthy argument. Cause a right rumpus. Wake up the whole road. I want to see lights go on in all the front rooms. People drawing back their closed curtains that keep back the night. All of them throwing their arms up in the air in exasperation at having been woken up. Opening their bedroom windows wide in the cold, damp, January air and shouting obscenities at Janice May's parents as the boyfriend scarpers in haste and takes fright at having stirred up a hornet's nest on his wish vision of love … But no. Janice May, much to my despair and chagrin, if that is the word, I don't care right now, I don't even want to check and enter it into my Miss Parker file, she can sail away to Maori Land for all I care … Don't let him go, Janice, please! No! … But she's finally managed to push him away and send him on his merry journey with futile promises of love and kisses ringing in his excited ears … The solitary tell-tale clip-clop-clip as she treads the final steps homeward. She's moving ever closer to that lamppost that is silent and unlit and guarding the waiting Creeper … I want to shout out loud. Scream a warning and I can't even move away from this reassuring damp brick wall as the clip-clopping figure suddenly stops under another street lamppost that is giving off a yellow glare and she lights up a cigarette as if contemplating her evening's enjoyment that has just passed and putting the final seal on her night's pleasure.

With relief I see to my astonishment that it is not Janice May, how could it be after all. It's the much older sister, Christine May, who looks just like her. Oh, what a relief! … What am I saying. This damp brick wall holding me up prods me into the realisation that it is Christine May who is in great danger and here am I celebrating wildly inside because it is not my forlorn sweetheart, her sister, Janice … Christine May flicks the remainder of her cigarette into the gutter of Epple Road and little sparks seem to splutter and die … Why, oh why, aren't there any dangerous dogs barking when you most need them? Let sleeping dogs lie they say, well, they all seem stone-dead to me tonight. Not even a snarling whimper to alert the sleeping sentinels of this street … I feel all alone and scared. Rubbing my back along the clammy brickwork of this wall for comfort. Clip-clop, clip-clop-clip. Don’t go there, Christine May! Can't you see there's a man standing in the shadows waiting to do you harm. Don’t you feel him, smell him, sense him. Cigarettes destroying the sense of smell which acts as a warning signal, I guess. Every week in the Evening News or the Fulham Chronicle you read of an old lady who has left the gas on, be it the cooker or a fire and died of the fumes. No sense of smell or maybe deliberate suicide. They never say which. Are the reporters instructed not to spread the bad news. Sad stories might upset the sensitive population, marching on their munching, modern way. Sorry old ladies gassing themselves whether by accident or on purpose because cigarettes have deadened their sense of smell and touch which are great indicators of danger, providing that elusive second of warning … Clip-clop-clip and Christine May is now level with the unlit street lamppost. I want so badly to hide my eyes. Shut them tight and pretend I am somewhere else. I want to scream out a warning and feel utterly useless before this dark, damp night. If only I could be seen, I could distract the Creeper and scare him away. If I can hear the Underground trains go a-rattling by when they have stopped running hours ago then why can’t I suddenly be transformed into the largest creature ever to walk the Earth and cast a giant shadow down over Epple Road and save sweet Christine May. I could perhaps be the creature from 'The Black Lagoon', A fearsome, fanged monster who is half-man and half-fish and scares poor beautiful Julie Adams half to death … Blue horizons are calling me again. A B-movie sequel, the creature from 'The Blue Lagoon' who is half-man and half-dinosaur, who petrifies normal human beings and carries the evil Creeper off away to be devoured in his secret lair hidden somewhere deep in a blue lagoon in the darkest jungle of the night … Christine May stops and coughs, half turns at a sound on the cool air of this still, damp night. Shrieks in fear and surprise as the Creeper grabs her from behind, around the throat and wrestles her to the ground. She seems to go limp with the shock of it all and doesn't fight back. I watch transfixed and horrified as the Creeper throttles her before this watching, silent street without interruption. I am driven to observe through my running tears. Christine May's legs are kicking out and one of her high heels has come off. Her shoulders seem to jerk spasmodically and I curse the thought of my Miss Parker file at a time like this, Christine has gone limp in the body before the evil, crushing hands of the Creeper. He stands up in a startled manner and looks straight down Epple Road right at me as if he can see into my dream-life and spy my witness to his act of murder. I know him yet still cannot make out who he is., There is something so familiar about him. I suppose it is all that time spent following Cyril Stocker, yet I'm confused. There is something very different about the Creeper … He is doing something so disgusting now that I don't really want to even whisper or acknowledge it, but I must stand still, delivered by demons to see it. The Creeper has put his filthy hands up Christine May's skirt and seems to be ripping and tearing. Now he triumphantly pulls forth what looks like her ripped knickers, sniffs them first before stuffing them in his dark coat pocket and stands up like a victorious devil. Looks quickly all around him as if challenging anyone or anything to dare approach him and starts to throw that leg forward and creep-walk-click his way off down Epple Road with dead Christine May's knickers half hanging out from the pocket of his coat and leaving the lifeless body of Janice May's sister half-sprawled across the pavement and the gutter with her lovely legs and feet spread-eagled in the road. Dead to the world. Dead to my eyes. I weep and weep and clutch at the brickwork for help. I have seen murder and it is evil. Really wicked and I am ashamed at my helplessness and fear. I feel all alone walking in this street of dreams. A witness to a killing and no one will ever believe me. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust may smile and indulge me, but wonder out loud as an aside why I could not see the face of the Creeper clearly and identify him properly once and for all. It is the vague, blurring image that is the nature of dreams. Tom Dust will just look at me like I'm stupid and pass on to the next upcoming clue which will be of no help at all … Why is no one awake? How long must this lifeless form of poor, murdered Christine May have to lay there unloved and undiscovered. No huge brown rats have appeared to nibble at the hands and feet of the dead body, her vermin succour. No pigeons swoop low and splat on her terrified dead face. No black cats on the night prowl stop by for a casual, disinterested glance and a nose to check her for signs of life. Nobody else has been out late on the town tonight and returned home singing a carousing song and woken up the whole street …

“If you walk away from that brick wall, Young Angel, will it fall down!”

“You're a fine one to talk, Eldritch! You are supposed to be my Guardian Angel in dream-time yet you leave me here all alone and scared to witness a dreadful murder then turn up magically when the vital moment is all but over!”

“But I am here for you now, Young Angel, am I not, and look, no harm has come to you, has it. I do not see you broken or bleeding. You have not been attacked because you are protected in your waking dreams from the events and happenings that you see. This is not real, Young Angel. You are in what the Australian aborigines call Alcheringa. The dream-time. A mythical golden age of the long ago past that can be redeemed and relived every night. You can manifest wherever you like in your dreams, Young Angel. Tonight you have witnessed some terrible event which may well come to pass in the next day or so in your perceived real-time waking so do not fret. I am here to show you that maybe you have seen into the possible future. But the future can always be changed, is always open to the shift of chance. Nothing is set in stone forever in Dream-time, in the Alcheringa … ”

The wind is blowing quite strongly and it seems to raise up a brown-coloured dust storm that penetrates into everyone and everything. I stand and watch with amazement as thousands upon thousands of tiny, dotted bodies, Egyptian workers, cover their faces and lay themselves face down on the brown hard ground 'til this minor storm is past. These are the most number of people I have ever seen gathered together at once. Far more than a full-house, seventy thousand, at Stamford Bridge. But it is so difficult to judge. Numbers can be so very deceiving. I am looking into the eye of a sandstorm and can only perceive a mass of twisting shapes and a flurry of demanding activity. From the reaction of this mass of constant industrial construction they must be well used to and quite prepared for this wind-blown sand attack … I am just so pleased to be here. To see this. I don’t care what happens. After this night-time of dreams I have experienced so far, to be in the Lands of the Ancient Pharaohs, is such a pleasure and that I might even be able to see the Pharaoh's Daughter is something so wonderful I can't even contemplate it. I am very aware of the presence of Eldritch being with me. I can sense his smiling pleasure at my realisation that I have fallen head over heels in love with Ancient Egypt, with the Royal City of Memphis and its rich surrounds. The drifting blue nature of the Nile River that annually silts and overflows this dry, brown land with rich alluvial abundance. The sweet-smelling lotus flowers that hang on the very air. Of course, it is agreeable for me to feel like this, I am not being suffocated in a small sandstorm. Do not have to experience the sulphur-like intensity of minuscule grains of sand penetrating every pore and fissure of my being. Blinding my eyes and whipping at my face. I have the ultimate pleasure of being able to feel the experience without having to embrace the pain and disconnectedness. That yellow, blinding glare that is so surprising you wonder where it can have come from, but you have no time to think because of the relentless pressure of this storm to knock you down, bowl you over. How do you, as a pyramid worker of rough, hewn hands and broken fingernails, a dirty dust-splattered loincloth and filthy headband, curse and try and stand in the way of nature and declare yourself before the elements. Man is so puny set against the mighty force of nature and yet here we are bearing witness to the largest and greatest construction on Earth being divined and created by the world’s greatest architect and designer, the immortal Imhotep. The Nile, the River of Life, may flow fearlessly for over millions of years and this brief sandstorm may hinder the construction of the first monumental stone building in ancient history, but mankind wishes to stick its collective head above the parapet of the flowing waters and declare itself with divine intentions. The building of a Pyramid at Saqqara that is of religious significance. Raising a burial mound into a Pyramid, building a series of magical stone steps that rise up into the very heavens to declare the Great Pharaoh as a Godhead in the next stage of life and dwarf any contemporary structure to be found on Earth over four and a half thousand years ago. I am so impressed I rub my eyes to remove the imaginary sand and grit encrusted along my eyelids, in the vain hope, I guess, that I may see Her. Spy a glimpse of her if only for a second. I will happily settle for that. I might never dream this way again and never be able to see her whose name I am vouchsafed and sworn never to reveal. Her, whose eyes penetrate deep into my mind, in gleaming figures of eight. I sense all things when she talks to me. As if all knowledge is available to me from the very dawn of Creation if only I can remember it in my waking-time. But alas, it seems to slip away from me like the receding tide. Dreams are like that. You are swimming in the ocean of discovery and very wonderful warm feelings. All life seems before you, available and attainable. Then you awaken and cling on to the wreckage of an image. You promise yourself to keep remembering and never forget yet as the day passes swiftly by and the constant torrent of waking actions and events overtake you, the drifting, marvellous dream images float away again into the Dream-time, the Alcheringa and all pictures are lost. Little moments arrive back in the ensuing days. Reawakened flashes of what was seen come springing up and you talk to yourself. Articulate images that you have dreamt into the future. Not that any supposed knowledge or remembrance of something seen can ever seem to save you in the waking present …

The dust storm is past. Blown off inland into what seems already the outlines of encroaching desert. I've always thought of desert as dry, flat and barren land with protruding humps of sand dunes. But I can marvel now at all the lush greenery shooting up. The luminous trees and plants and bushes proudly proclaiming life in this hot terrain … The hive of industrial activity at Saqqara resumes with large-framed overseers and guard-like figures driving and completing this massive workforce on. Ever aware of the Royal Procession slowly being guided towards the Pharaoh's Pyramid that already reaches up gloriously into the very sky …

“I am so pleased you have returned to us. The promise of your Guardian has been kept.”

Her words sound like mellifluous honey to my ears. I cannot believe her skill, enterprise and ingenuity. I have to constantly pinch myself with my healthy right hand in my dreams and remind myself that this so beautiful creature, whose magical appearance dazzles me to my very soul, is only two years older than me. She is capable of walking serenely in the midst of a Royal Retinue and constantly maintains all the noble power and discipline expected of the Great Pharaoh's Daughter. Even just being able to deport herself in such a dignified manner in a heavily weighted gown, padded shoulders and arching headdress. To relay conversations with the representatives of Imhotep and discuss in detail the design and development of her Father's burial chamber. To project her presence forth to radiate before the Pyramid workers at Saqqara, who all drop face down on the ground in complete reverence as she so slowly, so regally, passes them by. All this and probably preparing herself for a private audience with the great Imhotep and being able to spare a precious moment of communication with me and smile with loving pleasure in my mind's eye as the most beautiful face and being you could ever wish to imagine. She is so impressive, I am starting to believe myself that she truly is Divine and half-human as the yellow, dust-splattered, worn faces of the Pyramid workforce at Saqqara believe. She is gently talking inside of me and I feel truly blessed. She makes everything feel wonderful that comes under her luminous gaze and I can only watch and listen totally enthralled to Her, the Pharaoh's Daughter … I may never get to pass this way again in the Dream-time, the Alcheringa and I so want to treasure it. I look up above at the blue horizons stretching far away across the ancient lands of fertile Egypt and I am enraptured, captured by their time and events. Captive to this Great Pyramid design of Imhotep that already reaches way up into the edges of the blue horizons. Captive to the spiritual wonder on the workforce faces and, most of all, captive to the gleaming smile and spiritual intelligence of the Pharaoh's Daughter.....

Genghis

I've followed the Creeper again and as before he has disappeared into the house at number forty-seven Hurlingham Road … What am I to do? Waiting is not much fun. I'm quickly discarding the idea of being a Private Detective when I grow up. Philip Marlowe and Mike Hammer don't spend all of their precious, paid time watching houses in the rain for days on end with nothing happening. I mean, how would they get to claim all those expenses they are always mentioning … ”And exactly how much do you charge, Mister Marlowe? Are you the expensive kind?” … ”Twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses.” … They never say exactly what the expenses are for, but in the case of Mike Hammer it must be for hospital bills. No marvellous National Health Service in America. The Land of the Free and the Brave and boundless opportunity. That country of dreams that my brother, Nick, has fallen hopelessly in love with and they don't even care enough about their citizens to provide free healthcare at source. That's why the oft-mentioned expenses. I'm starting to feel so ambiguous about the glory of America. I'm in thrall to all the movies and the music. I just love Marilyn Monroe, Chuck Berry, James Dean, the Everly Brothers, Tony Curtis, but they don't play football, do they! Caught between the Devil and the deep blue see, only this time it's the Atlantic Ocean, though right now it's solely murky puddles of rainwater slopping across the floor of this fire-red telephone box. I'm stood balancing on two telephone directories which have come loose from their metal strip moorings. Some vandal, hoodlum, has pulled and yanked them free. Probably the same person who keeps putting these thumb-smeared, grubby little business cards by the black telephone receiver, advertising certain ladies of the night called Gloria and Simone. I shouldn't jump to such conclusions, should I. The best of the American gum-shoes just weigh up the facts yet when it comes down to it they seem to develop a sixth sense of danger based on intuition. One for the birds, I guess. And there are plenty of mottled pigeons scaring away flitting brown sparrows in a front garden of Hurlingham Road by this fire-red telephone box. What do I do if some passing stranger stops and wants to enter and make a 'phone call? Keep standing on the two telephone directories and cradle the black receiver and start an imaginary conversation. Turn your back so that you can avoid any chance of eye contact or perceived bodily signals. Pretend to talk to Miss Parker and discuss the bulging file of words and notes. How every word I look up I attempt to memorise and use. How today's word, for example, Miss Parker, is ambiguous. I … no need really. Nobody is planning on 'phoning and staring at me. One of the advantages of being a ten year old boy on a wet Saturday afternoon in damp, grey London is that no-one notices you or pays you any mind, even with a broken arm of greying, white plaster-cast all smeared with ink-scrawled signatures. Nobody gives you a second look … I could have gone to the match … Must concentrate. Keep watching the house for signs of activity. Twitching curtains. Deliveries of supposed Bibles. Unexplained visitors in mysterious mackintoshes … I'm always so on edge when Chelsea are playing, even in an F.A. Cup fourth round tie against the Villa. I mean, I know it's disastrous from the off and, after all, Chelsea have never, ever won the F.A. Cup, but it still keeps me wondering and slightly uneasy 'til I know the final score. They will lose by the odd goal in, say, three or five and Jimmy, bless 'im, will score, but to no avail. Pessimists. A word to enter into my Miss Parker file. All sports fans must be pessimists by nature because few teams or individuals in any sport can win all of the time. So you have to learn quickly to take defeats on the chin and cover up that horrible sinking feeling of pain at failure by telling yourself way in advance that the outcome is hopeless, and prepare for the worst to try and safeguard your horrendous feelings of disappointment. I suppose life must be like that for most grown-ups. You just can’t spend all of your days and nights repeatedly telling yourself how very lucky you are not to be confined to a wheelchair, starving in an African country or a dissident Russian in a Siberian labour camp. The trouble is you can get caught up in the sporting moment with hopes and wishes and all else is completely forgotten … Must concentrate. Private Eyes in the best of detective novels don't wander off in their minds. They seriously can't afford to, otherwise they wouldn’t live for long, would they … I thought very long and hard about going to the Villa match, but the crowd will be huge, say fifty-five to sixty thousand spectators. All that pushing and shoving, the massive crush. A broken arm won't give me any privileges of movement. All thoughts of kindness and consideration go clean out of the sporting window where a football match is concerned. Probably get my broken arm swiped at by one of those large, heavy metal rattles, spinning and whirring uselessly around. Click, click, click. 'Play up, Pompey … Play up, Pompey' … That's what they sang last time out and you wondered if the Portsmouth fans' arms and hands would drop off with all the strenuous effort … Ho-hum … Watch, listen and observe. A gumshoe's lot is a boring one in little old London town. Nothing untoward happening. Not like the excitement and colour of Los Angeles and New York. That’s the whole problem. We are back again to the difference between American films in full technicolour or eye-catching Vistavision, and British-made movies all serenely quaint in black and white and all stiff upper lips from the privileged classes. Not like the rest of us stalking around down here and having to wait about in stinking puddles and wondering out loud what is to befall us … What's this! A visitor at number forty-seven Hurlingham Road. A woman by the looks of it. I must get my eyes tested though I hate the thought of wearing glasses and who's ever heard of a Private Detective hero wearing specs! I mean, I know Clark Kent does, but that’s the difference, isn't it. He's a superhero not a man walking down dark, mean streets like an untarnished Philip Marlow and anyway that proves the point really … This woman visitor has disappeared into the house; I couldn't see who it was who answered the front door to her. All dark and mysterious and probably nothing at all. I'm wasting my time on a wild goose chase for nothing … Superman couldn't carry out his heroic super deeds with glasses on, could he! They would get all misted up when he's flying and he would be as blind as a bat when it rained hard in Gotham City … Can you have a wild goose chase just stood on two telephone directories getting soggier by the second in a fire-red telephone box on a wet Saturday afternoon in January, with Chelsea about to take a beating at home to the Villa in the F.A. Cup! …

Christ! It's Cyril Stocker, the Creeper. Sorry, nan. Mustn't swear, not even in times of severe crisis. He's creeping straight towards me! Don't look at him. Pick up the 'phone receiver. Dial. Make a call. Ring Rick Maghoo. You've got fourpence and anyway, even if Rick should be out then one of his lovely younger sisters will answer the 'phone in that practised telephone manner they are taught … Christ, he's opening the box door. Do folks always swear in emergencies!

“What are you doing following me around and spying on me, Bobby Clayton! Just because your Grandmother has died and you have a broken arm or so it appears, doesn't give you the right to be a pest and a continual nuisance. I've had just about enough of this! I am going to teach you a lesson and it'll be no good you crying out for help. No one will hear you or believe you.”

I want to laugh out loud. Cyril Stocker speaks in a high-pitched squeak like Mickey Mouse inhaling on a helium balloon … The Creeper has jerked open the fire-red telephone box door and has me firmly by the left ear as I slide off the two startled telephone directories and splash my left foot in a dank puddle of water and leave the telephone receiver dangling. He is so strong and surprisingly quick. I don't have time to react. No time to say or do something. “Ouch! Let me go!” … Led helplessly by the ear. No one around. Where are all the people when you really need them! Nowhere to be seen and I am suddenly very afraid and realise that this is no kind of game. I'm not in some kind of detective story, this is real life and I'm for it! … I'm being led by the ear like some wayward child and dragged across Hurlingham Road. A few cars splash by in the rain without any driver giving me so much as a second glance. Just a small boy getting his come-uppance for some foolish deed or minor misdemeanour … I go to kick him, but he's too quick for me. Just pulls on my ear harder. For a man who creeps and who must be way over forty years in age, he's amazingly nimble and quick. I just can't break away and get free, no matter how hard I try. All my cries for help are falling on deaf ears. Sounds deaden in the rain.

I'm not worthy of the front door entrance to number forty-seven Hurlingham Road. The Creeper slides down the side of a small alleyway between two houses, dragging me with him. Now we go through a concrete backyard and enter in at the brown-daubed back door. Crikey! A large dog has half leapt up at me and is barking ferociously.

“Down, Genghis! Down, boy! You can eat him later.”

I don't think the Creeper is joking that much. This dog petrifies me, but I can't help but smile at the high-pitched voice. I can only think of Mickey Mouse who I don't really like that much, but Mickey Mouse, for all his sickly Disney charm, would never treat me like this. I’m dog meat right now and that's a fact. Where's Mike Hammer when you need him.

“Well, Miss Pye, look who we have here. A nasty little miscreant who likes poking his dirty, runny nose into other people's private business. What shall we do with him, Miss P?”

“Well, I surely do not know, Cyril. Shall we pray for his young soul?”

“Arrh, Miss P, right on the money as usual. Your addition to our brethren has been of great benefit to us all … It was, alas, ever the same with nosy, interfering children, For the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth.”

“Is that dog dangerous, Mister Stocker?”

“Arrh, it speaks the Queen's English when it likes. Gentle Genghis, a long-haired Alsatian bitch named in haste, is only a killer when I let her be, otherwise she is a truly civilised dog who comes under the church’s reverential care, as do all of God's creatures.”

“Does that include me then, Mister Stocker?”

“No, Clayton, you are one of the Devil's brood. Now, sit you down there and keep very still while we consider what best to do with you.”

I'm sniffling slightly, it does no harm. Let them see my fear. I've got nothing to hide and anyway, I am scared. That Miss Pye or Miss P or whatever he calls her, looks like a cold-hearted bitch. I'm going to swear and I don't care. I'm not really afraid of the Creeper. How can you be scared of a man who squeaks in a high-pitched voice as if he's related to Turkish eunuchs. But that, by its very nature, is reason enough to be very afraid. It's the ones who don't scare you who can do you the most harm … Another person has entered the room. A grey-haired man with a scruffy red beard who the Creeper keeps calling 'Arch' and introduces to me in a scabrous manner as Mister Gabriel. I sense that Cyril Stocker is really enjoying this, just out to scare a little boy witless and teach me a lesson for spying on him. But I am going to stay calm under pressure though I am secretly very afraid. Use the mind and don't dwell on all the dark possibilities that can happen to you … We are in what must be the back-room lounge or parlour as my late Gran used to call it. This room is dominated by a flesh-coloured figure of Christ nailed to the wall above the fireplace. Just like the one that hangs outside on the Christadelphian Church on the Wandsworth Bridge Road. A replica, I guess, though obviously smaller … Be like Philip Marlowe and keep the mind ticking over, but avoid any unnecessary wisecracks. That long-haired Alsatian bitch, Genghis, named in haste … ha-bloody-ha, very funny, Cyril … has never, ever taken its hungry eyes off me since we entered this room. It's sat on the floor over by the door with paws outstretched at the ready to pounce with me as the intended victim. It just knows I'm scared of it. Can smell my fear, I guess. Christ! I do so wish I had a Guardian Angel in real life time. A saviour like Eldritch to spring to my rescue …

The room is sparsely furnished because of all the stacks and stacks of what look like wrapped Bibles piled high all around me. There is a type of mechanical cutter with a lever over in the far corner of the room by a window which is blacked out. There’s a faded golden cross on the curtain. It's the only window in the room and looks onto the kitchen extension just like our house in Studdridge Street. All these rows and rows of houses are exactly the same and were built around the same time and to the same specifications. I don't like sitting in rooms without any natural source of light, it's kind of suffocating and makes you want to run out into the street and grasp at the very light and air, even in the rain …

Cyril Stocker, the Creeper, is grinning at me in a most peculiar way as if he's just eaten some really tasty food which has given him indigestion.

“So you reckon you are on to our little game, do you, young Clayton?”

He coughs abruptly as if that tasty morsel of food won't leave his throat.

“I can't say as I have ever cared over much for the Clayton family myself, Miss Pye. The mother, Joan, fancies herself and thinks she is too good for the rest of us. The Father is a drunken joke. This one's older brother threatened me on quite a few occasions when he was younger. The sister, Maggie, is a trollop and as for that old lady, his Grandmother … She's just died, Miss P. Good riddance, I say. A nasty old bitch and not one made for the Angels in heaven to receive. Not like us, heh, Arch.”

Arch says nothing. He hasn't spoken yet and I'm starting to think he might just be a mute. I'd better be angry and play the Creeper's game. Keep that bloody dog off me.

“Don't you speak about my Gran like that! You have no right! You’re a churchman, aren't you? You should be respectful of the dead, should you not!”

“Oh, he speaks well for a little brat and so he does, Miss P. Your dead Grandmother was not one of sacred brethren so forfeited any right to special consideration. Under our heavenly denomination all souls shall answer to the Almighty on Judgement Day and only members of the Christadelphian sect shall be saved. Damnation for all the rest, say I! And as for you, young Clayton, you are our enemy though you speak well I must say, better than that leering older brother of yours. But remember this, I have seen the light. I have seen a stranger in a strange land.”

“What shall we do with this latest batch, Cyril?”

“Sssh, Arch! Be careful in front of the boy!”

So it does talk after all.

“But you said he already knows anyhow so what does it matter. We might as well get on with it while you decide what to do with him. Tie him in a sack with some rocks, say I, and throw him in the river at night.”

Very Christian, Arch, and I did catch the wink. Trying to scare me stone out of my mind so as I won't ever say anything. And you know what? It's working. If they let me go, I will promise never to tell another living soul, not ever. I can keep a secret. But the trouble is I won’t and I know from all the hard-boiled detective stories, nobody ever believes you. Nobody takes you at your word. Nobody trusts you to be true. It's like time will call you out and your tongue in some future date will reveal all. Not an especially pleasant thought, is it …

Letters I can see by the dozen. Heaps and heaps of letters piled up high on a table and Miss Pye is opening each one using a penknife which is making me very fidgety. The letters all seem to contain five and ten pound notes wrapped in messages. There are literally hundreds and hundreds of these letters and they must all be stuffed with money. Now, why are folks sending these Christadelphian people money? Charitable donations perhaps? … Are they selling sermons to be preached on the good Lord's day to encourage and further local trade and business or what! …

“Be careful to keep a detailed record of every order, Miss P. We don't want any mishaps or dissatisfied customers now, do we. Eyes popping out of your head, young Clayton. You can't take your peepers off the cash now, can you! As the good Lord would say 'Stolen waters are sweet' … Have you ever heard that before, you nosy little brat? … Down, Genghis boy … Down. Not now, later. Funny how I just can’t stop calling her Boy. The bitches are better, do you know why?”

“No. But I suppose you are going to tell me anyway, Mister Stocker.”

“A right little smarty-pants, aren't you. Well, you take after that Uncle Charlie of yours. I never could stand him. Always laughing out the side of his mouth with some funny quip. The Alsatian dogs bark something awful and attack at the slightest provocation. It’s the wolf strain in them. Bred to kill, they are. Particularly the long-haired breed, they really are the best. But the bitches are quite another matter. They will let you into a room, but they will never let you out. I like that. Now, you can think on that and offer up a prayer to the Almighty to achieve contrition. Remember this, Clayton, 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow'!”

“I don’t really believe in any church stuff, Mister Stocker. Why should your God be some sort of avenging Angel looking for retribution all of the time!”

“My oh my, Miss Pye, but this boy has swallowed the good Lord's dictionary and so he has. I'll tell you why, young Clayton. Because the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.”

This house must belong to Arch Gabriel though the way that Cyril Stocker is carrying on you would think he owned it.

“Do you know what we are doing here, Clayton?”

“I was only following you, Mister Stocker, because I thought you were that killer, the Creeper. But now I can see that I was wrong. Please let me go. I promise I won't say anything to anyone. I don't want to know what you and the others are up to. It's none of my business and I don't really care anyhow. Can I go now please?” …

“They have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind … I persist, stress, pardon me, so impolite of me. We do so insist, you nosy little boy, that you know everything. After all, you may be of some use to us. How would you like to earn yourself some extra pocket money each week? Say a pound. Would that be of interest to you? Get those blue peepers of yours dancing round inside your head like a cash register ringing up. Pop, and a pound sign registers and he's all ears.”

“I don't know, I'm not really cut out for business, I don't think.”

Miss Pye carries on her slow, deliberate way at the table. All prim and proper and careful. Opening more letters, taking out the folded money and putting it in a big black box heaving with the filthy lucre. Noting down the name and address from each letter and whatever the special request may have been. Arch Gabriel silently pads over to a stack of supposed Bibles and takes some down. Genghis, the Alsatian bitch, refuses to take her eyes from me. As if I am her reward for today which she will be able to claim later and enjoy. Genghis terrifies me … Arch Gabriel has unwrapped what look like Bibles and I can see that they are really four or five small magazines laid together. The Creeper suddenly moves quickly across the room. Startling me. Has me by the left ear again and has thrust a photograph right in front of my face. Even with my dodgy eyesight, I can see it plainly and it is revolting! For the very first time in my life, I experience revulsion, fascination and the feeling of wanting to be sick all at the self-same time. I'm fighting hard not to vomit my breakfast all over Cyril Stocker's black brogue shoes. I don't want to antagonise him unnecessarily.

“Well, what do you think of that, young Clayton? Does that excite your dull, little mind? Thrill your bulging blue peepers? Spike your curiosity?”

I don't know what to say. Miss Pye is laughing in a false manner that is surprisingly revolting. Arch Gabriel continues to unpack batches of magazines and Genghis keeps concentrating on me.

“It's disgusting and you being members of the Christadelphian Church as well! How could you? These are only young children like me. You've corrupted them. You should be ashamed! So that's what the money is for. Dirty pictures of young boys licking old men's willies and I suppose those magazines are porno … porno … ”

“I believe pornography is the word you are so desperately stuttering for, young Clayton. Don't be such a silly, little prig. All God's creatures are entitled to enjoy themselves once in a while, aren't they, Miss P?”

Miss P smirks in quite an alarming manner and carries on deliberately opening those piles of letters with her pearl-handled penknife. She worries me. Having just had pictures of dirty old men's willies stuck one inch from my nose, I can well imagine the damage that Miss P could inflict on me with that penknife. She looks the prim and proper type who would take great delight in doing something really savage, evil and wicked … I can't escape Cyril Stocker's high-pitched, shrill voice and the thought of Mickey Mouse and a porno gang …

“A fruitful and compelling business, you see, you nosy little boy. One to greatly further the Christadelphian Church's resources. Our American brethren kindly supply us with all the magazines and the photographs and they all gaily pass through Her Majesty's Customs as highly principled Church literature. All the Lord's good books for self-improvement. You could call this a cottage industry for the dirty minded and the infirm of spirit. But I choose to look at it this way, we are providing a useful service to the depraved and lost before they reach their wretched end and their so gratefully received money goes towards good causes. The wicked, the sexually weak and the hopelessly bestial provide much needed funds to support the good Lord's work on this Earth. Now, isn't that a virtuous cause, young Clayton. One which you will be only too pleased to encourage and work for. Just remember this, 'Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction and many there be that go in thereat' … What always makes me laugh hysterically, Miss P, is that our most popular request is for the one of the old man, the young boy and the pretty donkey. I must say that's the one that gets me the hardest!”

Miss Pye snorts with restrained delight as she slits open yet another letter containing monies and a request for a certain dirty picture … Do they possess a specific catalogue, named and numbered, to be quoted? I find it all quite frightful and disgusting, I never knew that so many people liked smutty things like this. I must just be a naïve young boy, but all this really disgusts me and that photograph of the old, grizzled man and the poor, naked young boy made me sick in the throat and I almost gorged all over squeaky-talking Cyril Stocker. The only good thing I can find in all of this, I suppose, is that the photographs all seem to be in black and white and not in full technicolour. Small blessings indeed! What do I do? If I protest too much I will soon be so much dogs' meat. I can see Cyril Stocker's game clearly. If I start working with him and Miss P and that red-haired fella, Arch, I will be an accomplice. I won't be able to tell anyone. They will be assured of my silence and I can see straight away that the Creeper, Cyril Stocker, will get full satisfaction out of that. He must derive his pleasure out of corrupting young boys. Helps him pray better at night, I guess. The really terrifying thought is that whatever gainful, simple tasks I'm required to carry out for them may not just stop there. How long before they threaten me with that Alsatian bitch, Genghis, and make me strip off my clothes and then start taking their own dirty photographs with me helpless to stop them. I'll be in so deep I won't know who to turn to. I mean, just who is going to believe me, a snivelling ten year old boy, that a porno … porno … Sod it! Pornographic … got it! … ring of the Christadelphian Church is operating out of number forty-seven Hurlingham Road with high-pitched Cyril Stocker, a lay preacher and bastion of the local community, as its leader. With a lady who looks just like the local church organist as his accomplice and a red-bearded man called Arch Gabriel alongside a ferocious Alsatian bitch named Genghis, and who knows how many others. It looks for all the world like a booming business, a very dirty business and I'm stuck. I just don't know what to do and this squeaky-voiced Stocker fella just knows he has it over me with the dog. And he is loving it.

“Well, young Clayton, make up your mind quickly about joining our fruitful enterprise before I take good Arch's here advice and consider the river option. 'Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves' …

I stare lamely off into space. Only Cyril Stocker and the Alsatian bitch named in haste are paying me any attention. My mind has been opened fully today. I now realise that our world is full of lies and deceit. Life is not like the beauty and intelligence shining out from the glowing eyes of the Pharaoh's Daughter. She is the exception and I want to weep for the beauty of Her and for the realisation of all the human dirt and filth that makes this world go around. I heard somewhere that lies travel on smart legs, but I now know that's not true. They march on giant stilts … I am about to capitulate and give in to them. Agree to work with this nasty Cyril Stocker and forego any due respect from the likes of Philip Marlowe and Mike Hammer. The Creeper can already see the words of assent coming out from my weak mouth and is rubbing his hands together with glee when BANG! Bang! Some person or thing is hammering at the front door. Cyril Stocker freezes for the moment with his hands pressed firmly together. Quickly recovers his composure and issues an order.

“Go to the front door, Arch, and see who that is. We don't want any Jehovah's Witnesses plaguing us during our ongoing work now, do we, gang? Ha-ha.”

Arch obeys and slips noiselessly out the door. Genghis has moved for the first time in ages. Ears pricked back, sharp canine teeth at the ready. Miss P carries on deliberately, oblivious in her own prim and proper world.

Thud! … Thud! … Crash! … It sounds like the back door has been smashed in … I can't believe my eyes! Detective Constable Terry Rose is in the back-lounge doorway. The Alsatian bitch, Genghis, barks and leaps up at his throat. Rose hits the dog hard on the nose with his truncheon. He drops it. Grabs the stunned dog's forepaws and rips them apart with a huge grunt. The dog's head jerks as if it's had a heart attack or seizure and Rosie lets go of the creature who thumps lifelessly onto the floor … Miss Pye has just stopped with her penknife held motionless in mid-air. Cyril Stocker is trapped on the spot and can only squeak forth 'But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness. There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'. Arch Gabriel has reappeared handcuffed and flanked by two police constables in uniform. There's nothing more to be said. The game is up and Cyril Stocker and Miss Pye know it.

“C'mon, Bobby Clayton, I'm taking you home!”

I never thought I'd ever say it. But yes, Rosie to the rescue … Through grateful and heartfelt tears I can only cry out, “You're a smasher, Rosie, you really are! Bless you!”.....

Peggy Sue

“Now, just you sit quietly there and let me cook you something to eat, Robert … Sssh! … Sssh! … Don't talk. Don't waste your breath. I don't want to hear a word! I've had quite enough shocks for one week, thank you, what with the death of your Gran and all. Now this! Why, you could have been killed! Kidnapped at the very least. Who would have thought it … Cyril Stocker of all people! If it wasn't for Detective Constable Rose you could have been a-goner and no mistake. My, but life is full of shocking surprises and I used to think that all the bad times were during the war. You just never know what's hiding on your very own doorstep, do you … Sssh! … Don't go to talk, you'll spoil it. As soon as you start to talk, Robert Clayton, all hell breaks loose. I don't know why, Robert, but you possess the ability to really wind me up like nobody else in the family can. Maybe her upstairs, but they say it's wicked to talk ill of the dead so I mustn't must I, boy.”

If I don't find out the score soon I'll scream. She's fussing all over me like a fretting hen guarding her chicks. I suppose it's what folks refer to as a natural reaction to shock. Nan says that severe distress and sudden traumatic surprises can produce very strange behaviour in people. Nan witnessed this during two World Wars and must have seen a lot of peculiar antics and odd behaviour. Little things become hugely important. A suffering mother rummaging through bomb-site rubble to find her dead daughter's battered old teddy bear. Nothing else matters. For over an hour, that exploded, jarred and tattered, old teddy bear becomes the centre of the universe for this distraught mother and all else ceases to matter. I suppose Miss Parker would explain it to me as human detachment in a time of crisis. An emotional response to a catastrophe that finds ways of dealing with the pain and the hurt. Most folks would say I'm far too young to understand. Ask me to spell the word catastrophe and move on to the next available adult to discuss the weather and the price of fish. That's why I truly love Miss Parker. She just doesn't treat you like a child. She may give me an old-fashioned look once in a while and pretend strictness as a method of keeping control, but she talks to me as if I'm a real person. If only … Sigh, if only she wasn't contemplating migrating to Kiwi Land. Then I would feel better. That little section of concrete garden in my head would be calm and permanent with everything neatly arranged. Stop everything and keep the moment, distil it so as we can enjoy it forever …

“How did Chelsea get on? I have to know the score. Don't try and say it doesn't matter. You don't understand. I shan't be able to eat or drink anything 'til I know the result!”

“Men! Even young, bloody men! You all drive me crazy and so you do! Football, football, football, that's all you bloody ever think about!”

“That's not true and you know it!”

“Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking! Just because you now own this house doesn’t give you no special rights around here, see. You nearly got murdered and abducted today uncovering a criminal church gang selling dirty pictures and magazines and who knows what else and all you want to know is the score from some bleedin' football match! … You're a wise boy for your ten years of age, Robert Clayton, and so you are, so tell me why I shouldn't think that all men are plumb crazy and act like little children and that is being very unfair on sweet little Susie!”

“If you would only switch the radio on now, Mum, I will just catch the score and match report on Sports Report, then I promise not to mention it again. I won't complain whatever the food is you dish up. I will listen and promise not to interrupt. I won't go and produce Sunshine to stare at you with a beady eye and unsettle you. I promise to be really good if only you’ll let me find out the result now. Otherwise, I'll have to go out into Studdridge Street and go and knock on Teddy Marshall's front door and ask him the final score. You know full well, don't you, he's a Fulham supporter and despises me for supporting Chelsea. If they've lost, as I suspect they have, he'll take great delight in staring at my broken arm and telling me the score. Probably think of some terrible wind-up to make me feel even worse. Lie to me and tell me the wrong result with a sickly grin spread all over his face. He's like that, Teddy Marshall. Thinks a nasty little game like that is pleasurable and would just love to see my crestfallen look. So if you could just save me from all that after the day I've just had and let me … ”

“Good God! Alright! My, but you do go on so. You would think that World War Three was about to start the way you carry on sometimes. I'll switch the wireless on if I must.”

“You deserve a kiss out of heaven, Mum, and a tune from Tubby the Tuba.”

“Don't you start chiacking me, Robert Clayton. I was just pleased that Terry, I mean Detective Constable Rose, delivered you safely home in one piece. But that could all so easily change. Goodwill can shatter in an instant, you know, like breaking eggshells.”

“The radio, Mum.”

“Don't nag, alright.”

'Well, Eamonn, that was a fine cup result for Nottingham Forest.'

'Well, thank you, Larry Canning, our Midlands reporter. And now to Brian Butler waiting patiently for us at Stamford Bridge.'

'Yes, Eamonn. Well, Chelsea Football Club will not be winning the F.A. Cup this year, having just lost this afternoon to Aston Villa, two-one. Chelsea got off to a flying start when their mercurial young goalscoring magician, Jimmy Greaves, put them in front just five minutes into the tie. But goals in the twentieth and twenty-fourth minutes from Aston Villa's Hitchens and Myercough soon put paid to that. From then on … ' -

“Mum!”

“That's enough, Robert Clayton. You know the score now, okay. I don't want you unnecessarily upset again today. Now try and sit quietly, Go and fetch that fat, yellow budgerigar friend of yours if you must, but you are going to eat a proper meal whether you like it or not and that's final, Robert Clayton. After you’ve eaten, I will get you to tell me all about it in full graphic detail. Don't miss anything out. Exactly how you came to uncover that church sex and porno ring. Why, Terry, Detective Constable Rose, says you may even be recommended for a medal of some kind. Just imagine that! A medal of commendation and you not even eleven years old yet! … God, there goes somebody a-hammering on the front door again. Always people knocking to get in. This house is just like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour and so it is … Don't you dare move yourself, Robert Clayton. You just keep sitting there quietly nursing that broken arm and contemplating whatever dream you're lost in today. Don't want to disturb your equilibrium now, do we, boy. If the saucepan boils over on the stove while I'm answering the door, don't you go a-worrying yourself, it will turn itself off! Fat chance! … Alright! … Alright! Keep your hair on, I'm coming! God! What a life!”

“Hello, Joan. I just thought … ”

“Why, Terry, I mean Detective Constable Rose, how lovely to see you again so soon. Come in. Come in. Don't just stand there looking sheepish, you make me nervous.”

I can hear their voices echoing at the front door and the flimsy charade they are pretending to play out for my benefit. Of course, I can't say too much now, can I. This Rozzer, Rosie, has just rescued me from the Gang from Hell, from a fate worse than death and I am truly grateful. Still trying to get out of my mind the harrowing image of me being forced to strip naked and perform some hideous sexual act for the benefit of the Creeper, Miss P and Arch. Cast in a disgusting light and sent out on five thousand plus printed postcards to embarrass the world and titillate the fancy of some dirty old men who should really know better … I’ve got my Mike Hammer stripes back. If I ever mention Mickey Spillane to anyone, say Miss Parker or the Headmistress, Miss St Helene, they sneer and pull a face as if I've just committed some grave error of judgement or wet myself. I sense Mike Hammer is disparaged as a low class detective. Only fit to be read by book-hungry G.I.s and dumb English schoolboys without the benefit of a television. I don't care. I just love Mike Hammer. So he's low-rent, so what. Aren’t we secretly all low-caste encased in high opinions of ourselves … I just knew Chelsea wouldn’t beat the Villa today! We'll never, ever win the F.A. Cup … Christ! Sorry, Nan. That saucepan really is starting to boil over!

“Just in time, before I lose the kippers all over the kitchen floor … Your saviour, Detective Constable Rose, has turned up again. Come to check up on the all-conquering hero. Make sure you're really okay … You must stay to tea, Terry, sorry, Detective Constable Rose … ”

“Rosie, please, Missus Clayton. Everybody calls me Rosie, even my best of enemies.”

“He can have my boiled kippers with butter in a bag.”

“You faithfully promised, Robert Clayton, only a short while ago, that you would eat whatever food I dished up and placed in front of you and not make a song and dance about it. When they invented the word faddy, Rosie, they had our Robert clearly in mind. Trying to feed him properly is almost impossible. Just what would your dear departed Grandmother who was so very fond of you say if she knew you would go back on a promise so easily?”

“Words are cheap, I guess, Mum. I'm noticing already that people suddenly become saints when they die. The turn from 'that bitch upstairs dragging her life across my head' to dear, departed, sweet Grand-mama. The wise old lady of Studdridge Street with her boon companion, Missus Gumby. Only last week they were two gossiping old crones all dressed in black and putting the world to rights, Rosie.”

“Stop it! Stop it! Just because you've had a narrow escape with evil people today doesn't give you any right to be sarcastic to me like that! Does it, Rosie? … I said it before, I had my differences with your Grandmother, but let bygones be bygones. She's dead now and nothing can bring her back so don't you keep having a go at me, boy. I'm the best friend you've got if you did but know it and it's about time you recognised it … Now, will you stay to tea, Terry, sorry, Rosie. I won't take no for an answer. Kippers, boiled potatoes, peas, with prunes and custard for afters … Right, that's settled it. Robert's only upset because his precious football team went and lost again. It's his own fault. He should support a proper football team, shouldn't he, Rosie! Appreciate all of our good Cottage blessings and the great Johnny Haynes, but no, this one is cantankerous and has to be different. There’s always one, Rosie. I suppose every mother across this land could well say the very same thing. There’s always one in every family … ”

“Now, now, Joan, I mean Missus Clayton … ”

“Oh for God's sake, just call each other Terry and Joan. I don't really care. I shan't tell Dad, I promise. It's really none of my business, I suppose.”

“Well, we've already seen at first-hand today what your promises stand for. Not a lot … God, I don't believe it! There's somebody else a-knocking at the front door. Sit yourself down, Rosie. When I get a spare minute, I'll dish up the meal … ”

“I'm going to switch he radio back on, Rosie.”

“Do what you must, Bobby. None of my business. Though I don't think you'll make the national news, but you never know, do you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that! Wow!”

The six o'clock news on Saturday the twenty-fourth of January. Reports are reaching us of Turkish Cypriots in Nicosia demonstrating against the Cyprus agreement. Unconfirmed reports of the deaths of three British soldiers -

“Always bad news from there, Bobby, isn’t it.”

The strike of one-hundred and fifty night-shift workers at Ford Works, Dagenham. A total of two-thousand, two-hundred and fifty workers have been rendered idle and sent home. Many more made idle at other Ford plants -

“We seem to live in the land of striking workers, Bobby.”

“The police can’t strike then, Rosie?”

“We did once, in nineteen-nineteen, so they tell me, Bobby. But its been made illegal ever since then. And anyways, the police force going on strike would just be a Thieves' Charter, wouldn't it.”

The Duke of Edinburgh arrived in New Delhi yesterday after delay owing to fog and, in the afternoon, attended opening ceremonies of India Science Congress which he addressed today -

“You can turn that bloody wireless off right now, Robert Clayton … Don't look so shocked, it's only your brother, Nick, with a shiny black eye … Oh my, and what a surprise … It's a good job I brought five bags of kippers on a special offer from that new corner shop in the Wandsworth Bridge Road … Indians they are. The first time I've ever bought food from Indian folk in my entire life!”

“You should live in New York, Ma, it happens all the time.”

“I don't want to live in no bleedin' New York, thank you very much. What happened to that front door key I gave you? That was my last spare. You're getting as bad as Robert here, losing all of your keys. You never lost your keys when you were a young boy, Nick. All this Yankee Doodle Dandy shine is going to your head and making a chump out of you. Overpaid, overfed, oversexed and over here, if you ask me, heh, Rosie.”

“Oh no, not that old English chestnut again and anyway, what is he doing here? I don't wish to eat no meal with a member of the Filth sitting at the same table, thank you very much!”

“Well, you can mind your manners, Nick boy. Detective Constable Rose is here as my special guest, see. He saved our Robert from a fate worse than death only this very afternoon. And together they caught a gang of Christadelphian porn merchants lead by that sinful Cyril Stocker fellow. It's all over Fulham, but I guess you were just too busy a-drinking and a-flirting and a-getting into trouble and fighting, seeing as how you’re sporting that large, black shiner. Otherwise you would have heard by now, Nick. Your little brother Robert here, is a big hero. What do you think about that then?”

“Well, it's certainly your week, Bobby boy, isn't it! First Gran goes and leaves you this house and her money and now you’re a local hero catching criminal gangs! What next? … The first child to climb Everest! … See, I told you that Cyril Stocker was the one to look out for. So he's the Eel Brook Common murderer then, is he. Hence the smiling Filth leering at you, Mum.”

“Watch your tongue, Nick … No, boy, not the murderer. I said dirty pictures and filthy sex magazines, all operating behind the front of the Christadelphian Church. That Cyril Stockier was the ringleader. I don't think the police, the good Detective Constable Terry Rose here, still have any clue as to who the murderer of that poor girl, Charlotte, on the Eel Brook Common can be.” …

'I hed a good look at Lassiter. He stood sort of stiff, bendin' a little, an' both his arms were crooked, an' his hands looked like a hawk's claws. But there ain't no tellin' how his eyes looked. I know this though, an' that is his eyes could read the mind of any man about to throw a gun. An' in watchin' him, of course, I couldn't see the three men go for their guns. An' though I was lookin' right at Lassiter – Lookin' hard – I couldn't see how he drawed. He was quicker'n eyesight – that's all. But I seen the red spurtin' of his guns, an' heard his shots jest the very littlest instant before I heard the shots of the riders. An' when I turned, Wright an' Carter was down, an' Jengessen, who's tough like a steer, was pullin' the trigger of a wobblin' gun. But it was plain he was shot through, plumb center. An' sudden, he fell with a crash, an' his gun clattered on the floor.' -

“What you reading now, Bobby? I noticed you snuck up here without anybody else noticing and left me to deal with the Filth. They were so engrossed with one another they didn't even see you’d gone. Love comes a-calling over kippers and prunes and custard and I've never been so embarrassed in all my life! Something really distasteful about seeing your own Mother canoodling with a younger man … Christ, you're still reading that 'Riders of the Purple Sage'! You've been on that for days. I thought you was a fast reader? … Westerns! Though I do like the front cover picture – probably the best thing about it … I must put a record on … ”

“It's hard reading with a broken arm.”

“Just what are you talking about! You are a joker, aren’t you. Come off it, you don't read with your arms now, do you. And if you have that paperback any closer to your face you'd be right inside the pages with them. You going blind or something?”

“Christ, it's 'Peggy Sue' … I've found already that a broken arm can affect you in many different ways. Anyway, if you must know, I'm reading three books at once. Who says you can only read one book at a time. Where is that written? Is there some unwritten law about it? Though I must confess that sometimes the 'Riders of the Purple Sage', Mike Hammer and Sherlock Holmes can all get mixed up in my mind. Gunfighters with red-spotted kerchiefs tied around their mouths riding along Victorian-styled Baker Street and shooting it out. Mike Hammer slapping a deceitful Mormon woman across the face and calling her a cheap whore and the good Doctor Watson trapped in a basement in Brooklyn with a gang of Mafia-style drug dealers … You're playing it again … ”

“Don't you just love Buddy Holly.”

“Well, er, not that much.”

“But you like the Everly Brothers and Chuck Berry, don't you.”

“Yes, but they're not Buddy Holly, are they. I read in a book recently that if someone keeps playing a pop song over and over again they are lovesick. So I guess that American girl that you met in New York last time must be called Sue … Right?”

“Wrong, young brother, I thought you had a good memory, but you’re on the right track. I love this sound. Ricky Nelson can’t hold a candle to Buddy Holly. Her name is Peggy actually.”

“Actually, actually, that's a stuck-up word if ever I heard it. You’ve been pretending and putting on airs and graces in New York to impress the ladies. Pretending to be something you're not.”

“There’s no harm in trying to improve yourself, Bobby boy, remember that. We can all go up in the world if we try hard enough. That's what I truly like about the States. Self-improvement. No snobbery to talk of. Anybody can get on and make a success of themselves if they really work hard enough and have a few lucky breaks. Here you can never break out of the class divide. It's always about where you went to school, who your parents are, your accent, your connections. Take you, Bobby … ”

“Do we have to.”

“You haven't celebrated your eleventh birthday yet, but already your position in life is decided for you if you stay in this godforsaken country. You'll never be able to truly get on. The best you can hope for is to get a good job in the Print or marry above your station. Even if you make a pile of money it won't make no difference to your social standing.”

“You're playing it again. It's starting to really get on my nerves. I like that flat-toned, slapping, drum sound though. Jerry Allison, isn't it? But Buddy Holly's voice is just like a girl’s. Just look at Sunshine hopping along his wooden perch. He's getting all agitated. More 'Pretty Polly' please and not that pretty, pretty Peggy Sue.”

“You don’t know pure class when you hear it, Bobby boy.”

“Well, this is a very old hit and he's been on the slide of late. He ain’t had a hit record in ages and I read somewhere in a magazine recently that he'd dumped his band, The Crickets … What sort of name is Peggy anyway? It reminds me of Long John Silver.”

“You mean Peg Leg … You accusing me of having a girlfriend with a peg leg!”

“I clean forgot. You've had a lot to drink. Sorry. You wouldn't hit your brother with a broken arm now, would you!”

“I might if I feel like it!”

“Well, there are a few famous Peggys, I guess. That singer, Peggy Lee. She's American and I like her singing 'Fever'. There are some English actresses. We saw 'Hell Drivers' last week with Sandy, didn’t we. Oops! Sorry! Mustn't mention her name. That Peggy Cummins is in 'Hell Drivers' making sheep’s eyes at ex-con, Stanley Baker. I think she's a lot more attractive than that Jill Ireland … Christ, you’re playing it again! Sunshine's almost having a fit, choking on his birdseed.”

“You live your life in films and books, don't you, Bobby. Everything is a story to you. That's why you don't really pay any attention to what the rest of us say, only the opinions of that schoolteacher, Miss Parker, and that footballer, Jimmy Greaves, seem to matter with you … I could play this record all night, forever, and never tire of it. I just love Buddy Holly. You must be dead in the head if you don't appreciate him.”

“You can’t like everyone, Nick, now, can you. If I want to listen to a girl singer then I'd rather play Connie Francis, that's all … I've thought of two other Peggys. See, it’s quite a popular name after all. I bet your Peggy is from a rich, American family and good-looking, right? … Peggy Mount is an English comedy actress. I've seen her in a film with Ronald Shiner. And there's a stage actress, I believe, called Peggy Ashcroft. Those, along with Peggy Sue, who seems to be taking over this bedroom right now, makes five.”

“You're not that popular in the Eight Bells public house, Bobby, my boy.”

“I'm too young. I'm not allowed in.”

“Some folks around about here were making good money from that enterprise taking place in Hurlingham Road.”

“You said you didn't know about it earlier downstairs. Said you hadn't heard.”

“Well, I lied, didn't I. It pays to lie sometimes. If anybody should understand that, it should be you, Bobby. When Peggy asked me about my family I mentioned you. And when she asked me what you wanted to be, where your talents lay, well, I found myself telling her that you were in training to become one of the world's greatest liars … What do you think about that!”

“I reckon you've been drinking brown spirits again, Nick, and you know full well they don't agree with you … I'll say or do anything if you'll only stop playing that 'Peggy Sue'. I'll even confess that I quite like Buddy Holly though I don't suppose Ricky Nelson has sleepless nights a-worrying about him. Please, Nick! Relieve me an' Sunshine here. Give 'Peggy Sue' a rest and let us breath freely again. I’ll lend you money. I'll advise you about what to do about the Merchant Navy. Hell, I'll even organise for you and your American girlfriend, Peggy whatever-her-name-is, to live here scot-free, but please, oh please, can we bin 'Peggy Sue' for the time being. Anything else. Anything! Say, I'll even listen to Mantovani whom I loathe and you know that!”

“Alright, Bobby, just because I like you and you’re my favourite brother.”

“But I'm the only brother you've got, Nick.”

“Exactly! Ha-bloody-ha … You don't know it, but quite a lot of the folks around here were getting a good rake-off from that porno business. Indeed, your own Father and Uncle Charlie, Bobby boy. So your name's less than mud right now. Folks were saying in the Eight Bells late this afternoon that you are an interfering little so-and-so and it would serve you right if you broke your left arm as well. So take my advice, Bobby, look out. Keep vigilant. Be on your guard. Your own folks were nodding and agreeing to what was being said. It turns out and I didn't really know it, having been out of circulation for awhile, that Cyril Stocker is a pretty popular fellow around here and having your very own Mother cavorting with the Filth doesn't help none either … How did that Filth fella, Rosie, catch them anyway?”

“Aargh! I never thought I'd like silence. What's the line? Silence is golden. I read somewhere that you can put a dime in an American jukebox and get two-and-a-half minutes of silence. Is that true? Have you come across it in your travels, Nick?”

“You're being all sweet and innocent now because I threatened to bop you one. You are such a coward, Bobby Clayton, and so you are … No, I've never come across that. I guess it is just your fantasy and imagination working overtime again.”

“Some folks do listen to what I say. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust believed me and put Rosie to work watching number forty-seven Hurlingham Road. Apparently, he saw Cyril Stocker, the Creeper, leading me by the ear and taking me into the house against my will. Guessed I was in trouble and called for reinforcements and Bob's your Uncle, except we haven't got one by that name … I just can't believe that Dad and Uncle Charlie would condone a nasty porno business like that … I mean, young boys and girls with animals, Nick. You've no idea!”

“Look, I really don't want to know, Bobby, and neither do Dad or Uncle Charlie. Out of sight is out of mind, they say. But oh boy, does the money come in handy. As soon as you get older, you'll realise that most folks are like that. You'll end up just the same. It doesn't really matter in the end.”

“Well, I bloody well won't let it happen to me! I've had a nasty experience and I don't ever want to be like that! If that’s the case then I never, ever want to grow up!”

“You'll be Peter Pan then.”

“If I have to, yes!”

“Can't you stop that fat budgerigar of yours from continually whistling. If you don't, I'll put 'Peggy Sue' back on.”

“Oh, Sunshine's only whistling for signs of his ancestors to keep his pecker up. Must get mighty lonely spending most of your time stuck inside a birdcage listening to idiots like us.”

“Speak for yourself … How unlucky can you get … What ancestors?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Bobby boy! Dinosaurs! … You trying to tell me that your fat friend, Sunshine, here is related to Tyrannosaurus Rex!”

“Yes.”

“You're completely bonkers, Bobby!”

“I read it in the 'Eagle' comic.”

“Well, they were having you on, Bobby. Sure they were. Imagine, budgerigars related to dinosaurs. I must stop sending you fresh copies of 'Mad' magazine from America. You’re going just like them! Dinosaurs indeed! Next you'll be a-telling me that they all had feathers and were fluffy like your Sunshine!”

“You never know … How did you get that black eye? You weren't fighting about me, were you?”

“Don't kid yourself, Bobby … No … Well … June's boyfriend, who I didn't know about, turned up.”

“Busty June.”

“Yes. He's a big bugger called Larry and I didn't really stand a chance. Dad and Uncle Charlie and a few of their cronies intervened and saved me from a bad beating.”

“Well, never mind. I'm sure Peggy Sue whatever-her-name-is will welcome you back to New York with open arms.”.....

Walking to one's fate

A long, dark tunnel and running, endlessly running. If there is anybody chasing me I can't see them. I keep glancing over my left shoulder for signs of a pursuer, but nothing. Yet I just know there is someone behind me. A heady mix of fear and exhilaration and the marvellous feeling of just being able to run and run and never get out of breath. Never get exhausted. The pure joy of moving so sweetly … The long, dark tunnel has abruptly vanished and I am thrust unceremoniously out into the night-time light. I know where I am instantly from the small floodlights showing weakly from the football and tennis courts on the Eel Brook Common … I stop and sit down on a soggy, wooden park bench. It doesn't feel overly cold, but it has been raining and carries that damp, wet tinge filtering through the night-time air. I look down at my right arm yet already know before I locate it that it's not broken. Freed from the constraints of the itching plaster-cast. Whoever was chasing me is lost forever back there in that dark tunnel. Frustrated at my sudden disappearance … There are quite a lot of people milling around on the Eel Brook Common tonight. Shouting boys, a few years older than me, kicking a ball about on the football and tennis courts. Clusters of people in threes and fours looming around and on the late evening edge of a disturbance. A couple of harmless old drunks laid out by the wet edges of dripping bushes. Now sitting up and hastily rubbing their eyes with surprise and sticking out their begging hands at passers-by in hope as young folks skip on by them, avoiding any eye contact … Courting couples sparking and touching. Whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears and hearing the love tunes of Connie Francis singing softly, playing over and over again inside their heads. Lovelifes played out to a background of mushy pop songs that sing of sweetness and love and delight … Barking dogs chasing blackbirds and pigeons that they can never hope to catch … Two glowing number twenty-two buses drive on by down the New King’s Road. Gleaming bright red in the aftermath of the rain … Suddenly the evening time seems to move on quickly and not catching a hold of it. The people are dispersing quickly. Folks are making their way homewards to their cocoas and Ovaltines and night-time dreams …

I'm not cold, but yet how could I be seriously cold in a dream. Anything is possible … I'm laughing now as a young boy and girl pretending to argue and fight in imitation of their parents … Newly emerging teenagers running now for another number twenty-two bus. Trying desperately to catch up with it at the traffic lights on the junction with Harwood Road. The traffic lights change to green. They stop running and start panting with the young teenage boy putting both his hands on his knees and puffing heavily as the exasperated young girl shouts obscenities after the heedless number twenty-two bus. It always is the last bus home and not yet midnight … The chiming bells start to ring out from the local church clocks. Will the Christadelphian Church clock in the Wandsworth Bridge Road have the courage of its beliefs to ring out tonight … Church bells chime and you will be mine. Crazy thought of do bell-ringers in dreams get any overtime? They probably do it for the pleasure it brings and their heartfelt, religious beliefs and end up as deaf as door-posts … The doorpost was so stone deaf it never heard the angry slamming and banging that nearly shook it free from its foundations … Everybody seems to have gone home now save for the two drunken old tramps I can see who seem to be fitfully snoozing. What I just love about my dreams is the clarity of light. Now it is really dark. No full moon in sight. Yet I can see in the dark. I can see for miles if I have to and it is amazing. Better than I could ever hope to see in broad daylight. The moon, what there is of it, is obscured by clouds. Not only do I possess clarity of vision in my dreams, but clarity of thought also. I can control and remember all that happens to me in waking-time and process it and understand it better in my dream-life. It's as if I fully comprehend people's actions and motives and the reasons for them which in waking-time I must confess are a complete mystery to me most of the time. But in dreams I can see that most folks are driven to act by their fears and emotions. Greed and loves. Wants and desires. In daylight time everyone is pretending like hell and fighting so very hard to survive and get on. Maintain a space in the world that will gain them respect and kudos … My only true regret is that I cannot write anything down in my blue-bound Miss Parker file. Will I recall the word kudos when I wake up tomorrow. I shall awaken and cling eagerly to the word then the haemorrhaging events of the day will instantly overtake me and the word kudos will slip clean out of my head, forgotten. Having to wait until I'm lucky enough to read it again or come across it in some future time. I might have to wait years to regain the glory of kudos and all because I am unable to write down words in my dreams. The aborigines have a captive, active, dream-life and every morning, upon waking, will go and sit at the communal breakfast round and each person will take it in turn to recount their nightly dream-life so that it is not forgotten and becomes a part of the active dream-time of the tribe. Has a valuable bearing on their coming day's events and actions and is a source and method of interpretation. Spells what may happen next … In the modern Western world everybody is in such a state of flux and rush to get on, move ahead. Make a pile of money. Retire to the country. Buy an island. Live in splendour. Take it easy when that ship finally comes in. Never alive in the now so that important dreams are completely forgotten and discarded by most. Any thought that we spend nearly a third of our lives asleep and most of that time in dreams and yet know very little of what happens to us is lost in the desperate push for success and passes people by. In a few short years from now I will have forgotten all of this and will be scrambling desperately just like the rest. Fighting to hang on to my newly-acquired house. Trying hard to find an occupation that doesn't bore me to death. Trying to pursue old dreams when I don't have the time, and the thoughts and the hopes flow completely out from my mind. Folks seem to be forced into becoming miserable, selfish wretches and I’m going to end up just like them and there is nothing I can do about it …

What's that? The tell-tale sound of the clip-clopping along of high-heeled shoes … No, I don't want to witness any more murders! I cannot bear it! But I suppose that is why I have been brought here tonight. No full moon though and this is not Epple Road … The clip-clop-clip has stopped … Now starting up again … Now stopping once more. I have spied her. She is by the football and tennis courts with the floodlights now switched off. She seems to be making her clicking way following exactly the same path that poor, young Charlotte Evans took! Hasn't she read the newspapers or listened to the radio recently. Hasn’t she seen those leaflets warning folks, especially young girls, to take extra care. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust had them widely distributed throughout Fulham and Chelsea … I want to scream out loud in fear and frustration. Why take the chance? Was that handsome young man so attractive and appealing that you just could not resist his good company and so set off home late and alone? If he liked you that much why didn't he accompany you and walk you home? Protect you in these dark, vicious times with a savage killer on the loose. He probably smiled at you and come up with some lame excuse about having to get up early for work in the morning. Maybe sheepishly pointed out that this murderer of young women only appears on a full moon. Convincing laughter followed by a 'You'll be quite safe, when can I see you again?' All glowing, hot eyes and touching hands and 'I really like you' and 'Yes, but you are going to have to walk home alone' … Walking towards one's fate and not even knowing it …

This girl has started up walking again … Why not take off those high-heeled shoes and walk in stockinged feet. All the better to run at the first sign of danger and who cares about cut feet … But no … clip-clop-clip and speeding up approaching the main pathway on the Eel Brook Common. She has stopped again. Now leaning up against the mesh wire fence at the end of the football and tennis courts … Is she just out of breath? Drunk as a skunk? Maybe scared stiff and riveted to the spot … None of these things may apply though, I suppose. She may well have had a strong alcoholic drink or two, they all do. She's lighting up a cigarette as casual as you like without a care in the world and totally oblivious to any thought of danger … It's Janice May! … No! … I’ve made the self-same mistake before. I saw her lovely face and it was the one that I secretly love, then I looked real hard again and saw it is her sister, Christine May. These are very similar circumstances to my dream of the other night. Only this time we are on the Eel Brook Common on the preferred hunting ground of the Fulham Creeper … I can plainly see Christine May's face in the light cast from the glow of her cigarette. When I look carefully I can see the resemblance to Janice May is only minimal. Slight, in fact. Just that particular look and similar appearance of family features … Why do we all seem to do that? Try to compare people to one another and other folks. That gorgeous Carroll Baker sweating so hot and sexy in the deep, deep South in 'Baby Doll', definitely has a Monroesque touch about her. Marilyn will really love that. James Dean was favourably compared to Marlon Brando as a sneering, Brando-type in 'Giant'. Carroll Baker again playing the sexy vamp against classy, virginal Elizabeth Taylor. Then it all turned upside-down on a fatal car crash in a Spider Porsche and Paul Newman becomes the new James Dean. Why? Because somebody up there likes him! Talking of fatal crashes, this Christine May must have lost whatever marbles she possessed tonight. I do so hope that sweet Janice May isn't going to turn out like this when she gets older. I have very deep-seated, secret fantasies about marrying her. Carrying her off against her will, legs kicking wildly then she capitulates and tells me softly that she has always liked me all along, but was too shy to proclaim it … Totally mad and insane! Conditioned by glossy films and pop music songs. This girl, Janice, does her very level best to continually put the boot in on me whenever she can. Is that what is mapped out for us all. That we all end up crazily in love with people who don’t want us! Don't respect us! Treat us like bouncing rubber balls and we eventually all have to settle for second best which I suppose in the end is a breeding ground for potential feuding in one's life. I just know that from listening to Mum. She often hints in conversation that there was a man before Dad in the nineteen-thirties. God, but that seems such a long time ago now. Having to settle for second best. All the sweethearts killed during the Second World War so that lots of the women had to readjust their sights and emotions. Leftovers must leave a sour taste in the mouth. Lost lovers that killed off any hopes of daily joy … Uncle Charlie came back on leave from the Army during the Second World War only to discover that his fiancé, his intended as they liked to say, sounds so old-fashioned today, doesn’t it, had been killed in the Blitz on Peabody Estate. She lived in the opposite block to my Nan. Rita Mitchell was her name and Mum always says that Uncle Charlie was never, ever the same afterwards. Never got over it. Just could not reconcile himself to what had happened. To go off to war then come home on leave and discover that your sweetheart has been bombed to death in your own backyard by the Luftwaffe must be very hard to take. Uncle Charlie just couldn't accept it. Turned him sour on women so my Mum says … Christ, sorry Nan, this cigarette is taking a hell of a long time to smoke. It looks spectacularly long. Folks must be mad to smoke. I mean, I've liked having Brother Nick home these past ten days or so, but his chain-smoking of those roasted and toasted American cigarettes in my bedroom just drives me crazy. I wouldn't be surprised if Sunshine develops a nasty smoker's cough at this rate … This cigarette of Christine May's must be one of those menthol cigarettes you see advertised all the time in the cinemas. Cool as a mountain stream they say as you cough and splutter your way deep into the green, green forest. Unicorns prancing and dancing all around as smokers all look glazed from the pernicious effects of the nicotine. It's the advertising that always does it. 'You're never alone with a Strand', though your Doctor might well think otherwise … She's still puffing on it. Is she deliberately inviting danger? Maybe just drunk and trying to desperately to recover her wits. Regain her composure and equilibrium before she continues. Puffing serenely on her fag and staring out at nothing with a sort of vacuous look. This Eel Brook Common is totally deserted now save for the snoring of the two old tramps who have stayed at a safe distance from one another and have done their level best to ignore and not acknowledge the existence of the other. Even right down at the very bottom of the human pile there are levels of regard and etiquette, I guess. Maybe tramps are the only people who are truly free. But heh, I wouldn’t ever want to be that smelly. Always having folks ignoring you because they think you are disgusting and harbour all of our secret fears, I reckon. Heh, that could well be me if I don't shape up, look sharp, straighten myself out. Take up a new broom, turn over a new leaf, mend my ways … Christine May must surely be nearing the end of that cigarette by now. I've never seen anyone take so long to smoke. Is she drawing on it in such a way as to elongate each little drag. Prolong the nicotine and salt-peter hit to the ultimate ecstasy … Paul Newman is the best smoker of a cigarette I've ever seen in the movies. He smokes with the cigarette hidden in the back of his rolled over hand and really drags on it. Cool and smooth with the knuckles of his hand hard-bunched, looking off at the camera. It's as if he is smoking for life in the First World War trenches and doesn’t want the Enemy to get s sight on him by drawing a bead on the light from his cigarette …

“Isn't she careless, Young Angel. No thought as to the danger that is awaiting her.”

“You've pitched up on the Eel Brook Common ahead of schedule, Eldritch! You usually only appear when it is all over and too late to help me. But tonight you’ve got here just in time. Is travel speeding up a touch in the Netherworld? New cosmic airways for the undead!”

“Modern lack of manners and sarcastic comments would be severely frowned upon back in the ancient Lands of the Pharaohs as I must now call them. Though they appear ancient to you they seem like only yesterday to me, Young Angel … You nod and signify with modern forbearance as if I am a touch stupid yet you have graced the divine presence of the Pharaoh's Daughter and have seen for yourself … I have a thought for you on this damp, wet, gloomy night. Are both killer and victim acting in accord? The thought is always that the murderer is wicked and the savagery lies latent in the human soul only to rear up at given times and commit the unspeakable sin of evil deeds. But perhaps, Young Angel, victims are pre-selected also and not subject to random chance. We know full well that the weak of a tribe or pack get left behind in the race to escape and get picked off by the foraging predator. The natural selection process of any species. The strong survive and the weak go to the wall as you would doubtlessly put it, Young Angel. Your English is a strange language, full of idioms and vernacular that have little to do with real events. Constant splashes of other imagery. No matter. But there is another side of the selection process whereby the intended victim gets caught up in a dance of death with the killer. They stalk and show fear round and around the endless cycle of the centuries. The victim knows its fate deep down in its soul and is drawing the killer on to pounce and commit the brutal deed. Maybe, Young Angel, killers from a past life are reborn as victims to repay their previous crimes. For surely as I look hard at this young lady I see a sacrificial victim crying out silently for her intended killer to appear and savage her body and soul.”

“I've never thought of it like that before, Eldritch … I imagined that you being from some unworldly 'other' place would know all of these things … Let me see if I've got it right. Some folks, who don't know it, secretly want to be killed. Put out of their misery.”

Seems a cock-eyed theory if you ask me. But heh, he is my dream Guardian Angel after all, isn't he. I’d better humour him. The trouble is he can see my thought patterns and knows full well what I am thinking which can be very disconcerting. Makes you want to suppress all of your inner thoughts, but the harder I try the more they well up inside of me … At last, Christine May has finished her cigarette which she has been smoking for ages and ages and carelessly throws the lighted butt of her fag end on the ground. I really do so hate people who do that. Doesn't she damn well know she could cause a fire even on this wet-weathered night!

Christine May is carefully negotiating the pathway that dissects the Eel Brook Common and fetches up at the pavement bordering the New King’s Road. Clip-clopping along in wonky time and not looking to her left or right … I don't believe it! She’s stopping again and lighting up another of those long-looking, filter-tip cigarettes. She must be all smoked up inside yet one fag at a time is never enough. Watching how Christine May smokes I'm starting to understand how cigarettes, alcohol and drugs must be so addictive. Trevor Howard tracking down drug traffickers in the film 'Interpol'. Drug addiction and a big band jazz score, if only Elmer Bernstein, to paint the sordid picture and show how vulnerable we all are.

Half the lamp-posts on the Eel Brook Common don't seem to be in functioning order tonight. What light there is seems stretched out with shadowy, small pods of liquid reflection, then a nothingness which only adds to the contrast of light from the street lamps and lighted houses along the New King’s Road. Somehow these glowing lights in the distance make the Eel Brook Common seem darker and more dangerous. Maybe that's why stuttering Christine May lit herself another cigarette to guide her way.

“The Children of the Lands of the Ancient Pharaohs, Young Angel, would find it truly amazing and possibly ridiculous to see modern human beings today smoking like chimneys … Is that correct?”

“Well, it was 'til the Government introduced the smokeless zones this month, Eldritch. But you are right, yes.”

“At first, the Children in the Ancient Lands of the Pharaohs would think that these smokers were modern day entertainers, magicians who could breathe fire like the performing entertainers at the Court of the Great Pharaoh. But, if the children observed carefully for a while like me, they would be truly astounded to see men and women just puffing away all of the time with plumes of smoke issuing forth from their head in great puffy clouds. It is the same with so many things that I witness today, Young Angel. All these automobiles that you have whizzing around and endangering the very lives of the inhabitants that they seek to serve. The marvel of your flying machines like giant tin birds gliding in the sky. These night-time lights everywhere and your obsession with consuming great quantities of alcohol on a daily basis.”

Christine May has stopped again. I've only just realised that she is walking in the wrong direction to get home. Epple Road is to the far east-side of the Eel Brook Common, back from where she came. She seems to be studying her painted fingernails now and suddenly lets out a loud laugh that echoes right across the deserted green common and startles one of the dozing tramps to raise himself up on one elbow and take a quick look around, before sliding back down again into the wallowing arms of Morpheus, the God of Dreams … What's this! She's turning in a full circle as if unsure. Puffs hard on that long-looking cigarette again. Exhaling a long stream of smoke on the dripping wet night air. Now settling on a course of action and starting back on her clip-clopping way towards the distant outline of the football and tennis courts. I never, ever want to see Janice May as drunk or as drugged as this. It somehow sickens me. As if women are not allowed to behave as men, which is crazy really. But it's like the other Christmas time when my Mother was drunk or so it seemed to me, as she jiggled about with a lit cigarette waving around, describing the lounge room air in red-dotted circles. I just wanted to go away and hide with embarrassment. Curl up in the small cupboard beneath the hallway stairs and pretend I was somewhere else. Disappear into a book or a film or a vivid fantasy. Just anything to get away from there. I couldn’t get the raucous laughter of my Mother's voice from out of my ears and I kept wondering whether I had been adopted and she was not my real mother after all. I was ashamed and upset and I suppose I expected my Mother to behave like a cross between the Virgin Mary and Miss Parker which, of course, was foolish and would have denied the very existence of Marilyn Monroe and Mata Hari. I guess all boys want the best of their mothers without realising that they are only human beings after all … What's this! I can just make out the figure of a man dressed in what looks like a long overcoat, appearing on the far side of the Eel Brook Common. Way behind Christine May's left shoulder as she wearily clip-clops back along the Eel Brook Common pathway. Retreading her wonky footfalls. A cold shudder runs right through my body as I recognise that kick-thrust walk of the Creeper. I can even hear Eldritch's intake of breath right beside me which I have never experienced before …

Christine May is so far gone it is as much as she can do to now put one high-heeled shoe in front of the other. The clip-clop sound is now so slow and echoes in an eerie fashion right across the Eel Brook Common. Where have all the night-time revellers gone? Why don't the dozing tramps start up a-yelling and a-shouting from a fitful nightmare? Why are there never any policemen around when you so desperately want them? Where have all the passing strangers gone? If only poor Christine May could just hear and see us …

“You may cover over your eyes if you so wish, Young Angel. You do not have to look.”

“But I do, don't I. That is why I am transported here tonight in my dreams to bear witness to this. You know that full well. Was that a tempting question to draw me out. To see how I would react. A kind of test of my resolve and strength of character, Eldritch?”

“Yes, Young Angel, I am afraid it is so.”

The evil Creeper moves surprisingly swiftly across the wet grass of the Eel Brook Common. Within moments he is almost up with the clip-clopping, tottering figure of Christine May who is still clinging on to that long filter tip cigarette, but seems to have forgotten lately to take a drag from it … Watching this is like seeing a train crash about to happen. That terrible train disaster in Lewisham when I was just a small boy … Christine May, Christine May, look behind you, look behind you! I call up the face to my mind of Janice May, her sister, to help her, but all to no avail. This crafty, evil Creeper awaits, lingering out of reach, but just close enough behind Christine May without her feeling him … She is now by some bushes. I feel myself starting to cry. She suddenly senses him behind her, turns around and shouts and stumbles over on her high-heeled shoes, losing her balance and falls down, dropping her cigarette. The Creeper has her now in the waving bushes. There is a brief kerfuffle and commotion of action. Three screams pierce the wet, night air. I count them and each one is a dagger to my heart. Helpless before this sinful act of murder … All has gone quiet now. The Creeper carefully stands up from the bushes, brushing his long overcoat off. Then bends down again and seems to take something from the dead, lifeless corpse of Christine May and stuffs whatever it is into his overcoat pocket. Dusts himself down again so casually. So calculating in his evil actions as if the act of savage murder endows him with a superhuman strength of will … He is walking now in that creep thrust way of his back across the Eel Brook Common as I watch, silently, through tears of pain and frown and wonder why he should kill tonight when it is not a full moon. He only strangles young girls on full moons and not in the middle of the lunar cycle in the dark of night. Why act so entirely out of sequence?

“You have been chosen, Young Angel, to witness these terrible killings and I am sorry for you. All I can truly say to you is that children your age in the Lands of the Ancient Pharaohs were already viewed as young men and almost grown up. Your self-awakening in these so modern times is far later and unprepared for or expected. No spiritual initiation ceremony to embrace the change. But tonight alas, I must leave you forever, Young Angel. Without explaining in full to you the purpose of our relationship and time together. Suffice to say, I have now been released from this earthbound duty and must now partake in fresh karmic motion as I take the next step on the path of spiritual existence that awaits me.”

“But what will I do, Eldritch, without you as my Guardian Angel to watch over me in my dreams?”

“I will take my leave of you with this passing thought. You are about to change forever in the near future, Young Angel. It is for you to discover. Your voice will deepen and you will feel very different inside. You will no longer experience these dreams of actual living events. You will be released from the dream-life and may well forget all together what has befallen you.”

“Never!”

“Be careful what you say.”

“Who will watch over me in the mean time?”

“Well, the Pharaoh's Daughter has taken you under her special wing and will be watching you with those wonderful, penetrating eyes until you change forever. You are her young, modern charge and with someone so powerful, mighty and beautiful looking out for you, no harm will beset you, Young Angel. Now remember this. Look out for a special dream with a large horse, a stallion, which will rear up at you. Be not afraid, this powerful horse will not harm you. It is the indicator of change in you and will mightily scare you and you will not fully understand. It will seem like a strange nightmare. I must take my leave of you forever now, Young Angel, and wish you a full life in all its meanings and variations.”

He's gone. Vanished. Eldritch has disappeared and a great gaping hole has just appeared in my life. I did not realise until now how much I relied upon him. Respected him. Believed in his magic powers … But now I am frozen stiff in a dream. Cannot move for a deadly fear that has taken possession of my being and has sent the whole of my body rigid with dread. For I have just realised who the Creeper is and this knowledge is so hideous and dangerous as to leave me quaking in horror.....

The Eight Bells

There is something very daunting and imposing about standing awkwardly outside a police station. It's daytime morning so that arresting blue lamp isn't alight yet, but still it seems to signify that even if you don't know it, aren't aware of it, you have definitely done something wrong. We are all guilty! I'm only a boy, but I feel as guilty as hell and I just don't know why … I'm shuffling stiffly from one foot to the next before I take the plunge and go up the stone steps of the Fulham Police Station. Two grim-faced policemen go by, setting off on their daily duties and they give me an old-fashioned look as if to say 'And what 'ave you been up to, my lad!' … Babies don't look guilty when you spy them gurgling in their large black prams. They don't look particularly bothered that they may have committed some dastardly baby-style crime which they are blissfully unaware of. No. It must be some kind of guilt that is bestowed upon you as small children. The daemon mark of parents and schools, society and the daily news challenging us all to profess our guilt and own up to some deadly sin … Of course. It's the church! Stupid me! It's religion that makes us all feel guilty, isn't it. Even now – believers feel guilt in the mere act of denial. Praying and Jesus Christ are supposed to make you feel good, aren't they. From the very moment you are born you are made only too aware of some deadly sin that you are supposed to be culpable for. It's as if the very act of being born makes you have to carry the burden for all the human sins and misdemeanours that have gone before. You can never truly shake them off. You carry with you forever the sins of your ancestors and the guilt for participation in the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. If He truly is Our Lord and Saviour then he would forgive us all, non-believers and other faiths as well, and I wouldn't be stood here on the edge of these stoned steps, hovering like a guilty lemon outside Fulham Police Station and seeking some sort of salvation that I have no idea of. Why? Because I now carry within me a huge guilty secret. So large it engulfs the very sun itself and casts a long, dark shadow over my very existence and consumes everything. Even Jimmy Greaves, Marilyn Monroe and the Everly Brothers cannot ease this burgeoning gloom … Heigh-ho and up the steps we go. Pushing hard against the police door with my left hand and feeling a giant weight descending onto my shoulders. I'm now carrying the weight of the world and no Charles Atlas training programme or being rechristened Hercules and hastily accepted into the Green Orthodox Church faith is going to lighten my load.

People coming and going all at once. Some in smart blue police uniforms. All watching. You can immediately tell the difference between the non-uniformed, pen-pushing station staff and members of the general public. The citizens of Fulham on a protracted police visit shuffle uncomfortably from one meek shoe to the other and speak in loudly-pitched, raised voice enthusiasms, as if to banish all their helpless fears away and exude a cheerful countenance to intoxicate and impress all the police folk hustling by them. Police bonhomie and your friendly neighbourhood copper.

“And just what can we do for you today, young man? Do you wish to report a crime? Has someone stolen your pencil sharpener perhaps or pinched your sweets!”

Funny bastard. Sorry, Nan, I must somehow stop it … A police sergeant by the three white stripes showing on his upper sleeves, stood behind the station desk and smiling grimly at me in a falsely sarcastic manner. I'm becoming more and more convinced as I get older that English people don't really like children that much. They suffer us until we grow up to become delinquents and that new breed of tearaways called teenagers, which they are all terribly frightened of. God forbid that we should all turn out to be like James Dean or that Jerry Lee Lewis fella …

“My name is Bobby Clayton, sir, and I've been asked to report here today by Detective Constable Rose to give a statement regarding the arrests at forty-seven Hurlingham Road on Saturday.”

“So you're the little bugger, are you! Give your proper name if you so please, which I should hazard a guess, is Robert, right? … And I'm Sergeant Dooley to you, boy, I'm not your sir, you're not in school now!”

“Everybody calls me Bobby, Sergeant Dooley, excepting my Mum, that is.”

“Don't quibble, boy. When you venture inside a police station, Clayton, you give your proper name, you understand that! We are all extremely busy here this morning. We have yet another new murder to contend with … Shouldn't you be at school by rights? A broken arm is no excuse for not being inside a classroom, you know. I've a good mind to ring up your school right now … What school … ”

He's going on at me like I'm one of Satan's children let out on the loose on a devilish Monday morning. One of Dennis Wheatley's young devil's spawn and not safe to be seen … I've suddenly had a flash of insight. Brother Nick said that a lot of the folks in the Eight Bells pub were very upset that Cyril Stocker and his gang had been caught. Quite a few folks were receiving dollops of money to keep them quiet. A sort of cottage porno industry thriving in Fulham. Of course, to keep going for such a length of time some of the police just had to be in the know. Stocker and his gang could never have got away with it for so long. That would explain why this sulky-looking, sarcastic Sergeant Dooley is staring exasperatedly at me and desperately trying to find ways to discredit me and cause me some injury and harm. He must have been in on the Take and a few others besides from this police station as well, I suspect. But I am going to keep shtoom about my suspicions. I have enough on my plate already without a-worrying about bent coppers who may well resent my presence because I unwittingly uncovered a porno ring that was servicing half the empty pockets of the men and women of Fulham … How could folks, especially policemen, turn a blind eye to such a dirty business. Couldn't care less, I suppose, only interested in their own welfare and being.

“Are you listening to me, Clayton? I’ve been talking to you these past few minutes and you haven’t heard a single word I've said. Gazing off into space all dreamy-eyed and vacant like a young girl. Well, that just won't do, Clayton. We don't want you using up valuable police time when we are under so much pressure already!”

“Why, Bobby, what are you doing here, lad?”

“I've come to give my statement, Detective Dust. Just as I was asked to.”

“Tom, lad, remember, call me Tom … Go on about your business, Sergeant Dooley. I'm taking the lad, Bobby, here upstairs with me. He can do that statement stuff later when you can spare a precious moment from your hectic desk duties, Sergeant Dooley. He's with me for now.”

“Very good, Detective Sergeant.”

For a moment there, Desk Sergeant Dooley's mouth was a-hanging open, slack-jawed as if awaiting a Fulham fly to float unseen right into it. He very quickly recovered his composure and was almost saluting Detective Sergeant Tom Dust with one of his white-striped sleeves. He didn't look at me again. It’s as if by my knowing Detective Dust I'm not to be trifled with. Left carefully alone for other people to handle. Sergeant Dooley has unmasked guilt written all over his blotchy face. And as we leave to ascend the station stairs to Detective Sergeant Tom Dust's room of operations, I can see this Desk Sergeant Dooley in his neatly pressed blue uniform, snap a pencil clean in half and turn unsparingly on the next unsuspecting victim who is unlucky enough to be washed up like so much flotsam and jetsam in front of him at the Fulham Police Station main desk this morning …

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust's room of operations is just as bare of personal charm as I remember it from before. Nothing stands out, not even a personal photograph to relieve this Monday morning gloom of a heavily overcast day. This time though I've noticed the floor which is sort of tessellated like a chessboard or a modern painting. Miss Parker should jump for joy at my using that word and march right across the chessboard knocking all of the other pieces clean out of the way and checkmating the vulnerable king. A sweet, fast move fit for my favourite queen schoolteacher.

“Sit yourself down, Bobby lad. Now I can’t offer you any soft drinks I'm sorry to say, our expenses don’t run to that around here. So I'm afraid it's either tea or a glass of milk.”

“I really don't like drinking milk, Detective Sergeant … Sorry, Tom. I can't get used to calling you Tom. Seems like some sort of crime to me.”

“Very funny, Bobby lad. So tea it is then … Aarh, right on cue. And a very good morning to you, Constable Howlett. She's standing in for Sylvia who's off sick. Let me introduce young Bobby here. He's going to help us with our new murder inquiry, excepting that he doesn't know it yet!”

“She's a woman!”

“My, my, but that is very perceptive of you, Bobby. Now don’t be down on women, lad. We live in a new age now and the Metropolitan Police Force has over one hundred female officers employed on duty from the last count. Isn’t that right, Constable Howlett?”

“Do you take sugar, Bobby?”

“Two please, Miss.”

“Call me Marian, Bobby. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust does when we are on our own so you might as well … And for your information, young man, my mother drove a fire engine in the Blitz during the Second World War. And my grandmother, her mother, worked in a munitions factory thanks to Lloyd George and helped provide much needed ammunition to the soldiers at the front during the First World War. So the idea of women as police officers should not seem so strange to a young boy like you.”

“I'm sorry, Marian, I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust is smiling fit to bust and covers up his exploding grin by lighting up his new-looking pipe.

“My Nan, Miss Marian, is always praising Lloyd George. She says he was the only politician who truly helped the working people of this country.”

“He'll be calling me Maid Marian at this rate, Detective Dust … Your Nan may well be right, Bobby. Now let me go and get the morning tea and biscuits while you two talk and you, Bobby, get used to the idea of female police officers.”

“Yes, Marian.”

Detective Constable Tom Dust chuckles as Constable Marian Howlett quickly leaves the room, His jocular face is immersed in billowing fumes of pipe smoke and he suddenly coughs abruptly. Bangs the pipe down on his desk. Looks resentfully at it and pokes at it in anguish so that it finally dies out. Opens his desk drawer and takes out a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and lights one up with a long, contented sigh.

“I just can't get on with a pipe, lad. They say that cigarettes are bad for you and a pipe is much healthier. But try as I might it just won't work for me … Had any meaningful dreams lately, Bobby?”

“That Desk Sergeant Dooley said there had been a new murder.”

“Aye, lad. Only last night. A poor young girl by the name of Christine May … Have you got a bad cold or something, Bobby lad? … You're coughing fit to bust.”

“It must be all the smoke in this room, Detective Serge … Sorry … Tom … Catching at my throat.”

“I might be as mad as a box of frogs as my dear old Grandma used to say, but I think you're lying, Bobby lad. Now I know already that you are one of nature's born liars so this murder must have upset you. Did you know Christine May?”

“Well, I do know some Mays, Tom. I know of Janice May and, of course, there’s Peter May, England's cricket captain, and I've seen Christine May, but I never, ever spoke to her directly.”

“Do you know Peter May to speak to then, lad?”

“No, no, I just follow the cricket team, Tom.”

“What about this Janice May you mentioned, is she related in any way to poor Christine May?”

There's a long silent pause and I'm desperately hoping that Constable Marian Howlett will suddenly reappear with a tray of tea and biscuits to interrupt us and cover up my obvious embarrassment. I am a good liar, but I find it harder to lie when strong feelings are involved and because of Janice May's resemblance to her dead sister, Christine, it somehow affects me …

“Janice May is Christine May's younger sister, Tom.”

“And how exactly do you know her, lad?”

“We're in the same class at school.”

“Are you friends then, lad?”

“Well, kind of, I guess … ”

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust is laughing out loud and puffing diligently on his cigarette at the self-same time.

“Why, you’re blushing bright red like a beetroot, lad. I would say in my capacity as a Detective Sergeant that you have a crush on this Janice May girl … Right, Bobby?”

If I lie here I'm done for. It'll be like Saint Peter denying the very existence of Jesus Christ to save his own skin.

“You promise not to tell anyone, Tom.”

“I promise, Bobby. Scout's honour.”

“Well, she's sort of my secret love, but well … She doesn't know it yet if you understand me, Tom.”

“The way of the world, I'm afraid, Bobby lad. We all get tricked out sometimes by our feelings, don't we, Constable Howlett?”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Detective Dust? I'm just your latest tea and biscuit girl for today, aren't I. Back to the women's chores and slipping into men's expectations of us, right, Bobby?”

“Don't involve the lad here, he's got enough problems as it is … Alright, I'll tell you what I’ll do, Constable Howlett, as you put it that way. I'll let you sit in right now with me and Bobby here. Let you participate in the action.”

“Why, I just can’t wait, Detective Dust, seeing you interview a young boy is way beyond my wildest policing expectations!”

“Now, now, no sarcastic irony in front of the lad, Marian. We must show a united front … Couldn't we do better than these plain Rich Tea biscuits, Marian? … Is this all the station's expenses can run to!”

“Now, c'mon, Detective Dust, you'd better watch your waistline, you know. Too many chocolate biscuits will put on pounds.”

The shallow pretence that they don’t really know one another that well is dropping off as they get used to my presence in the room and forget this none too subtle masquerade … A bit like Mum with Detective Constable Terry Rose except I don't feel strong enough right now to say anything.

“C'mon, Bobby lad, don’t hide behind that cup of tea and dunking your biscuit, you should know by now that Rich Tea biscuits don’t dunk that well … Tell us your dream from last night then, lad … Close that door properly, Marian, I mean, Constable Howlett.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Tom, call me Marian. Bobby here won’t tell anyone, will you, Bobby!”

She's very attractive and I like her in her navy blue police uniform and I never thought I would ever admit to that …

“I won’t tell anyone, Marian. Promise.”

“Well, Bobby lad, don’t keep us in suspense, tell us your dream!”

“I didn’t think you believed in the power of dreams, Tom?”

“Well, I didn't and I’m still doubtful, but catching that Stocker fellow and his gang sort of changed my mind a little. We are just so desperate for clues right now we will look at anything that has some bearing on this Eel Brook Common murderer.”

Constable Marian Howlett has sat herself down on one of the uncomfortable tubular steel chairs, crossed her dark-brown, stockinged legs and looks at me intently. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust stares at her legs for a long second. Pulls herself up short and lights up another Senior Service cigarette by way of a reflex action …

“I dreamt the whole thing and it was awful. I so wanted to save her. I kept shouting and crying because in the dream Christine May just looked so much like Janice. That's the only problem with dreams, you can't action in a meaningful manner when it’s a real-life dream. You’re kind of outside and in the action all at the self-same time. You can observe everything from some invisible space, but you can't alter what happens no matter how hard you try.”

Constable Marian Howlett has pressed forward on her tubular chair and is jiggling her crossed-over leg and police shoe which is making Detective Sergeant Tom Dust very uncomfortable as he resorts to puffing even harder on his cigarette and stares intently at me as if I contain all the hidden mysteries of the Sphinx.

“Go on, Bobby, don't stop. Don't be afraid. We won't laugh at you … Well, you know what they say about dreams, Tom Dust?”

He glances at her without really looking.

“Show me marvels before I sleep.”

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust has a fit of coughing and just to help matters takes a final drag on his Senior Service cigarette and stabs it out. Now attempts to resume command and control …

“Very literary of you, Constable Howlett … I suppose, as always with Bobby, you are going to tell me that you saw everything. You saw this evil murderer, the Creeper, kill again, but you could not identify him for all the tea in China!”

“There must be an awful lot of tea in China for so many folks to always say that, Tom.”

“Don't change the subject, lad. That's an old liar's trick. Well, did you or didn't you? Remember you can trust us, Bobby, whatever you say will remain strictly within these four walls. Everything treated in utmost confidence … Right, Constable Howlett?”

Constable Marian Howlett turns her beautiful brown eyes right on me and I realise I am lost and will always be a pushover for lovely women. All women. Helpless before them … A sudden flash of the penetrating eyes of the Pharaoh's Daughter. Was that a sign? Should I tell?

“Well, I confess, yes, I um … saw the killer fully, Tom, and um … now know who the Creeper is.”

My voice seemed very squeaky to me when I said that. The words seemed to hang on the drifting clouds of cigarette smoke in this room. To my ears I sounded more Minnie Mouse than Mickey Mouse. Higher up the scale and slightly unstable … Detective Sergeant Tom Dust's china-blue eyes and those beautiful, brown, luminous ones of Constable Marian Howlett are trained right on me. Finally Detective Sergeant Tom Dust breaks the long-held silence.

“That older brother of yours, Bobby. He's still at home on shore leave, isn't he?”

I hesitate, go to say something, am unsure, think better of it. What if! … For what seems like an eternity in this stuffy, smoke-filled room of operations is probably only a few seconds. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust seems to take pity on me or is it just that he believes he can read my mind and wishes so desperately to impress young Police Constable Marian Howlett here …

“No need for you to say anything, Bobby lad. We fully understand everything, Constable Howlett, don't we.”

“You may well do, Tom Dust, but I'm at a complete loss as to … ”

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust puts his left fore-finger to his lips to signify her silence, smiles paternally at me and leans forward over his desk whilst absent-mindedly at the same time lighting up yet another of those Senior Service cigarettes.

“You know full well who the killer is, Bobby lad, but are too afraid to tell, right! As if by uttering the name you will somehow compromise yourself. I fully understand, lad, that's what I'm here for. Simple police work and deduction, Constable Howlett. The psychology of a Detective's world. You have to get to know the inner workings of those who can ultimately supply you with the clues and answers and then results will surely follow as day follows night.”

“Shouldn't that be put the other way around, Tom?”

“Not now, Constable Howlett. You had better go back to Detective Dust if you have a mind to. Our day is about to really get under way. We have serious business to attend to … Right, Bobby lad. Let's see now … Where does that brother of yours hang out around midday time? What places does he haunt and frequent?”

“The Eight Bells pub, Detective Sergeant Dust.”

“You can still keep calling me Tom, lad. It's only for Constable Howlett here to maintain some sense of order and decorum amongst the rank and file … The Eight Bells public house, you say … ”

“Will they be open yet, Detective Dust?”

“That's better, Constable Howlett. Discretion is advisable otherwise half the married men in this police station will be getting ideas. You should know full well by now that most Public Houses open their doors at eleven o'clock on the dot.”

“Will there be people in then drinking about now then?”

“I've seen people queuing up outside the Eight Bells real early in the day to get in, Marian. Seems like some folks can't go very long without a drink to me.”

“Right! Action! Enough talk. Constable Howlett, go downstairs straight away to the main desk. Get that Sergeant James Dooley to request the presence of Sergeant Thompson and also ask for Officers Morris and Collier as well. These are the men I most trust. We have to keep this very simple. After all, we are only going on the word of a boy and his dreams and will look right foolish if this gets out and comes to light. Those Officers are the best ones to take along in my experience. No histrionics or misplaced overkill. We could be dealing with a dangerous murderer here. Now, remember, Marian, sorry, Detective Howlett, God, life can get so complicated sometimes … Don't let on to that Duty Sergeant Dooley at the main station desk what this is all about. He will only go and blab it all over Fulham. We could be made to look a right laughing stock if this leaks out … Now, don't look so afraid, Bobby. Nothing diabolical is going to happen to you. Just you stick close to me, lad. And remember this. It'll be a very hard lesson for you to learn, lad, but you don't choose your relatives in this life. Got that! I will always support you and look out for you, Bobby, after this. Remember that, Marian. Blast it! Constable Howlett here will be a witness to that and, if I should ever fall down on my duty to you, she, I am sure, will be the first one to remind me so.”

“You can guarantee that, Detective Sergeant!”

“I thought as much.”

“Do you mean, Tom, that you could be a close relative of Adolf Hitler's and there is nothing you could do about it?”

“Exactly, lad. Well thought out. You'll get over it in time. Now let's get a move on. The action is upon us!”

I'm stood slightly self-consciously across the street from the Eight Bells pub. Police Constable Marian Howlett is stood with me. I think she wants to be in the thick of the action for the experience, but has been detailed to look after me. I am very much aware that all hell is about to break loose and there is nothing I can do about it … Detective Sergeant Tom Dust is in his element. He truly believes he's read my thoughts and knows who the Eel Brook Common murderer is. I sense full well that Constable Marian Howlett has her misgivings about this. Feminine intuition, I guess. She keeps casting odd looks in my direction as if I really am part of the Devil's Spawn. With more and more female police officers on the Force I reckon that in the long run women's intuition will play a major role in apprehending criminals …

Isn't it funny how appearances can change natural reactions. When we got out of the police car a few minutes ago who should I see, but my friend, Rick Maghoo, walking down the street when he should be at school. He looked furtive for a second as if caught out in a whopping great lie. I smiled because I could see, talking of reading peoples' minds, Sergeant Dust, that just for a blinding instant he may well have thought that the police had come for him because he was bunking off school today. The worry crease left his lovely dark-brown face and he looked in wonder at me. Then he gave me a very peculiar stare as if I had joined up with the enemy, paid my lifelong membership into a controlling force that orders society and was no longer one of them. Like I'd changed sides somehow and had left him. I recognised all this in a flashing instance and because of that I now know our relationship is irreparably damaged. Whatever I might say in the future will never be understood. I will never be able to explain this situation away. Still, from what I think is about to happen, that will only be minor damage. Though I shall miss not being able to communicate so closely with Rick Maghoo in the future. Tainted by my association with the Police Force. It's like I've joined the thin blue line …

Detective Sergeant Tom Dust accompanied by Sergeant Thompson and Constable Morris has entered the Eight Bells pub. Ushering in the pub front door beneath the welcoming sign. Constable Collier has made his way around to the back to cover for any backyard toilet escape … I can hear raised voices. Now shouting. A scuffle. The smack of punches being thrown. A police whistle blows. My brother, Nick, suddenly appears from out of the pub doorway and goes to run for it. Before he can get far he is brought down in a rugby tackle from behind by Sergeant Thompson … As Sergeant Thompson is handcuffing my brother, Nick, Dad comes bounding out of the Eight Bells door and starts running off down the street. Heaving along with a Creeper-style limp. Detective Sergeant Tom Dust appears red-faced and frustrated in the pub doorway.

Constable Marian Howlett can no longer restrain herself and leaves her charge to give full chase … My Father looks back over his right shoulder in an anxious manner and is hit and knocked over by a dark-green Rover car that has come speeding round a corner from out of nowhere. Screeching brakes and running policemen and women and the crunch and thud of flesh and bone as my Father is thrown up into the air like a handful of so much confetti. Coming back down to earth with a bang on the dark-green Rover bonnet in time for a puffing and out of breath Detective Sergeant Tom Dust to catch up with him and apprehend the Creeper, that merciless killer of young girls on the Eel Brook Common and my Father.....

Ride out the storm

Suddenly from the mouth of the Canyon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp retort of a rifle -

“I see you've got your head buried deep inside a book again. Still reading that 'Riders of the Purple Sage', are we. At this rate you'll never finish it! Have you seen my James Dean jacket anywhere, Bobby?”

“Please, please, Nick. Just let me finish this page off, I won't be too long then I'll be right with you.”

“That's the problem with you, Bobby boy, books take precedence over people with you. Go on, if you must, but don't take too long, I'm in a rush!”

Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped in grim imitation. Dull revolver shots – hoarse yells – pound of hoofs – shrill neighs of horses – commingling of echoes – and again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mind – Greek and Roman wars, dark, medieval times, the crimes in the name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhere, shooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom, for these men killed one another -

“It's draped over the birdcage, Nick.”

“What?”

“Your James Dean-style jacket is covering up Sunshine, right in front of your very eyes … Look!”

“You're using my favourite article of clothing as a cover for that damned, fat budgerigar of yours. Show some respect.”

“Sunshine likes the jacket, thinks it's classy.”

“You are clean out of your head, you know that, Bobby boy. Going loco just like Dad.”

“Tell me exactly what happened in the Eight Bells then. I'm dying to know and sick to my stomach about it at the self-same time … Christ, I'm the son of a serial killer! I mean, just what does that make me!”

“Don't exaggerate as per usual. He's no serial killer.”

“How many murders does it take to be included as a serial killer then?”

“I dunno, but at last count it was only four and that doesn't make it in my book.”

“You just said about books … ”

“Don't get funny with me, Bobby, and stop pulling such a face. You'll soon get used to it all.”

“But that's not counting the girls during the Second World War!”

“We only have your dream word for that, Bobby. Folks around here are really starting to mutter about you. Saying you're some sort of demon child. A jinx. Bringing bad luck on Fulham.”

“That's crazy, Nick, and you know it. I can’t help it if our Father turns out to be a wicked, evil killer of young girls.”

“Oh, don't worry yourself. It'll all die down, just you wait and see.”

“How come you're so happy then? I haven't heard you whistle since you've been home. If you splash on any more of that aftershave lotion you'll smell like a walking barber’s shop and Sunshine here will keel right over and fall flat off his perch with the fumes.”

“My ship is coming in at last, Bobby. I mean, I know it's terrible about Dad and all that. But ill winds always blow someone some good luck, don't they.”

“How can your ship come on when you're not on board it?”

“Right funny little arse, aren't we. Don't let Dad's actions get you down, Bobby. I'm off to the Six Bells pub. Invited out.”

“Did two bells drop off then when Detective Sergeant Tom Dust arrested our Father and took him into police custody for murder!”

“Well, one thing's for sure, there's no future for you as a comedian. You ain't no Peter Sellers, Al Read or Tony Hancock, are you … No, the Six Bells is a famous pub in the Kings Road along from the Chelsea Town Hall. You know that, Bobby. If you were to stop hiding in books and pretending that budgerigar of yours has a brain and glanced out of the window you would see right now that there are reporters and a camera crew camped outside on our front doorstep. Go on, treat yourself, go take a gander … ”

“We've become a family freak-show all of a sudden!”

“But we're famous now, Bobby. Attention at last. People will know who we are from now on.”

“Belonging to the family of a murderer is nothing to boast about, is it. We've become the Fulham Family of Shame. I can just see the headlines … ”

“Oh, shut up! … Listen, I'm meeting this really attractive lady from the Daily Mail. She’s a young reporter called Penelope and she’s invited me out for a drink this evening. Now, what do you think about that? … Say, can't you stop that fat, yellow bird of yours from whistling and making such a song and dance about everything. He's starting to look real strange to me.”

“Sunshine is very upset by the reporters outside. We don't want no TV film crew showing us to all the world for folks to gawp and make fun of us and turn us into comic strip villains, do we, Nick!”

“That bird can’t see beyond the bars of his cage. He's got a brain the size of a grain of rice. So stop pretending he's smart and clued-in on events. It's just you investing your imagination into him and making him out to be something he's not. Mum's right. Since I’ve been home I've never heard him utter one word. Just whistles and squawks and fixes me with his beady eye like he wishes I wasn’t here … ”

“See, you're giving Sunshine some brains now and pretending, you just don’t know it! … This reporter girl, Penelope, only wants to wheedle a story out of you. She doesn’t fancy you. She's just after a scoop. Trying to get a jump-start on all the rest.”

“You think I was born yesterday, Bobby. I'll tell you what. Downstairs, outside, are reporters from the Daily Express, Daily Mail, the Mirror, a film crew from ITV and a reporter from the BBC and one from local radio. All after a story. An exclusive. An interview special with the eldest son of the Eel Brook Common murderer. I've already been offered five-hundred pounds for an exclusive by two of the newspapers. But I'm holding out, Bobby. Uncle Charlie told me that the News of the World always pays the best rates for an exclusive. I reckon I could get anything up to say a thousand pounds. That means I can go back to my ship. Pay off my gambling debts. Explain that I had to take sudden leave of absence because of urgent family problems. Hell, it'll be all over the news everywhere, they'll be only too pleased to accept me back and ship me off to sea as quickly as possible to avoid any unsavoury publicity. You see, this is all working out right well for me. My ship has docked and, if this Penelope girl reporter thinks she's going to pump me, well, let me tell you, Bobby boy, I can cut quite a dashing figure and I’m going to play her along. She's quite a looker and probably never been out with someone like me before.”

“Dad always called it 'The Screws of the World' … ”

“Well, he turned out to be a few screws loose himself, didn’t he!”

“Don't say that!”

“Why ever not, it's true, isn't it … Look, you may not believe this, Bobby, but you're not the only person in this family who sees things, you know. I've suspected there was something queer going on with Dad for a long time now. Lots of unexplained events over the years. Why … ”

“Folks always say that afterwards, don't they! Everybody's clever and instantly wise when they know something … He was always odd … Well, I used to say to our Fred … You could tell from his manner … A strange bird that one and make no mistake about it! … All clever clogs, but heh, nobody knew … And I know why you're saying that. You're telling yourself a story so as you will believe it fully when the time comes. When you have to go before the Merchant Seamens' Board of Governors or your ship's Captain or whoever. You'll convince them that you took absence without leave because you suspected your very own Father of being a serial girl killer. And they will believe you. Take pity on you. Probably promote you in haste. You'll end up getting a regular crossing to New York and back every two months. You’ll be as happy as Larry and folks will feel so sorry for you and crane their necks to one side and say 'He's taking it well, can’t be that easy, can it, being the son of a serial girl killer.'”

“You've got a nasty turn of mind, Bobby boy … So what if you're right! … Fine! Some good has got to come out of this, hasn’t it. Why, you've inherited this house and Gran's money because some as yet uncaught, hit-and-run driver knocked her down and killed her on a zebra crossing. You came out of it well. Great! Good for you, Bobby! Well, now it's my turn, see. My time. I managed to borrow some money off Uncle Charlie when the police released me late this afternoon and put a long distance call into New York.”

“Peggy?”

“Just how many girlfriends do you think I've got in New York, Bobby. Of course it was Peggy. I just wanted her to hear it from me first before she heard it on the news or read it in an American newspaper.”

“Had she?”

“Give it a chance, Bobby … No, nothing as yet.”

“Will Dad's arrest travel that far?”

“C'mon, Bobby, you should know full well by now that people just love bad news. Americans especially. New Yorkers can’t get enough of it. There's no country on Earth that loves a serial killer better than America.”

“There you go, you’re calling Dad a serial killer now for the American audience … What did Peggy Sue say then?”

“She was shocked at first. Then thanked me for ringing her. Wants me to stay with her when I dock in New York next. She's going to help me to come to terms with it, she said. Work out the family guilt that will engulf me. That's what I do so like about Americans, Bobby. They’re always straight in on the psychological side of things. Not like here with everyone gossiping over a cup of tea and pointing the finger and then pretending not to notice. The English 'Don't look at me, you might just embarrass me' attitude. You're just like them, Bobby.”

“No, I'm not!”

“Jesus, Bobby, you even blushed then when you said that … How do I look, brother?”

“Good enough to kill.”

“Very funny!” …

“Well, so you both finally decided to stir yourselves and come downstairs and lend your

poor Mother some much needed support … My, but you do look handsome, Nick. Who's the lucky girl then?”

“He's meeting up with a lady reporter from the Daily Mail who's got her hooks into him.”

“I do so hate your sneaky little ways, Robert. You're turning into a right tell-tale-tit … So who's this woman reporter, Nick? What's her game then? Why, we've got half the Press in Fleet Street camped outside on our doorstep right now and you have to go out and meet one and leave me all alone with this smarty-pants, broken-armed brother of yours and his fat, yellow friend!”

“Her name's Penelope if you must know and she’s promised not to ask about Dad or refer to the Eel Brook Common murders.”

“A likely story! What’s her name again?”

“Penelope!”

“Is this girl reporter the lah-di-dah type then?”

“What exactly do you mean by that, Mum?”

“You know very well what I mean, Nick. Some stuck-up, upper-class, snotty-nosed tottie on the make. She probably fancies herself to be an aspiring Marjorie Proops and get the inside, low-down as they say, with the son of a serial killer.”

“You're calling him a serial killer as well now, Mum!”

“Well, what else do you want me to call him, Robert? It's no good trying to think the best of your Father. You're just going to have to accept that he's a murderer, I'm afraid. And as for you, Nick, are you congenitally stupid or something! You must be if you think this reporter woman, Penelope, is just interested in you because of your good looks!”

“I don't care what you say, Mum, I'm still going to meet with her. An' I won't talk about Dad, I promise, so you needn't get your knickers in a twist, alright.”

Dong … Dong … Dong … This is the BBC News at six o'clock PM on Monday the twenty-sixth of January. President Eisenhower said today that the United States would not yield one single inch in preservation of its right or discharge of responsibilities in Berlin … Police have arrested a man in London today in connection with the murder of the young woman, Christine May. The suspect who has been named as Frank Clayton is being questioned with regard to other murders carried out on the Eel Brook Common in Fulham -

“Switch that bloody wireless off before I smash it to smithereens! Don’t look at me like that, Robert Clayton! Why, I've a good mind to … ”

“We've made the national six o'clock news, Mum. We're famous.”

“Is that all you can think of, Nick boy. Fame and attention. You think being the son of a murderer will earn you applause? You didn't make the six o'clock news, your Father did and it's a bad day for this family and nothing to celebrate.”

“There's people knocking at the front door again, Mum.”

“They’ve been doing it since about four o'clock this afternoon, Robert. Pushing messages through the letterbox. Under the door. Banging the door knob. Someone even posted some pictures through of poor Charlotte Evans and Christine May. I couldn’t disconnect the front doorbell so I cut through the wire with a carving knife. Stop them from ringing it to death. God, the times we live in! The Press just don't leave you alone, do they! No respect. Why, your Auntie Vi came around earlier to see if I was alright and she had to run a gauntlet of photographers and a television crew to even get here!”

“Was she hurt?”

“Not really, Robert. She resorted to pulling her coat halfway up over her head. Struck out at a photographer about an inch in front of her nose and kicked at a television cameraman and almost fell over a cable. It's hell out there. All this noise and hubbub must be what they mean by the expression 'The Tower of Babel' … If you comb your hair any more, Nick, and carry on preening yourself in front of that mirror you'll become entranced by your own image. I'm seriously starting to wonder about you, boy … ”

“Don't fret yourself, Mum, I'm going back to my ship in a couple of days time. Can't wait to get back to sea.”

“And just exactly how are you going to manage that then? The last I heard you hadn't got a pot to piss in, Nick.”

“He's going to sell his exclusive story to the 'News of the World' for a thousand pounds. 'Son of girl killer reveals all' … ”

“My oh my, but you have a greedy eye for the main chance, Nick, don't you!”

“Shut up, Bobby!”

“Well, it's too late now, Sneaky Pete here has gone and let the cat out of the bag. I suppose you'll be a-giving them your inside knowledge on your Father and possible repercussions of copy-dog killers. But you're not quite twenty-one yet, boy, and strictly speaking, need my permission.”

“It's called copycat killers, Mum, not copy-dog. You've gone and made a howling mistake.”

“Oh my, but you're a right funny one and no mistake. There you are looking all smart-like with your broken right arm in plaster and that fat budgerigar friend of yours sat on your left shoulder. The two of you looking for all the world so carefree and innocent as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouths. You two could be a double act. You could pretend that fat yellow bird is your ventriloquist dummy, you practise so hard speaking his voice at all hours God sends day and night.”

“You mean like Peter Brough and Archie Andrews on the radio.”

“That makes you laugh, doesn't it. I mean, a ventriloquist act on the radio! I've always thought that was very funny!”

“They're very popular, Nick, as you well know. But I was thinking more of Waldo and Willy.”

“Who were they when they were at home then, Mum? … Will that front door survive all this banging? And by the way, I think there are reporters in our backyard.”

“Go around the house, Nick, and make plenty sure all the curtains are properly drawn.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, if you want me to agree to this supposed payment you're going to receive from that 'News of the World' for revealing all our family secrets.”

“If I must. But then I'm going out.”

“I saw Waldo and Willy at the Chelsea Palace before the war, Robert. I can't for the life of me remember which way round they were. I suppose Waldo must have been the dummy, but I can't be absolutely sure of that … Don't worry about the persistent knocking on the front door, Robert. They keep going for about five minutes then it stops. They've been at it for hours. Hoping, I suppose, that I'll lose my temper and cave-in and answer the front door then they'll get distraught pictures of a killer's missus … Well, they can think again … This Waldo I think he was, had a top hat and cane and was all dressed up like little Lord Fauntleroy.”

“Did the audience at the Chelsea Palace like them, Mum?”

“That's one of your saving graces, Robert, you're interested enough to listen to people … I liked them. I remember a man shouting out from the front at Waldo or Willy, whichever, 'You can't talk proper', he shouted. And that top-hatted dummy came right back at him as quick as a flash, 'I get paid for talking like this, my man, what's your excuse”! … Brought the house down it did … ”

“And did you see them again?”

“I can't for the life of me remember, Robert. A lot of acts on the Chelsea Palace had five or ten minute spots way down the bill,.. People were tried out and then disappeared without trace.”

“Who was your favourite then?”

“Oh, I always loved that Max Miller. He was a right good laugh and suggestive with it.” …

“I reckon some of those reporters have climbed over from next door and are now camped in our backyard. You'd better not use the outside toilet, you two … Next door must have let them through their house. Why would they do a thing like that, Mum?”

“I don't know, Nick.”

“Why did Dad kill that poor girl, Christine May, when it wasn’t a full moon?”

“Questions, questions, bloody questions and on a day like this too! Who do you think I am, bleedin' Nostradamus or something!”

“He specialised in predictions, Mum, not answers.”

“Being smart again, are we, Robert … For Christ-sake, leave your hair alone, Nick, you’re worse than a bleedin' girl and so you are … Well, your Auntie Vi, Robert, says the sudden death of his Mother emotionally unhinged your Father and caused him to kill out of time and sequence. All those other horrible murders took place on a full moon … That we are all subject to our emotions and guided by the unseen hand of the moon. Why, just look at the impact that the full moon has on the seas and tides and on the moods and movements of all animals. Also, on a woman's curse. Why, I always … ”

“Please, Mum, don't. That really does bother me.”

“Why, Robert, was that you talking or just pretending to be that Sunshine of yours! God, but he looks so doleful. I must say I have my heart in my mouth sometimes whenever I see him attempting to fly across this kitchen. He can hardly make it into flight sometimes and I always imagine he's going to crash-land splat into the frying pan just as I'm cooking some sausages.”

“Yes, please.”

“You'll just have to wait … Now, what’s bothering you, Robert?”

“That pail under the kitchen sink, some days with the really awful smell. The one with the large plate on it acting as a lid. It makes my stomach churn over and I'm always afraid to go near it.”

“Squeamish, you are, Robert Clayton. Don't go pulling such a face. Don't you notice that it only ever appears on days around a full moon. It's the evidence of a woman's curse, boy, and you leave it well alone, Robert, if you know what's good for you … As regards next door, Nick. I haven't spoken to the Cotterells in years. Whenever I see them in the street we just walk straight on by one another.”

“Why on earth, Mum?”

“Oh, I don't know, Nick … Well, I do, if you must. It was the Coronation Street party here in Studdridge Street. That Edith Cotterell accused me of taking some of the street party collection money for myself. I tell you what, I did no such thing. She only said that because her Bill started to try and grope me on the evening of the street party. He'd been a-drinking heavily and had hands like the tentacles of a drunken octopus and so he did! It was as much as I could do to fight him off. We haven’t spoken since. That Bill's right under her thumb. Though sometimes when I go out shopping in a light dress on a sunny, summer's day I know that Bill Cotterell's on nights and I can see their upstairs bedroom nets twitch and I just know that Bill is watching me … Don't draw those curtains back, Robert! What are you doing?”

“I just thought I'd open the window, Mum. I want to hear what Nick is saying to the reporters and the television crew.”

“Well, alright, if you must … What's happening then? … Don't keep me in suspense!”

“Oh, he's giving them a brief potted history of his life story. Trying to be real suave. Apologies on behalf of the Clayton family for all the bereaved parents of the dead girls … I do so hate it, Mum, when you see one of your own in a public place. On film, on stage, or on a sports ground. I always find it so embarrassing and want to cringe and get away as quickly as possible.”

“Well, close the bloody window then and you won't have to listen … Apologies on behalf of this family indeed! Just who does he think he is!”

“Our new spokesman, I guess, Mum.”

“There's a whole load of stuff you're not telling me about Nick and this sudden shore leave, isn’t' there?”

“You've got enough on your plate right now, Mum, it's better that you don't know.”

“Well, first things first … I'm going to tell you some good news on such a terrible day as this, get myself ready to go out and cook you a special meal for being such a good boy. I'm sorry if I'm occasionally hard on you, Robert. It's just that you possess the ability to rub me up the wrong way sometimes.”

“Tell me the good news. We could do with some!”

“Are you including your fat friend in our family now then?”

“Why not. Sunshine Clayton has a certain ring to it, doesn't it.”

“Maggie and dear little Susie are going to move into Gran's flat upstairs. Now, won’t that be nice.”

“Don't say nice, Mum, it doesn't mean anything. Sunshine here nearly collapsed on my shoulder in shock at that news. What am I going to do! That's truly awful!”

“Don’t worry yourself, Robert boy. I've thought of you for once as you are now the official lord and master of this house. Though with your Father likely to get hung that makes me your legal guardian 'til you're twenty-one. Puts me in charge, doesn't it.”

“They won’t hang him, will they, Mum!”

“That's what we do in this country with killers, Robert Clayton, we hang them. And serve them right I say. I don’t care that he's my husband. He deserves to die for murdering those poor young girls … I've never, ever said this to another living soul, Robert Clayton, but I haven't slept with your Father since before you were born. It hasn’t been very easy. Why, that's almost eleven years.”

“What about Sunshine?”

“See, you think more of that bloody bird than what I've just said to you! Get your priorities right … Well, I suppose you need something to cling onto on a day like this. Well, I told Maggie they could have the flat upstairs on one condition. No Tiggy. Mustn't upset Robert, I said. He may be your little brother, but technically he will be your landlord, Maggie. Well, boy, that sweet little poppet Susie turned quite nasty for a second. The old Clayton temper in her, I guess. She screamed blue murder for a full five minutes. 'No Tiggy, but you get lovely flat', I kept saying. The silly thing was, Robert, I sounded to my own ears like I was in a Charlie Chan flick speaking in pidgin English off Shaftesbury Avenue in Chinatown.”

“Well … ”

“Well, they had no choice, did they. Maggie is going to get one of her old school-friend’s to find a new home for Tiggy and promised to buy Susie a goldfish. That little Susie changed tack completely and said she wanted a budgie just like her Uncle Bobby. Well, I said, that’s as maybe, but I'm not having two of the blighters flying around this house all of the time. We'll end up like a bleedin' bird menagerie at this rate! … ”

“Great! … I can feel Sunshine's relief running right thorough my left shoulder. See, he's blissfully happy again.”

“Happy, my arse. Oh, I am sorry, Robert, it's been that sort of day … There they go again a-banging on the front door. That Nick has raised their expectations. It's me they want now. The wife of a girl killer is always viewed with suspicion as if it is somehow our fault and we drove him to it. He was spurned at home and it made him into a deadly killer. Well, your Father was always a peculiar bird, Robert, talking of budgerigars as we are. I guess it's a day of confessions, boy, and you are having to bear the brunt of it as you are the only one left. I hate to think what Mum, your Nan, is thinking right now. She warned me against marrying Frank, your Father, at the time. But I was pregnant with Maggie, see. I had no choice. We had to get married … You're getting real good at writing things down in those blue school notebooks of yours. In fact, I looked at some of your writing and it is more legible when written with your left hand than your right.”

“You've got no right to look in my notebooks! They're private! I wouldn't pry into your personal letters!”

“Well, I didn't mean anything by it, Robert. See, the banging at the front door has stopped again. They'll give up by tomorrow. There'll be a fresh news story somewhere else soon. Just have to ride out the storm … I read some of what you’ve written,. You're preparing a book about all this, aren't you. All addressed to that schoolteacher of yours, Miss Barker. I saw the little snatch of a photograph of her that you'd pasted on the inside front cover of one of those blue notebooks. You must have cut it out from the official school photograph. Vandalism to satisfy your fascination with that bloody Miss Barker. Why, you think more of her, Robert Clayton, than you do of me. You’re going to dedicate all of those blue notebooks to her fond memory and make a book up and sell it as the story of the youngest son of a serial killer and it will become a bleedin' best-seller and be published world-wide, and you will be declared a bleedin' boy genius and proof that at least some good has come out of all those murders on the Eel Brook Common. And at last the general public has got a bird's eye view into the heart of the family of a dangerous murderer … Well, that Miss Barker wouldn’t wash your clothes and cook your meals, would she. Darn your socks and clean up after you. Dry your eyes and hold your hand when you're upset. She wouldn't really care at all, that's why she's a spinster!”

“That's not fair! She’s no spinster. Why, I think she's only thirty at most. And you know full well her name is Parker and not Barker. You're just doing that to annoy me because you're jealous and so what if I do publish these notebooks and dedicate them to her. For your information, she’s about to emigrate to New Zealand.”

“Well, good riddance is what I say. An' yes, I am jealous, I can’t help it. And for your information, boy, when a woman reaches the age of thirty and is still not married, she's regarded as a spinster and that's a woman's view, right … Now, I must get on. I have to get dressed up and cook you a meal before I go out.”

“You're going out!”

“Don't look so worried, your fat friend here will look out for you. You’re old enough to be left on your own and anyway, you've got half the city's Press outside the front door and camping in our backyard. What harm can possibly come to you. Just don't answer the front door to anyone. I've given Maggie a key so you don't have to worry on that count. Now, let me get a move on. I don't want to be late for Terry.”

“You're going out with Rosie!”

“Well, why ever not?”

“You're old enough to be his mother!”

“Well, thank you very much, Robert. It makes me sick and so it does. All those books that you read where the male hero is forty-three and gets off with a twenty-four year old girl. Fine! All quite natural in men's eyes, isn't it! Pah! But woe betide a forty-three year old woman if she should go with a twenty-four year old man. That's beyond the pale, isn't it. Don't blanch, Robert. If she's rich they'll say she's bought him. If not, she'll suck the very life out of him, excusing my turn of phrase. Makes me sick and so it does. Always the same. One rule for men and another for women. Always was so. We are nothing, but bulging dresses and second class citizens. And that hungry mob outside can't wait to blame me for your Father's killings, just you wait and see!”

“Where's Rosie taking you then?”

“Well, we were going to go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais or to one of those Top Rank ballrooms, but not now after all this.”

“The Hammersmith Palais on a Monday night!”

“Why ever not. It's not Sunday. Terry, bless 'im, is going to borrow an unmarked police car and take me out to a quiet little restaurant he knows. Italian, I reckon. A police special hideout somewheres in Hammersmith or Putney.”

“Very romantic.”

“Don't be like that, Robert. You like Rosie. He saved you from Cyril Stocker and that savage dog, didn't he!”

“Yes, I do like Rosie.” …

“I'm going to dish up your meal now, Robert. Just wait a minute while I let my nail varnish dry … Do I look alright?”

“It's funny, you going on a date with a young copper on a night like this.”

“Oh, I see! Me going all romantic when the corpse isn't even dead yet! Well, I don’t care, see. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in mourning. We will just have to live through this, Robert. People can gossip about me as much as they like. They always have so it won’t make no bleedin' difference now, will it! … And in case you're wondering, Terry will pretend that he's taking me in for questioning to get through that noisy crowd outside. Makes you wonder about reporters, doesn't it. Noisy to the bone and so they are.”

“What have I got to eat then?”

“Well, Mister Fusspot, it's your lucky day. You deserve a treat. I’ve cooked you some pork chipolata sausages with mashed potatoes and peas … ”

“Piccalilli?”

“Yes.”

“It is Hayward's Piccalilli and not that Heinz.”

“My, but you do fuss so. Yes, it's Hayward's and you have fresh baked bread from that new bakery on the Wandsworth Bridge Road. And yes, before you ask, you have your favourite Anchor butter with it! Alright?”

“What’s for afters then?”

“Apple pie and ice-cream.”

“Home-made apple pie and Walls' vanilla ice-cream?”

“Would I give you any of that Lyon's processed apple pie muck. I baked it with my own fair hands this morning before all this hell broke loose. I thought you deserved a special treat for helping to catch that porno ring gang. Little knows … ”

“I love you, Mum.”

“Why, Bobby, that is really sweet of you, an' I love you too.”

Christ, she's called me Bobby for the very first time I can ever remember. I'm in seventh heaven.

“Now, you just sit yourself right down and don’t' pay no mind to that front door knocking. And don't feed that bird of yours too much ice-cream, he'll be sick and it’ll make him very fat.”

“What's next, Mum?”

“Well, I don't rightly know, but I have to go. That's Terry honking his car horn outside. All that's left, Bobby, is for us to receive a most curious visitor right now and our day will be complete.”.....