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THE GALLOWS TREE

CHAPTER ONE

Reece said it would take an hour. His voice sounded sincere but there were still doubts. I clipped the phone back on the belt around my jeans. Jane looked dazed: too much had happened in the last fifteen minutes for her to take in. There were no words. She just glared and drank shakily from a brandy glass. I left her and went to the bedroom. His body lay sprawled beside the bed. Through the years my dislike of the man had turned to loathing, but this was not the outcome I wanted.

Some blood had splashed on the sheets but most was soaking into the Turkish rug. I pushed the bed to one side. Jizz and McDonald arrived; they were the only staff we could trust. Once inside they set about wrapping the rug and bloodstained sheets around the body. Then we placed it in the one of the company’s black body-bags. I helped them lift it.  Hardly a day of work had gone by without seeing several corpses laid out on a slab, but it was over ten years since I had carried one. The weight took me by surprise.

I opened the side door and tentatively looked around. There was a slumberous silence. I signalled to Jizz and McDonald. They dragged the body to Reece’s Mercedes Estate, which McDonald had parked in the driveway. I lifted the tailgate and we manoeuvred the body into the back beneath the parcel shelf.

‘If you want, Boss, we’ll take it from here’, McDonald said.

‘No’, I told him, ‘I want to see this through to the end.’ Before we set off for the Northern General, I phoned Reece again.

The guard waved us through the barrier when he saw the Mercedes. Reece had used the computer to set up a spurious call that would keep the Duty Team occupied, so all was quiet as we parked by the main corridor. We removed the body from the car and placed it on a trolley. A sense of relief came when we entered the slab-room; so far the plan had run smoothly. After sliding the trolley into the bay next to the organic incinerator, Jizz opened the body-bag.  He and McDonald removed the contents. As they took the strain, adhesive specks of congealed blood fastened onto their transparent surgical gloves. We unwrapped the corpse. It seemed unreal. I took another look. The bullet had gouged out the left eye, penetrated the lower brain and exited at the back of the skull. The sight sent a spasm through my stomach. I turned my head, hoping to suppress the gagging in my throat.

‘Boss, the right eye is still good’, McDonald observed, ‘could be used for a graft.’

‘No, salvage can’t be trusted. Besides, it’ll take them half an hour to get here and we don’t have the time. Barlow and the rest of the Duty Team will be back in ten minutes.’

Jizz took the body bag to the chute.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded.

‘Putting it in for cleaning. There’s another ten trips at least on this one.’

‘We’re not taking any chances. Sling it with the rug and the sheets for incineration.’

He looked aghast.

‘It’s my decision. You needn’t worry about the budget.’

McDonald opened the door of the organic incinerator. I forced myself to take one last look, just to make sure it was over. The right eye coldly watched the ceiling. I could not feel compassion but in a futile bid to restore some dignity, I shut the eyelid before we shoved the body inside.

Our organic incinerator was a first generation dry-heat system, initially developed to calm public fears during the first bird-flu epidemic. Its design became obsolescent ten years ago but it was still effective for our purposes. The temperatures produced killed off all micro-organisms and, what is more important, reduced organic matter to manageable volumes. It was installed when the Government commissioned Reece Securities to deal with the Grufti problem. Since then, despite being hammered on a daily basis, it has never broken down; unlike the staff.

At the control panel I keyed in two minutes for the time and set the temperature to maximum. A throaty purr came from the motor. Visions from my years of service for Reece Securities began to pass through my mind. Bodies. There have been so many: grey blood-drained corpses with severed arteries; or bulging eyes with ligature marks on necks; or burns that had gone through every layer of skin. I tried to view them with the emotional detachment of a butcher about to bone a joint. On the slab they became pieces of flesh waiting to be processed. Where we could trace next of kin, we negotiated collection and offered a range of services. For those who could afford it, the company could commission a mortician. She employed the latest cosmetic techniques to erase all traces of association with the Grufti-cult from the corpse; using synthetic skin even third degree burns were not beyond her skill. But she could not bring a resurrection and few could pay her prices. Most settled for the fast track coroner’s certificate that gave a plausible cause of death and enabled the bereaved to make their own arrangements with the minimum of fuss. If no family could be found, the company recouped costs through recycling. Salvage came in to assess the viability of vital organs; usually they were too late but they generated enough income to justify their existence. The heroin-overdosers and the few drowners that came our way, we sent to medical schools. As for the rest, who constituted the bulk of those that came here, their bodies were too damaged to be of any use. We incinerated them. They most probably ended up as commercial fertiliser.

I had tried to eliminate the thought that they were human but familiarity failed to inoculate the emotions against the impact of the senses. Weeks would go by and my conscience would stay silent until something reminded me that a particular piece of flesh was someone’s son or daughter; even father or mother. It was usually a personal item that connected the flesh to the living; something as innocent as a wrist-watch or a ring.

The motor stopped. The fan came on; it blew the remains into the re-cycling duct. I thanked Jizz and McDonald and assured them that a large bonus would be in their next wage packet.

The intercom buzzed; McDonald answered, ‘It’s Reece, Boss, he’s in his office. He’d like to see you before you go.’

I left the slab-room for the last time and walked down the corridor to the lift. As the doors closed, it felt as if my life had been condensed into the past thirty-six hours.

On Sunday evening, life had seemed good. After a week's holiday in the Lake District we had unwound enough to enjoy each others’ company. Seven o’clock, we arrived home. There was no postcard from Kirsty, but Jane assured me we would ‘hear something soon’. I unpacked the car while she made a few ham sandwiches, which was as much either of us could manage after the Sunday lunch we had eaten at a pub outside Kendal. Settled on the Parker-Knoll, I turned to Channel Two and began to watch a documentary about the impact of global warming on the Scottish Ptarmigan. Niggling thoughts soon made relaxation impossible. My sick note was due for renewal but more time off would only fortify Leech’s position at the Attendance Review Meeting. Worry convinced me I should go back to work; a decision that was made with trepidation. Seven weeks had gone by since I was last there. That was plenty of time for Leech to devise a scheme to remind me who was in charge. Some new edict, ostensibly designed to improve efficiency, but whose purpose was to make my life a misery.

 The ‘Get Well’ card that stood on the mantelpiece increased my unease. Reece brought it a fortnight ago. Officially the CEO, for several years he had used the internet to run the company from his mansion outside Macclesfield. In his absence rumours flourished. A consensus developed: he would sell up and take the proceeds as a nest-egg for retirement. It was plausible. Leech would not have acquired so much power had Reece held any long term interest in the business. Then a few months ago, the office had a visitation from a care worn figure. Since that time regular appearances from Reece had become the norm. I suspected his arrival on the doorstep was the beginning of a softening process that would lead to the termination of my contract. In fact his call was about a much more serious matter. He began with an account of some disturbing developments that centred on our Glasgow branch. Then, in an avuncular tone, Reece expressed his concern for Jane’s safety. He had heard about the incident at the shop and said I should prepare for worse. The visit left me puzzled. A man I once despised was offering help. I asked him why. His explanation left more questions than answers.

Strategies that would enable me to overcome my expected trials circled my mind. A dull pain grew from behind my eyes. When the tension became too much, I went to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Jane asked.

‘The office.’

‘But it’s nine o’clock on a Sunday evening. Can’t it wait?’

Our eyes met as I paused by the door.

‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back’, I told her.

‘I won’t wait up.’

Outside it was a warm summer evening but I was in no mood by then to appreciate it; the harmony of the past week imploded to a memory. I pressed the ignition code. A warning came on the display; the solar cells had a thousand kilometres left on them. The distance was well within range. I pressed the override and the car started. Thought was too painful so I selected the radio. The search button landed on a jazz station playing Miles Davies, his version of Time after Time. It was one of Jane’s favourites. She put the track on the first night we made love. The soothing soulful sound of trumpet over a reggae beat put me in a mournful mood. We had lost so much since those days. Everything seemed to be right then. We were new to each other; open, wanting to understand, to become closer. Life was fresh. With Jane I could believe in heaven. Sitting in the car, I realised it was just a dream. An illusion created by a chance association of circumstance: first time intimacy and work that brought the prospect of financial security. I kept the radio on. It sounds strange but there was something cathartic about sorrow.

In vain I tried to convince myself the journey was necessary. For a minute, conscientiousness gave it a glossy finish, but the texture was not right. Obsessive anxiety, Jane’s description, was the most apt. To be conscientious requires a sense of vocation, a belief that I served a greater good, but to hold such faith stretched credulity beyond breaking point. Reece told me years ago, that by clearing the dead off the streets we served the public’s interest. I suppose we helped them to rest in their beds, safe in the delusion that God was in his heaven, all was well with the world and the Government knew what it was doing. Just what was public interest? I came to the conclusion it was a theatrical prop, an ethereal cloak worn by the powerful to disguise their intentions.

When I arrived, the building was in darkness except for the tea-room, where the late shift had congregated for a card game. I showed my face and asked Barlow to do me a coffee. Managerial duties placed upon me an obligation to ensure the work force was productive ‘at all times’. There seemed little point. Sundays were quiet but the team more than earned their wages on a Friday shift. Sometimes a whole team would work a solid twelve hours, drinking coffee to keep going and taking snacks amongst a stack of corpses. The only time anyone stopped was to take a piss in one of the puke buckets provided by the company. The slack times were a chance to let off some steam. Whatever Leech thought, they deserved it.

The top shelf of my in-tray marked ‘URGENT’ was empty, and there were no faxes or e-mail messages. I looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. So Jane was right. I decided to stay for a while rather than return home and face a lecture on the futility of worry. A few minutes went by and another cause for concern started to gorge on my brain. The empty tray was ample indication that the organisation had functioned without me, for almost two whole months! I was close to the top but not immune from redundancy. Indeed, it was the very height of my position that made the prospect greater. The ‘need’ for the ‘service’ went unquestioned and there was no shortage of business, but wide profit margins counted for little when the saving of an Operations Manager’s salary became an obvious down-sizing exercise.

A knock on the door brought the downward spiral of my thoughts to a halt. Our latest recruit walked in with a cup of coffee. Nervously, he informed me that Barlow had sent him. His hand shook as he passed me the cup. Coffee flopped on to the desk narrowly missing an order form.

‘You’re fucking useless’, I snarled before he could stutter an apology. ‘Get out of my office!’

Once alone I picked up the phone.

‘Listen Barlow! We’re not a fucking charity.’

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

‘That new lad, Why’s he still here? I told you to get rid of him eight weeks ago. He’s surplus to requirements.’

‘I haven’t had a written instruction from Mr Leech.’

‘Well, it was Mr Leech who gave me a verbal instruction that I passed on to you.’

‘I can’t sack someone until I’ve had it in writing’, Barlow protested.

‘I’ve been away and it’s obvious that because of an oversight, Mr Leech hasn’t put it in writing. You’ve been here long enough. You should know what to do.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr McFly, but I’ve had him doing all the jobs nobody wants to do. He’s been cleaning up, doing prep and bag disposal; not a word of complaint out of him. He enjoys it.’

‘That’s all we need, a necrophile. Don’t wait for written instructions. I’m telling you, he’s got to go and if he’s not out of here by the end of this shift, you’ll be paying his wages.’

I put the phone down and gritted my teeth. Leech could shove his instructions. The bastard was always setting me up; he should do his own dirty work.

I decided to go home. On my way down the corridor the recruit passed me. Barlow must have sent him to the slab-room. We both put our eyes on the floor. I wanted to apologise, to explain it was nothing personal. It was the way things were, or rather had become, but the most sympathetic action I could manage was to mutter ‘I’m sorry’ once he had passed out of earshot.

Laughter emanated from the tea-room: earthy laughter that sounded like poetry. I went to the toilet next door. As I rinsed my hands, I heard raised voices through the hardboard panelling.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ It was Barlow.

‘Just finishing our game’, Jizz replied.

‘Just finishing your game! You get a ten minute break. That game has been going on for half an hour. Now, I’ve just had a right bollocking off Muckfly about money. If he finds out you’ve been arsing around all night, we’ll all be out of a job.’

‘How’s he going to find out? It’s half eleven. He’ll have gone ages ago.’ 

‘Perhaps he's in the slab-room scaring the shit out of Motormouth.’

‘Jizz. That’s not funny. Anyway there’s work to do. A girl is on the slab, a slasher. Motormouth has made a start. Before you go off, you lazy bastards can wrap her up and slam her in storage.’

Once the tea-room cleared, I left. Muckfly, Muckfly; the schoolyard taunt clung like a congenital disease, the mark of exclusion. The lads were always polite to my face but I heard what was said behind my back. Contempt went with the territory. I earned the salary not respect. Still, it hurt. Couldn’t they see the truth? I was an employee too; just like them. When I enforced Leech’s edicts, checked time sheets, imposed time and motion studies, and made staff redundant I was only ‘following orders’.

Yesterday morning I woke refreshed after four hours unbroken sleep. Breakfast was silent until Jane shouted ‘Goodbye’ as she left for the shop. My mouth was full so I could not answer. I turned the radio on for the news. The words had changed but the tune was the same: job losses, budget cuts and a Prime Ministerial speech that promised jam for an unspecified tomorrow. Perhaps I should have counted my blessings, but the misfortunes of others hardly seemed a firm basis for gratitude.

The local news took on a salacious hue with the latest revelations about a bishop into bondage and a graphic report of a rape trial at Preston Crown Court that focused on the accused’s use of a luminous condom. I half listened while chewing my muesli. My somnolent mood, which had increased as my bowl emptied, shattered on the final item. It concerned the discovery of a suicide victim by three boy scouts on Gallows Hill, a place the newsreader described as a local beauty spot. 

I knew it was that girl Barlow was on about. How did the fucking media get wind of it? All I could think was that the shit will hit the fan.It did not matter that we could not have prevented the broadcast. There would be the irate phone calls and the awkward questions as embarrassed Ministers cast about for someone to blame.

What happened was obvious. A young woman ripped her jugular. Probably with a dagger, that was the usual modus-operandi since some weird fuck put a guide on the internet that appealed to Grufti sensibilities. It had detailed how a remnant of Jewish zealots besieged by the Romans in 70 AD at Masada had killed themselves rather than surrender. To keep their covenant with God, the act of death had followed rabbinical strictures on animal sacrifice. The boy scouts, probably from a nearby village or town, must have come across her still warm but dead body. Maybe one tried first aid. Perhaps another went for help. The police turned up and sent for their parents. They went home and talked. They talked to whoever would listen. The word went around and it reached the ear of a journalist.

The last similar event occurred two years ago. A Grufti immolated himself in front of a film crew covering horse trials at Tatton Park. Subscribers to the Sports Channel had the whole incident beamed live into their living rooms. For a month the Gruftis were headline news again. MPs asked questions on the floor of the Commons and we received a Home Office memorandum that threatened us with a contestability review. Reece deserved credit for dealing with the situation. His argument that the service could only react to events not predict them prevailed in the end. We survived but lost influential allies. Regular audits and efficiency surveys were the legacy from that time.

My sole preoccupation as I ate lime marmalade toast was how I would handle the flak that was sure to come my way. After all, taking the blame was the Operations Manager's functional responsibility and clearly the company had failed to arrive on the scene before the reporters.

During the drive to the office I tried to work out an appropriate response to the expected call on the red phone. Service delivery functioned best in an urban environment, where there was a high degree of anonymity and an effective transport infra-structure. Rapid response in a rural setting would be possible only with considerably more resources. The argument had validity. It had become increasingly difficult to meet targets even in the city. Last year we lost five posts; natural wastage ─ a sick expression when you consider one poor bastard dropped dead at work. Our transport is a joke: the vehicles had two hundred thousand on the clock, but replacement was out of the question. As a consequence, near misses had become frequent. Too often in recent months TV cameras had arrived within seconds of a team cleaning up. But far from gaining sympathy, my pleadings would be interpreted as an inability to operate within the budget.

A queue of traffic was forming at the pedestrian lights five hundred metres from the office. On the opposite side of the road stood a row of mansions, an outcrop of a former glory that had long faded. At my side was one of those green spaces. ‘A park sponsored by Dolphin Pharmaceuticals PLC’ read an advertisement. ‘Park’ was an imaginative epithet for what was little more than a large square with flower beds and a lawn criss-crossed by gravel paths. Yet, in those seconds, as I contemplated a riot of summer blooms breaking free of the order imposed by neatly trimmed turf, it seemed an oasis amidst the dilapidated surroundings.

A horn sounded. The juggernaut behind alerted me to the green light and a hundred metre gap between my car and the estate in front. Back in the mundane world I could see only corruption. Any attraction the ‘park’ possessed belonged solely to the day. By night it was a venue for hidden transactions. A place where dead winos and overdoses could contribute to performance targets. Sometimes we found muggings gone too far or the mutilated remnants of some weirdo’s twisted passion. Strictly speaking, this was beyond our original brief, but the police and ambulance companies were only too happy for us to take the work off their hands. Besides, our staff never complained about going there, which had to be some sort of testimony to human adaptability.

The receptionist told me Leech was at the Glasgow office. I made my way to the drinks machine in the main corridor. A sweet, weak-flavoured liquid dribbled into a Styrofoam cup when I pressed the coffee button. After three sips I poured it down the tea-room sink. The phone rang. I pushed the door open, went to my desk and picked up the receiver.

‘Mr McFly?’ It was Barlow.

‘What is it?’

‘The stiff that came in last night; no ID. Shall we incinerate her?’

‘Are you stupid? The media have got hold of it. I’d better come and have a look.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. How did it happen?’

‘God knows, but we’re in the shit if this isn’t handled right.’

‘There’s another thing’, Barlow said. ‘It’s about Motormouth.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Motormouth, the new lad ─ they all call him Motormouth because of his stutter. You told me to get rid of him.’

‘Well?’

‘Well... I haven’t. I wanted to speak to you first. He’s a good worker, always on time and mucks in without being asked. The lads have taken the piss something rotten but I’ve never heard a word of complaint from him about anything.’

‘Leech says we can’t afford him’, I stated.

‘But there are other staff who don’t pull their weight. Do you know I go into that tea-room and the bowl is full of dirty cups? It’s that Jizz and McDonald, they never clean up after themselves. The other night I actually found McDonald drinking out of my mug. And another thing ─ there’s always a disgusting smell after they use the toilet.’

‘I think that could be said of all of us’, I said, smiling at my own humour.

‘That’s not what I mean. They’re using something. I’m sure. Smoking that wacky baccy on the premises.’

‘Haven’t you heard? The Government decriminalised it five years ago.’

‘But they shouldn’t be using it at work.’

‘Please, Barlow, I seem to remember us discussing this matter on previous occasions. Many previous occasions. And let me remind you again, there’s a much more important matter that requires our attention.’ I slammed down the receiver.

As I went to the slab-room, a scenario that would solve the staffing problem developed. The new lad was good and, more to the point, on the lowest rate of pay. Jizz and McDonald were wild at times but their worksheets, signed by Barlow himself, showed they did more than their fair share. The complaint against them was personal. Barlow was jealous: Jizz and McDonald had a life; Barlow did not and felt everyone should be as miserable as him. His salary was the highest of the slab-staff and he was the biggest troublemaker. The solution was obvious: sack Barlow. There was one unfortunate difficulty. Barlow was Leech’s protégé.

The smell of pine disinfectant hit my nostrils as I entered the slab-room. McDonald stood in front of slab five, obscuring the body.

‘She arrived fully clothed, no ID’, he explained. ‘An ambulance crew from Bolton brought her; Jizz took the details. They'll need paying. The forms are ready to sign.’

McDonald continued, ‘it was no accident. Look.’ He lifted up her left hand to show me a cut to her thumb and a gash across her wrist. Next, he pushed the head to the right. With affected casualness, I cast a glance at the five centimetre slash that ran along the jugular vein. ‘She’d thought about it. Funny though, she doesn’t look like your usual Grufti.’

     I broke my first rule. I looked directly at her face. I thought of the hazel green eyes, once vibrant, now closed forever. Avoiding her naked body, my eyes followed her right arm down to her hand. On her third finger was a gold ring, engraved with a pattern from a Celtic birthstone. Jane had chosen it. The symbol represented rebirth and hope. A ring lovingly wrapped in shiny gold paper, given on her nineteenth birthday, a frosty solstice night. That was eighteen months ago.

A voice droned in the background. I did not hear words, just the sound of syllables.

‘Boss?’ The voice demanded attention.

I looked up.

‘You’ll need to authorise storage. We can’t put her in the incinerator. Can you sign this? I don’t suppose Leech will be too happy, what with the expense, but we can’t let her go. Someone must be looking for her.’

I signed the chit thrust under my nose, muttered an excuse and fled. In the privacy of my office, I clutched the wastepaper bin in my arms. The remains of my breakfast splattered down the inside, the taste of lime adding to the taint of the acid that burnt the back of my throat. I retched again but there was nothing to bring up. A griping nausea squatted in my gut.

I showered in the washroom but the taste of stale vomit still clung. Dressed in the same clothes, I felt no cleaner.

I tried to think but only fear came. Jane; she would have to know everything. I rang Reece, told him about the body, who she was.

‘I’ll handle notification’, he said.

‘Can you leave it a while? I need to see that Jane is OK.’

‘Of course. When will you tell her?’

‘Later. Not yet.’

‘That package safe?’ Reece asked.

‘Yes, it’s safe.’

‘Sounds like you’ll need it.’

‘Yes, I think so.’ I said and hung up.

The direct route to Jane’s shop was a rat-run that took me past the Arches. For years I had avoided the place, adding twenty minutes to the journey as I queued to take a left into Bury Road. There was no time and I was in no mood to face a wait behind two blocks of stationary traffic on a green light.

The Arches landscape garden was overgrown with weeds, and the ornamental pool filled with abandoned shopping trolleys. On the side of the last Arch, some ghoul had sprayed a death’s head in red fluorescent paint. Beneath it, in Gothic capitals, were the words ‘Freedom when we cease to exist’. Ghosts, resurrected by memory, returned to me, but it was my mind and not the place they haunted.

I parked opposite Jane’s shop. For the next six hours I kept watch from the car; chewed mints and finger nails as I contemplated how to break the news. Every hour I phoned reception, each time it was the same: no messages. Life in its varied forms passed along the street. A young mother dragged a toddler with a chocolate-smeared chin around groups of shoppers taking time out for a gossip. Mid-afternoon brought acned youths on to the street. Spurred on with testosterone, they jostled passers-by in an attempt to convince mini-skirted shop assistants of their sexual prowess. The youths moved on and pensioners gathered at the roadside. As buses stopped, they forced their way to the front of the queue in a desperate bid to make the four o’clock deadline for their passes. 

Jane closed up at five-thirty and I followed her home. To avoid suspicion, I kept a two block distance between us, parked in the next street and waited ten minutes until my usual time of arrival. After we exchanged a few banalities about the day, I complained of a headache and she prepared the meal in the microwave: a ‘safe meat lasagne for two.’ An evening’s TV kept conversation to a minimum. Time passed and an ache grew as the opportunity to tell her never came. At eleven we turned in to bed. Jane fell asleep, snuggling up against my back. A quarter of an hour passed before deep, slow breaths confirmed her unconsciousness. Afraid of the oblivion I once craved, I slid from under the sheets to lie in wait. 

The night was still, silent except for the distant sound of the police helicopter droning its urban lullaby. Jane breathed softly. Her perspiration mingled with the pot-pourri on her bedside cabinet to scent the moist air. She slept alone in a refuge of ignorance. The luminous digits on the radio alarm read eleven-fifty. In the green glow, blood seeped from the hole I had picked in my thumb. I dug deeper. When finger nail and nerve clashed, pain radiated from the wound. It brought a sense of relief that burst through the numbness.

Sadness intensified my weariness. I drifted sinking through a heavy sky. A blade sliced the air above our heads. I woke with a start and reached for the drawer of the bedside cabinet. It was too late. The shadow approached. Ornaments on the window sill vibrated; the helicopter searchlight invaded the room. We were alone but relief turned to fear. Christ! I could not let that happen again.

I looked at Jane. She had grown accustomed to my nocturnal restlessness. It made her uneasy when we first started out together. I would turn the reading light on and off, or wander between the bed and the bathroom just to break the monotony. Usually, about two in the morning, a weary voice would ask, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’, I would answer. The questioning persisted; tiredness submerged by exasperation.

‘Money’ came the reply that carried a kernel of truth. The excuse became known as the ‘M’ word. It evoked a response that adhered to Pavlovian principles.

‘Money! You’re keeping me awake about money? We’ve no children, we’re ahead with the mortgage and we’ve no debts but you worry about money. You stupid man!’

The next day we would perform the reconciliation ritual over breakfast. After a shower I would go into the kitchen where Jane waited with a propitiatory cup drawn from the percolator.

‘I'm sorry. It’s the past, isn’t it? It must have been awful. Will you forgive me?’ 

‘Of course, nice coffee’, I would murmur from behind the cereal box, feigning interest in the GMR news to avoid conversation.

Atonement was impossible. Sometimes those blue magnetic eyes drew me. We would hold each other and talk of love, but our words were no more than breath. Love me? How could she love me? She did not even know me. Every morning I drove to an office eight kilometres away. All Jane knew was that I ran the Manchester branch of a project to extend employment opportunities to the homeless.

Identity. So many facets of our lives give clues to our character: how we speak, how we dress and how we make a living. Some you cannot hide. Others you can, at a price. Jane has lived with a work of fiction: a carefully rehearsed script, constantly reviewed to avoid contradiction and ensure coherence. The illusion required co-operation. She had her suspicions ─ most of which had arisen because of my association with Leech ─ but affluence has fostered a willingness to suspend disbelief.

A feeble light crept through the gap in the curtains to dilute the darkness. I could just make out my reflection in the mirror. Did I need look any further for someone to blame? No, it was too hard and at the same time too easy to make myself the scapegoat. I had survived without the luxury of a confessor. The strain had taken its toll. For years the bottle, the spliff, and copious supplies of anti-depressants provided the adjustments that made reality more palatable. But what was the alternative?

The display silently flickered, digits changed and lives collided like atoms to transmute circumstances. The process was so random; all certainty lost in a morass of contradiction. The noble dreams of a young woman had ended on a marble slab while my survival was a sordid compromise. It made no sense.

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