As she sat on the sofa it was like being a spectator of a boxing match, as people began parting in the room, each standing behind their opponents, when only hours before they had all been laughing and joking with each other. Arms were waving around and each of their faces seemed to have been injected with Botox, becoming more rigid, tense and seamless as the arguments grew. 

One of the main instigators was screaming at the top of her voice, piercing the air with her shrills of disgust at another. 

“Only dolphins can hear you now!” the other shouted back in a deeper and aggressive voice.

More obscenities and explicit language could be heard as the brawl continued. 

The more the two ringleaders bellowed at each other, the more their body language became predictable and defensive.  Their necks were stretched and their heads sticking out further than they should, from the rest of their body.  Shoulders tucked back, but arm gestures were pointing with poignant thrusts and forceful jabs.

Anna couldn’t decide who was in the right or wrong, she was mesmerised by the performance she was being subjected to and yet a surge of adrenalin had her on the edge of her seat, eyes bulging wide and her mouth firmly shut. 

Anna had seen on several occasions through her love of watching wildlife programmes, tribes of monkeys and apes suddenly divide and be at war with each other, when the hierarchy structure is shifting or in jeopardy.  It usually ended up with lots of squawks from all members of the pack, warning calls and chanting for respect and order to be maintained.  The outcome would normally conclude with two of the most dominant members of the pack physically fighting, until one unfortunately died or was left an outcast.  She couldn’t help but feel this state of affairs was similar in so many ways.

She stood up from the sofa and wanted to interject with reasoning and calm, but they wouldn’t have listened.  Fuelled by alcohol and emotions their actions were not genuine to their personalities’.  A small disagreement over an innocent act by one and an overreaction of the other had resulted in a small party of friends in conflict.

Then a voice penetrated the room and the whole group fell silent.

“This is Big Brother.  Would Christine please come to the diary room,” there was a dramatic pause.  “Chantelle and Morgan please make your way to the bedroom immediately.  All other housemates are to remain in the living area!”

The theme music began and the title page hit the screen. It was over.

How dare they stop the show like that?  She flicked frantically through the channels until she found the live-feed, but all she could hear was intermittent noise as the cameras focused on the housemates in the living area.  They all looked as bewildered as she felt inside.  She’d been watching for days, her body’s imprint on the sofa where she had been sitting, with discarded wrappers, dirty plates and the laptop with the website updates running on the screen. 

Tomorrow she would return to work, she promised herself, but she needed to keep an eye on this situation.

Lying on the other side of the road was a young boy, physically fighting with the air that surrounded him, thrashing his arms in a sporadic motion. Without hesitation Michael ran over to where the boy lay.

“HHhhhiiinnn-halor!” he wheezed, as he lay on the floor gasping.

Michael crouched down beside the young boy and put a hand on his shoulder to reassure him.  “Where is it mate?” he asked scrambling around on the pavement to see if the boy had dropped it in his mission for oxygen.

The boy gripped his own chest, and tried desperately to catch his breath, but it was no good.  He pointed using his other hand before lying flat on the ground, rasped heavily and screwed his eyes shut as if the pain was almost unbearable.

Michael looked around and saw a sports bag a few yards down the path next to a parked car.  “Is that your bag mate? Is the inhaler in there?”  The boy attempted to nod but the concentration of his breathing was too intense.  Michael ran to the bag and dragged it to the young man, unzipping pockets and spilling the contents on the ground. 

“Front? Back? Side? Which pocket is it in?” he asked.  He lifted out a new games console, followed by an MP3 player that lay in the main compartment, amongst some CDs and video games.  It definitely wasn’t in this section.  He unzipped the side pockets but nothing was in there apart from a hat and gloves. 

The boy winched and tried to grab the bag from Michael’s grip, as he pointed to the back pocket.  “Its in the back?” Michael asked spinning the bag around lunging into the last zipped pocket, like he was diving into the sea to save a drowning man.  The boy nodded.  He pulled out a variety of necklaces, followed by the inhaler.  He shook it vigorously as he handed it to the youngster.  The boy immediately pressed the top of it trying every attempt to inhale the airborne medication, but his breathing was so erratic, it was clear he would need medical attention.

Michael felt around in his tracksuit bottoms for his mobile phone.  The boy looked at him horrified as Michael requested an ambulance and gave the operator their location.  He attempted to grab hold of Michael’s hooded sweater, but fell back to the ground in pain and still struggling to breath.  As Michael hung up the phone, he leant down and got closer to the boy, “Whats up mate?  You need an ambulance, you can’t breathe!”

The boy shook his head and then winced from the pain.  “Whats your name?” Michael asked, but the boy didn’t answer.  He must have been in his very early twenties.  He was a slim build, but slightly toned upper body.  His branded jogging bottoms, were dirty from where he was thrashing on the concrete footpath, but his trainers were pristine white. 

Micahel kept reassuring the boy and getting him to breath in more of a rhythm, but although he was improving it was still aggravated and Michael could see the pain he must have been in. 

They soon heard sirens and Michael began scraping all the boys belongings off of the pavement back into the bag.  “Must’ve been a good Christmas,” he smiled trying to ease the tension, “looks like you got a lot from Santa,” he chuckled.  The boy just looked at him blankly, still gasping but the rhythm of his breathing gradually slowing down. 

Once the paramedics had arrived Michael’s part was done, but he couldn’t help worry about the lad, who he’d now found out was called Peter.  Michael stood on the curb, watching the paramedics load the boy onto a stretcher and then into the back of the ambulance.

That was the first time in five years he hadn’t completed at least one lap around the park, but he felt even more vindicated than normal.  He went home to put his feet up.

*   *   * 

Strangely he didn’t think about the boy until the next day after he’d returned home from work and had a knock at the door.

Two men in suits stood one behind the other.

“Mr Michael Roberts?” the first man asked looking at him sternly.

“Yes, that’s me,” Michael replied a little taken a back.

They both held up leather wallets revealing their police badges.

“Mr Michael Roberts, I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary and handling stolen goods.  You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used as evidence in a court of law.”

“What?! Burglary, are you mad?” Michael spluttered, as the second officer spun Michael around, pulling his arms behind his back, and clicking the hand cuffs around his wrists.”

“We have forensic evidence to connect you with a number of burglaries.”

“Forensic Evidence?” Michael was walked to the Police car parked outside his house, with the second officer still behind him, forcefully leading Michael from behind.

“Finger prints,” the second policeman said, “finger prints and perspiration over stolen goods from three different properties.  All will be explained.  In you get.”

Their relationship had changed since Becky had gone back to work after working from her home office four days a week.  Their endless lazy days pottering around the house together, had turned into the odd quiet night in snuggled up on the sofa.  If she went out with her friends she’d come home to find him out too, or worse completely vegged out and comatose on the sofa, which is where he’d remain until the following morning.

Becky had noticed he had been going out a lot more of late, especially in the evenings, which was out of character for him.  She didn’t question him about it, because she felt it was the attention which he was craving.  Instead she left him to his own devices, whilst she stayed at home and pondered over his whereabouts.

The gravy stain wasn’t the first clue he’d been enjoying home luxuries somewhere other  than their small dwelling.  Apart from the fact he’d been putting on a few pounds, he often came home smelling of ladies floral perfume.  One evening in fact, she could almost see a pink haze around his coat, with a sickly rose smelling poison hitting the back of her throat like a dagger to the tonsils.

It wasn’t long before the two of them merely existed in the same residence, dancing around each other’s routines and politely glancing at one another rather than asking where the other one had been or how their day was.  Becky felt intimidated by the unknown and scared of confronting him, just to be given another cold shoulder.

After a restless nights sleep, of him on the sofa and her upstairs listening intensely to each snore, she decided enough was enough.  She got up to her alarm and after her morning routine, got into her car as usual ready to go to work, but instead she only drove it off of the drive and a little way down the road, before she parked up around the corner, and switched of the engine.  She sat and waited.

It took an hour, but she soon caught sight of him walking down the garden path and turning up the street, in the opposite direction of where she hid.  Like a predator watching its prey, she sat rigid, the only muscles moving intentionally were her eye lids and internal organs.

The months of internal questioning inside her worried head and blank looks when she confronted him were about to be realised.  She watched as he shot up the alley way at the end of their street, and she leaped from the car and darted behind his shadow’s ambience.  She followed him for several minutes and even managed to manoeuvre a busy road without him seeing her.

It suddenly felt like she’d swallowed a wasp as her breath and heart both gasped and left her short of air for a split second.  She watched as he went down a driveway and a more mature ladies voice welcomed him excitedly and made kissing noises on the doorstep, before Becky heard the door slam shut.

She watched from the end of the driveway, peering through the branches of the shrubs, with ruby red leaves, almost crisp, but not yet autumnal enough to shed.  Her chest was breathing very slowly, as if each breath was a sound barrier between her and them.

She watched as the two-timing-cheat stood in the kitchen, the modernised spot lights highlighting his swindling face.  His eyes were fixed on the lady in red, his head moving like a clock pendulum as she sauntered around the kitchen.  Becky guessed her to be almost twice her age and was wearing what seemed to be a silk red robe over her black night gown.  Hussy.

As Becky gazed heartbroken into the kitchen of another woman, she could see the two becoming more in sync with each others movements, as the over-familiar female fed him smoked salmon from her fingers tips.  Just like Becky and Butch had once been, the pair looked inseparable.  She had seen enough and although it was a painful decision to walk away, it was clear that her feline companion had opted for the grander standard of living.

Gavin sat on the small cushioned stool, his head in his hands. He starred at the small etchings on the fence panel, of stickmen with superhero capes. He and Billy had sat for hours one late evening, etching them into the wood with rusty nails. They had been learning about Egyptian hieroglyphics at school and wanted to invent their own type of language using themselves as Superheroes.

It all started when Billy had run away from home, because his parents were arguing one evening. He’d snuck out of bed and run to Gavin’s house, which happened to only be a few houses down the street. Billy had flung smarties at Gavin’s bedroom window with his catapult. They sat up in the tree house with flashlights and hot water bottles. The weather hadn’t been kind to the poor etchings, but they were still visible and made Gavin smile.

He sighed as the wind tickled the leaves and the branches swayed ever so slightly, making the tree house creak, like an old floorboard.

Gavin and Billy had always been the best of friends, from before either of them could ever remember. Billy was a small boy and never really seemed to grow, unlike Gavin who was average build but slightly taller than his classmates. Each birthday the two of them would mark their heights on the inside wall of the tree-house. From the age of seven to twelve, Billy’s only moved in millimetres rather than centimeters.

Gavin was forever sticking up for him and warning off bullies. Being slightly taller had its advantages. He didn’t need to threaten them or even show any aggression, he just stood next to Billy and stared at the bullies face on. They soon disappeared.

The only time Billy was able to protect Gavin, was when the two of them were caught smoking, by Gavin’s mum. Billy hated it from the first mouthful of grey smoke he drew in, but Gavin got the taste for it. He would often have a sneaky cigarette in the tree house, until one day his mum caught them with fags behind their ears climbing the makeshift ladder. Billy automatically snatched the cigarette from Gavin’s ear and pleaded with her that they were his. Both boys knew full well Gavin’s mum would have punished him severely for it, whereas Billy’s parents would just use it as another argument topic. Truth was Billy hated it and couldn’t inhale the smoke without coughing his guts up, like an old man with an eighty a day habit.

Gavin flicked his cigarette ash with the tap of his thumb and moved his feet so it didn’t land on his trainers. He noticed the large oval shaped scorch mark, on the uneven planks of wood. He remembered trying to build a fire in the tree house, without realising the metal container he and Billy were using as a stove, not only got hot, but was sitting directly on top of wood. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the mad rush and dive-kick Billy had performed to get the metal basin, alight with firewood, out of the tree house before the whole thing went up in smoke. It was the funniest kung-fu type manoeuvre Gavin had ever seen. But it had worked.

This tree house had definitely seen its fair share of life since its construction. But unlike a photo album, it held so many living memories. From the scorched floor to the actual pieces that held it together. It had taken months of boyish adventures and improvisation to get it looking the way it was today.

He looked over at Billy, who smiled back at him. “It’s going to be OK Gav. We’ve tackled trickier things mate. Getting that car door up ‘ere was our first mission together,” he laughed. “ya sis chasing you down the street cause you broke every single one of her skipping ropes was the second challenge. Although genius idea of using them to hoist the door up to the tree,” he laughed. “It took us all summer to save up our chore money to buy her new ones.”

Gavin nodded and took a huge inhale of the sparked cigarette, exhaling the smoke from his nose.

“Gavin!” his mum called from outside on the grass below. “Gavin!”

He stood up, almost hitting his head on surf board. He wound down the window of the Beetle’s faded red door and stuck his head out. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly.

“Honestly Gavin, this isn’t the time to be up there reminiscing. Get down here now.”

He winced slightly as he tried climbing out of the opened window. It had been much easier when he was nine.

“Gavin, your wife is in labour, get out of there and stop fretting man, you’re going to be a great dad! And Billy, put that damn cigarette out!

It was nothing more than a spy cam into everyone’s lives, but it would seem people couldn’t resist posting on their comrade’s electronic fence and updating their every move. Like bees, they went about their daily business but were frequently lured in by the sweet sticky smell of pollen, or in this case, just plain nosiness.

Josie found it astonishing how much power a small heart shaped symbol could gain, as it collected more thumbs up and words of congratulations than an award winning film, on a critic’s page of a national newspaper. It was even more amusing, that the same heart symbol ripped in half, received twice as many applauds and encouraging comments and ‘You’re better off without him’ remarks. Yet the people graffitiing on these personal circumstances hadn’t seen you face-to-face in over ten years.

She smiled as she clicked on the ‘Topical timeline’s’ button, which was the recent record of her comrades posts. It was as if these testimonies played a huge significance in people’s lives, but when it really came down to it, would anyone remember these fascinating events? She chuckled to herself as she imagined what her comrade’s tombstone might read: “Kathy Jenkins; A beloved Mother, Daughter and Friend. Gone but never forgotten. Had a lush roast beef dinner, nom nom nom, at 18.27 on May 2011”.

Nevertheless, Josie was obsessed with the constant stream of activity which was updated by the second. She had thought about joining an addicts group, but that would mean giving up on the drug that was social networking. Blinking quickly she removed the thought from her mind and continued to rummage through the information on the screen, like a jumble sale, casting aside the dreary jumpers until she found the unwanted Prada item.

‘Joshua Giles: has just eaten a magnificent dinner cooked by his lovely wife Emma Giles’. This was surprising, as Emma had been in the same Home Economics class as Josie at school. She was best remembered for mistaking dried yeast for wholemeal flour and totally destroying a whole classroom, trying to bake bread.

‘Allen Brittan: is chill-axing!’ Considering he hadn’t had a job since the day he left school ten years ago, it was no wonder he was relaxing at home.

‘Cassie Anfield: loves her children dearly, but wishes they would be quiet for just ten bloody minutes.’ Interesting. Cassie was the only girl in the school’s history to get sent out of an exam room because she couldn’t keep quiet for a whole sixty minutes. Her classmates, including Josie, who had sat next to her in the exam room, could see Cassie almost physically explode, as they approached the sixty minute mark. Her eyebrows and waxed top lip, formed small sweat beads through sheer strain of keeping her mouth closed, for what seemed the longest period of her life. It wasn’t surprising her children were as raucous.

Daly Lewis’ account hadn’t been active for nearly three months now, which was a shame as Josie loved reading his updates of what goods he claimed to have ‘acquired’ and was selling at rock bottom prices. He had been the same at school. Bringing in a rucksack full of sweets and pop; selling them on for a profit. Children used to go to him before the school cafeteria, calling him “The Daly convenience”. She guessed that his inactivity online was due to no internet access in prison.

Josie sat back in her chair and continued to snip away slowly at the photograph of herself from when she was younger. She was making a collage of her past. Her therapist had said it would help her move on and establish a more stable future. But the collage was uninspiring compared to the boost she was getting from ‘Lifebook’.

It was nothing more than a game of popularity for some of them, although they would never admit it. Not only did they try and get as many comrades on their lists as possible, but they soon insisted on ‘pinning’ people in their Topical Timelines; labelling themselves with groups of friends to make them seem sociable and trendy.

The funniest incident Josie had seen was last weekend, when ‘Meg Hathaway’ had posted she was out celebrating her birthday, ‘pinning’ comrades to her timeline. Josie couldn’t help but imagine Meg physically tying each one down with a ball and chain, insisting they stayed for the duration of her birthday drinks.

This image was confirmed when Meg’s comrade remarked on the Timeline location with, “Oh glad you having a good time on your birthday Meg, only I’m at home and so are most of the group you’ve listed. Get a life love!!!” Having her beady eye on this juicy piece of pollen, Josie noticed this comment not only vanish, but the camaraderie between Meg and her friend, disengage from each other within minutes. Social Networking Gold in Josie’s eyes.

Maybe one day she would explain to those who claimed to be her friend in the cyber world what she’d been through.

The fact of the matter was, they probably wouldn’t understand, or in fact recognise her in the cold harsh reality world. This is why she had two separate profiles on the Social Networking site.

Josie Miller had over four hundred acquaintances in cyber space, but her new account had just twenty. After all, there were only two dozen people in the whole world who now knew Josie as Jake and at least four of those people were doctors or surgeons.

He looked around for the broom, which was stood in its rightful place next to the overalls and other gardening equipment. He missed his chum Errol and the sight of his overalls hanging up, hit home that he was gone. Not to mention the small task of burying him at some point today.

His body was in the next room, a room Archie had no intentions of revisiting since he’d put him there two days previous. As he stared at the broom it was as if the door became transparent, like clingfilm. He could see him, lying there, just like the day he died.

It was cold and so was Errol; the air had a certain misty morning breath, clinging to the walls and ceiling. Archie shook his head and squeezed his eyelids together tightly, as if to shrink the images he was seeing. He grabbed the broom and took several steps backwards. He’d deal with him later.

The summer months were always comforting to Archie, as they had been to Errol. The two of them would go about their morning chores, meeting at ten thirty sharp every morning for the first treacle coloured brew and digestive biscuits, before setting off again on their own mid morning tasks, meeting again at two in the afternoon for their lunch.

Archie peered down nervously, at his watch. It was now ten forty and the thought of heading back inside was like a constant stabbing to the stomach. Who would he read the headlines out to today? Whose turn was it to fetch the biscuit tin from the filing cabinet? The same person as yesterday, Archie.

He swept the leaves with more force and hostility. The brushes bristles scrapping against the tarmac and crinkled leaves gathered in small mounds along the edge of the path. A small breeze tickled the leaves back to where Archie had just swept. He sighed. No matter how hard he tried and how much he took it out on the defenceless leaves, the main job of today would plague him until he undertook the inevitable.

Mumbling under his breath, he headed back to the office and leant the broom against the outside wall before heading inside, determined to face this task head on and in a gentlemanly fashion. If Errol was here now, he’d be telling Archie a rhyming phrase to give him encouragement, as he did with most daily tasks neither of them favored.

“A day without death, is a treat indeed; but a day without pain is like a hidden weed. It’ll grow unnoticed and in-bed its roots; You’ll have trouble removing it and its many shoots.”

Archie never really asked what Errol was prattling on about half the time, but he did kind of get the gist of his endless rhymes and it helped them through the day.

He stood for a while in the icy atmospheric room and closed his eyes. His best friend and workmate of forty years lay in that box. The box he’d put him in. Its shiny veneer was no match for Errol’s set of pearly whites he’d had fitted years ago.

A swelling formed in Archie’s throat and his eyes smouldered against the chilly surroundings, as he put a hand on top of the casket. “Its time my old friend,” he whispered, “I guess this is the end,” he sniggered, “Haha I rhymed. You’d of been proud of that one mate!”

Errol had lived a simple, but bright and vibrant life, as he lived for his flowers. As he had never married or had any children, each new bud and fallen leaf was like his family. He nurtured them in a way not even Archie understood. The Gardens of Jones Street Crematorium were his pride and joy as he maintained them seven days a week, three hundred and sixty four days a year. He only took Christmas day off, because Archie insisted they ate together, a day of rest for them both to enjoy – after they had both visited their loved ones in their places of rest.

With Errol as the gardener and Archie the Undertaker, the local place of rest for the deceased, had always been in safe hands. But cremating your best friend and companion made the job feel tainted. There was only one place Archie knew Errol would want to be scattered.

With the sun shining down on his bare head, like a spot light on the stage, Archie stood above the roses. His shadow looked dominant and yet lonely. He unfolded a small piece of paper he’d retrieved from his pocket and cleared his throat. He began to scatter the ashes over the roses like fine waves of icing sugar it settled on the delicate petals and soft brown soil. He began to read:

“Errol, my old chum, you were one of a kind. You and me were like brothers. I’ll miss ya, without question,” he stopped scattering to wipe a tear from his cheek. “But I know you’d hate me being miserable. So I wrote down one of your favourite rhymes. You used to tell me it whenever I had a client whom we knew well. Never have I needed more help with my job than I have the last few days. Here goes:

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

Love and hate

Anger or lust

Conifers are green

Roses are red

The World spins round

Whether you’re living or dead

Her back packing trip across South Africa had only started a few weeks ago and she had seen so much already.  The small, yet busy Saturday market, selling fresh meats, cheeses and breads, was a world away from the supermarkets back in England.  Fresh meat prepared and cooked in homemade shacks, acting as vendors.  The smells hitting the back of her throat, whilst the accents of local villagers had buzzed around her ears was an immense and captivating feeling.  She felt the atmosphere surround her like a blanket and snuggle her gently, whilst opening her eyes to a new civilization

Today she stood starring at the fields of wild flowers.  A carpet of Namaqualand daisies, lipstick red and vibrant.  The warmth of the colours that surrounded her and the humidity was an ambience she had never experienced before and probably could only be understood by someone who was standing beside her, a feast for all her senses.  She had seen them in photos and books, but seeing them first hand, had been her burning passion and determination for this adventure.  She wanted to spread her arms out wide and spin in circles around and around, falling into the sea of petals, like a school girl covered in handmade daisy chains.

She sat for a while taking in the views and writing in her journal.  The photos she’d taken on her digital camera would look amazing, but reading the experiences and feelings first hand would certainly prove to her mother why she had needed to take the trip.  Having been opposed to the idea of her daughter travelling a million miles from home, alone, her mother just needed reassurance and letters home, proving not only Alice’s independence but that her daughter was embracing life and hadn’t been abducted by aliens.

As she put her journal inside her rucksack she lifted her nose into the air and breathed a huge belly full of South African oxygen, a dense substance to that back home, which mainly smelt of petrol.  She could see a house sitting up on the hills, a large looking house even from this distance.  She was keen to find herself a hostel for the evening and that seemed like her only option so far, having left most of civilisation behind yesterday.

A bead of sweat trickled from underneath her fringe, down her nose and sat at the end of it, like a nervous abseiler, before she swiped it away with her bare wrist.  This didn’t look like a hostel, closer up, in fact quite the opposite.    

The house was lavish compared to the huts she had seen in the villages and markets.  The bright white walls, beige clay floor tiles and green foliage covered the outside.  The estate looked almost the size of her street in England, that alone her house. 

She pushed open the black railing gates and was met by a man in long shorts, linen shirt and sandals.  He smiled at her “Hello.  My name is Moswen,” he bellowed, “Welcome.  Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

Alice nodded, taken aback slightly.  This wasn’t the normal boarding house she’d been used to.

She was ushered up the path leading towards the front door.  She saw a young girl of a similar age in the garden pruning the shrubs, whilst another slightly older girl was cleaning out the mosaic lined pool.  They made slight eye contact, before Alice was escorted into the house by the man as he pushed her slightly with his hand in the ridge of her back.

“Why of course.  Come, come, let me show you around,”

As they walked around the house,  it was obvious this wasn’t a hostel, from the fine furnishings and show house type cleanliness about the whole place.  The bedrooms were magnificent, with large poster beds and views as far as the eye could see.

As they came down the stairs, a young boy of about ten, hurried past them holding a tray with one hand with drinks of various descriptions.  

“His name is Abri” the man smiled.  He seemed to have a permanent smile on his face.  “He is the owners son. Now, let me show you to your room.”

They walked down a stone staircase to what seemed like a basement.  The atmosphere seemed different down here, but calmer.  They walked down a corridor, with about half a dozen doors along either side.  They walked right to the end, and the man opened the heavy wooden door with one of the keys hanging from his many bunches.

“You can sleep here,” the man smiled.

“Thank you.  Thank you very much.” She pulled a small bundle of money from her pocket and asked how much it was for the room.  The man looked at her and then the money, then back to her again. 

He laughed.

“You don’t need to pay us,” he said politely, “you’ll pay us back remarkably well”, he smirked looking her up and down.  Before she had time to question what he meant, he guided her into the room and took the bundle of money from her hand.  He laughed again before shutting the door and the key turning in the lock.

She turned to look around at the room.  There was nothing more than a single mattress, a small barred window and a sink.  A small carving had been etched into the brickwork next to the rusty hinge of the door.  She read it allowed, as her heart sank: “You walk in as a traveller, you die as a slave! Damn those pretty red daisies!”

She led her Gran and Pops into the living room, sitting them down comfortably and handing her Gran a tissue.  As she passed her the tissue, her Gran clasped Gemma’s hand in between both of her own, her tired but soft skin slightly dappled with age spots.  Her Gran squeezed Gemma’s hand tenderly, “You’re a gem Gemma.  You really are.”

She sat back in the armchair and listened to her Grandparents as they spilled their hearts out to her.  She was so glad she had brought the bottle of Brandy into the living room with her.  Like a comfort blanket she held the bottle’s neck as it sat by her side in the armchair.

She felt like she was eavesdropping on this awful tale through a bubble.  Their voices slightly muffled and her eye beginning to glaze over faintly, from more of the family’s twisted past.  She hadn’t envisaged this when she came round for the family meeting.  Her Gran began, tears a given remedy for divulging the sordid foundation of Uncle Bill’s life.  Gemma tried to recall the number of times she had seen her Gran cry, besides when she wept at her mother’s funeral.  She couldn’t remember any really.  She was a together lady, soft and gentle with her grandchildren, but firm when needed.  Respect was her middle name, well it should have been.

Gemma could feel the tension of decades being stripped off of her Grandparents, like kebab meat on a spit, as they explained how Uncle Bill had been a twin.  Gran had lost his identical sister in the womb, at six months old, but had no choice but to continue with the pregnancy, until full term, giving birth to William and his sister Winnie, naturally.  Winnie had been put to rest, the day after she was brought into the world and Pops and Gran had tried to compensate William for the loss, ever since. 

The Doctors said that William suffered from depression from as young as a few days old, a loneliness that could only be put down to missing his twin.  Even from a foetus of a few weeks old the doctors had explained that the twins had a bond and William might feel the loss of his sister for his entire lifetime.

Gemma’s Grandparents sat and explained how as young as three-years-old, William had developed almost two different personalities and two contrasting sides of himself.  He could be a loving calm child one minute and turn into animated and rowdy little boy the next, getting the attention of both his parents day in and day out.

“The strangest thing was, he had also made two sets of completely different friends,” Pops explained as he looked down at the floor, as if the worn patch in the carpet near his feet, was about to magically open up and give him the  answers he so desired.  “Boisterous and mischievous group of boys, with whom he was always getting into scrapes and bother with.  And then a quiet and studious set of friends, who were mainly girls.”

 “William often pretended he was a pirate, hopping around on his left leg, explaining his right foot was broken and he couldn’t walk on it.  You could say it was coincidence, but that is more than coincidental in my opinion.”  Gran looked up at Gemma, for the first time since they had sat down to explain their uncharacteristic outburst.   “Winnie had been born with a club foot; the doctors said this was a result of her lying in the womb awkwardly and therefore making the foot grow slightly inwards.  Winnie’s club foot was her right one!”

“It’s got to be coincidence Pops.  That’s impossible, he couldn’t of known at that age or understand” Gemma said amazed and slightly inebriated from her 4^th glass of brandy.

“He had no idea.  We didn’t tell him until he was much older.  But deep down, we are convinced he knew.  Imagine lying within a few centimeters apart from your sisters in a sleeping bag, not for nine weeks, but nine months. Every movement they make, every emotion they feel, you know about it. Add to this the fact that William and Winnie were identical twins, who came from the same egg, the same, you know,” Pops looking slightly embarrassed to use the word ‘sperm’ to his adult granddaughter, “they had the same genetic stuff.”

Gemma nodded.  It was as if she could see the burden of her grandparents past lifting from their shoulders with every second of information they disclosed.  It was starting to make sense why Uncle Bill, William, was so messed up, confused and a loner.  It would seem he was born into a dilemma from the day he was conceived. 

A text message from Ryan came through on Gemma’s phone.  “Sorry for runnin off.  Head is a mess.  Stayin wiv Kim 2nite.  Love Ry x”

A small sense of relief filled Gemma’s stomach, like a kettle gently boiling and warming through her body slowly, she could stay here and get to the bottom of all this.  She thought the final jig-saw puzzle pieces would fall into place once Ryan had been told and the family members could individually find a way to repair the past.  However, it would seem the puzzle had suddenly been extended by a hundred pieces. 

The past had obviously taken its toll on her Grandparents, more than she had given them credit.  Pops in particular, a calm and gentle giant, must have been simmering at the surface only to find today’s revelations to Ryan, a vent of fresh air, which he needed to inhale.

“Does dad know all of this?” Gemma quizzed.

“He knows what he needed to,” Pops said almost dismissing his eldest son.

Gemma was getting the impression Pops had been hiding his feelings for her Dad too, with the sharp undertones of his reply.

It wasn’t the ideal day to play football, light ribbons of rain falling on the boys and the pitch, but any day was a great day for football in their eyes. Zak had a purpose today, so the determination fuelled his bones like a coal fire at the heart of a steam engine.

The cameras were on him. The need to achieve had no room for failure in this match. Zak’s facial expressions seemed stern and yet focused, his eyes darting around the pitch and following the balls every move. His team knew how much this match meant to Zak and tried their hardest to pass him the ball and then watch the magic happen. His feet would guide the ball as he sprinted towards the goal, delicate yet controlled, his feet almost mimicking the Irish dancers as they danced by the River.

“Goal”, screamed the coach, “Zak you beauty!”

* * *

As he pressed play on the DVD player, the television screen went from static snow to a green soggy field a wash with ten year old boys pointing and yelling to one another. Two minutes into the match the red coloured shirts all screamed his name “ZAK!!!”. He smiled and squeezed his dad’s hand.

The hospital room smelt humorously familiar. Like the time his dad spilt aftershave onto his mums cleaning cloth in the bathroom, announcing a new cleaning smell that wasn’t boring citrus or girly flowers.

The match had finished and the TV screen returned to a blizzard. Zak looked at his dad who was motionless in the bed. One day he’d wake up and Zak could show him these DVDs of the times he’d missed. Zak’s football; Chloe’s first steps; the birthday party the four of them had around his bedside whilst he lay in the coma.

Zak got on his hands and knees to take the DVD from the machine. As he placed it into its protective sleeve, the equipment above him began to beep, he looked up at the screens next to his dads bed. Each computer screen began shouting ferociously at each other, as they began to flat-line. Now he was the one who was motionless and unable to breathe.

As he scrambled to his feet, his heart beating faster than any football match he’d been in, he was met by his dad’s face.
“Zak…” he smiled, pulling the remaining wires from his chest.

It was dark and the thought of moving an inch made her joints cease and her breathing become shallower as she listened to the voices.  She didn’t want to reach for the light, not only because of the squeaky floorboards, but the glow of the light seeping under the door and surrendering her hiding place.

She could hear them downstairs, rummaging through cupboards and muffled voices. She could almost feel the tension from the room below, as the tones began to rise.  A door slammed from what sounded like the kitchen and footsteps sprinted up the stairs and then stopped.

The silence was deadening.

She could hear her heart beat in her ear drums, like a bass drum.

She closed her eyes tight, the darkness behind her eye-lids was no different from her current surroundings, but she was trying desperately to heighten her hearing by deadening other senses.  She held her breath and closed her mouth, pursing her lips slightly like a spoilt child who had been told ‘No’ after asking for their favourite sweet.

She heard her bedroom door opening in the room next door and footsteps walk around the bed and back out onto the landing.  The footsteps got closer.

As she sat on the edge of the bath, the small ridge pinching at her bum cheeks, she put her head in hands, covering her mouth and nose.  She could see his shadow lurking outside the bathroom door.  It moved into the bedroom opposite, switched on the light and mumbled something under his breath.  After further delving in drawers, cupboards and what sounded like piles of books or toy boxes, the footsteps began to move away and hover by the stairs again.

A small sigh left her nostrils, which took her by surprise.  She held her breath, her cheeks now puffed out and her eyes widened, as the footsteps began to make their way back down the landing towards her sanctuary.

“Charlie”, a voice screamed from downstairs.  “Is she up there?”

The door handle began to turn and the door rattled as he began pushing it from the other side frantically, only to find it locked.

An annoyed and incensed grunt echoed through the wall cavity.

Her whole body felt deflated.  Her time was up.

The voice bellowed through the hinged seam on the door frame, “Mum, why are you hiding in the bathroom? Me and Chloe have been looking for you.  We’re bored and the baby needs changing!”

She lifted her head up from its perch, defeated.  “I just want 5 minutes peace and quiet! Is that too much to ask for Charlie?”