Chapter 1

Nick Dowty sat alone in his office above the silent factory. All around him the clamour of unanswered phones bombarded his brain like a flock of angry seagulls attacking a municipal garbage dump.

It was eleven o’ clock on a bright Tuesday morning in the middle of January. This was the seventeenth year he had ruled over his kingdom from the comfort of his familiar leather swivel chair. He stared out with unseeing eyes over the snow-covered golf course that surrounded the factory. The bank manager was due at any moment. Nick had spent the whole of the previous week dissecting the December management accounts. Despite his best efforts his attempt to construct a plausible explanation for his company’s precipitous plunge into losses had failed totally. They were in deep trouble and for the first time since he’d started the business all those years before he wasn’t sure he could conjure up yet another miracle to keep the business alive. The last strategic review he had conducted had been implemented only two years previously. That solution – to lower prices and diversify away from their overdependence on one customer - hadn’t worked. Now the situation was even worse. The scale of the losses was such…their debts were so great… Things were so bad it was hard to think straight any more.

From down below in reception he could hear the angry buzz arising from the steady stream of creditors demanding to be paid. He knew there was no cash to pay them. Any minute now the electricity could be cut off and the building would grind to a halt. Eventually even the phones would fall silent. Starved of cash, the oxygen of business, the company was rapidly dying. The bank was his last chance, he had nowhere else to turn. He knew that this meeting was going to be the stage for the most important performance of his life. If the bank manager swallowed the story he was about to spin, his thin tale of distant hope and ultimate redemption, they still had a chance. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the noise of those bloody phones. They didn’t have a job on their books, he’d fired half his staff, and yet it was bedlam in here.

Starting a business was like going to war, he thought to himself. Easy to start but almost impossible to stop. The creditors were the enemy, like the Viet Cong they never gave up. The phones were like gunfire, a non-stop bombardment, assaulting your senses, driving you mad. Nick would give anything for five minutes peace and quiet.

He was still slumped in his chair when Alan Tait, the senior business director from the bank, walked into the room, smiling self-consciously, his right hand extended palm upwards. Nick had dealt with him ever since he had founded the business. Over the years they had become friends.

“No chance of a game today,” Alan Tait said, nodding at the view through the picture window as he deftly avoided direct eye contact.

Nick stood up and grasped the familiar limp, damp hand, suppressing a shudder as he did so. It was the kind of grip you would expect an undertaker, or maybe a priest, to have. “Not in this weather, Alan.”

“Sit down, Nick. You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me.”

Nick lowered himself back into his leather reclining chair and stared up at the bank manager as he stood over by the window surveying the view he was about to repossess. It was the first time anyone had ever told Nick what to do in his own office, his own little kingdom.

“Still, the forecast is good,” continued the bank manager, smiling pleasantly, “The snow might have gone by tomorrow. Something to look forward to.”

Nick was looking forward to the future with as much pleasurable anticipation as he did when he leaned back in the dentist’s chair. “Maybe I’ll get a round in at the weekend. If I get time.”

Alan Tait smiled sympathetically. “You look like you could do with a break.”

“Yeah. This business grinds you down all right. Firefighting the whole bloody time. I feel like I’ve been doing it all my life.”

“It’s been a tough year.”

“You’re not wrong there.”

Nick waited. He knew from innumerable similar meetings over the years that they had reached the limit of their ritual small talk. What happened next was what counted. Although he was in a tight corner he had done his best to prepare for the fight, drawing on all his experience to marshall his depleted defences.He knew he could offer some reasons for the grim numbers. Orders cancelled at the last minute. Cost overruns due to the increase in the price of steel. More work being switched to India and China by cost-conscious multi-nationals.

Despite the recent gloomy trading performance he had rehearsed his tale of an exciting future a thousand times in his head. Another new strategy. Even lower prices and higher volumes. More emphasis on marketing. Additional investment in new, cleverer machines. He sighed. The scenario was depressingly similar to many others he had recited over the years. Years when he had struggled to build up the company from nothing, to turn his dreams into reality. He sometimes thought that it had only been his blind faith in the future which had kept the company alive for so long.

Alan Tait opened his briefcase and took out a buff-coloured folder. “I’ve studied your management accounts for December, Nick. As you rightly say in your commentary they’re pretty bad. Disastrous in fact. No cause for any optimism at all.”

“It’s the Chinese, Alan. There’s no way we can compete with their prices. We’ve tried to fight back by cutting overheads. It’s not enough. We need more investment. I’ve made the case in my Business Plan. Smart manufacturing is the only way we can compete against foreign labour costs.”

Alan Tait shook his head slowly. “You’re way too highly geared as it is, Nick. You don’t see an upturn here in the North Sea?”

“They’re spending more but it’s all being made abroad.”

“It’s the story of British manufacturing.”

“I should have seen it coming.”

“No one saw it coming, Nick. People never do. History teaches us nothing until it’s too late.”
Nick swivelled round in his chair and gazed out across the snowy blanket that had completely obliterated the familiar bumps and hollows of the adjacent golf course. He had battled so long to keep the business afloat. There was a time when he would have killed anyone who got in the way. Not now. He had fought himself to a standstill. Suddenly he felt oddly detached from the fate of the company that had once been his whole life. If he had been a soldier he would now be lost behind enemy lines, reeling from acute battle fatigue, on the point of surrender. There was only so much a person could take, no matter how tough you thought you were. He said, “The signs were there for anyone who dared to look. What I didn’t foresee was the speed with which the big oil companies would stop spending locally. Work from the North Sea has just dried up. Everyone’s hurting. None of our competitors have got a job in their workshops.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t do you much good.”

“No, I guess not. I’ve seen it bad before but not like this. It’s worse than ‘86. Much worse.”

“You wonder where it’s all going to end.”

“Yeah. The Chinese have eaten our lunch.”

“Whatever, Nick. Anyway, we need to get down to business.”

Nick frowned. He could smell the bad news coming and it made him gag. This was the moment he had been dreading for weeks, years maybe. “Sure. What do you propose?”

The bank manager coughed. He looked embarrassed. Nick felt his insides turning to ice. Although he knew what was coming he still wasn’t prepared for the speed at which his world was collapsing. “I know why you’re here alright, Alan.”

“The numbers say it all, Nick. The bank has already given you time to sort things out but you’re still overstretched. Your overdraft…it’s growing bigger every day. The bank can’t let it go on.”

Nick noted how the conversation had suddenly taken an impersonal turn. The bank manager was already distancing himself from the bad news that was about to follow. He smiled wryly to himself, despite the gravity of the situation. The games these people played. He said, “I’ve always been overstretched, Alan. That’s the nature of this industry. Those machines out there in the workshop cost a small fortune. This is a capital intensive business. When the customer gets busy you’ve got to put in extra capacity if you want to stay on the merry-go-round with them. If you don’t they’ll go elsewhere. The irony is that the more successful we are the deeper in debt I get. Now the merry-go-round has suddenly stopped spinning. Leaving me buried beneath a mountain of debt with no way to pay it off.”

A flicker of irritation darted across the bank manager’s eyes. “I don’t want to get into a debate with you, Nick.” Suddenly they were no longer old friends. No longer equals. “This thing has gone beyond my level. The guys in head office are uncomfortable with the extent of your borrowing. They want to get as much of their capital back as they can while there’s still some residual value left in those machines.”

“They’re worried about the machines?”

“That’s right.”

“And the people? Are they worried about the people who are going to be thrown onto the scrapheap? What about them?”

“They’ll find other jobs. The supermarkets are crying out for people. They can re-train as plumbers. They’ll probably be better off in the end.”

Nick clenched his fists and stared defiantly at the bank manager. “That’s so short-sighted. In six months time it will all be different, Alan, I promise you. This is a great little company we’ve built up here. That hasn’t changed just because we’ve had a couple of bad months. As soon as they start looking for oil again in the North Sea we’ll be making money hand over fist. You’ll even be asking me out to lunch again.”

Alan Tait didn’t smile. “It’s too much of a risk, Nick. Who can say where the price of oil will be in six months time? If Japan falls back into recession and China cools down it could quite possibly go lower. If the chancellor slaps on another windfall tax. Who knows? I’m sorry, I really am. The sad truth is the bank isn’t in the risk business. Anyway, it’s too late. The decision has already been taken.”

Nick had been determined to stay cool but the dam holding back his emotions finally burst. “Jesus, Alan, what kind of a risk is it for the bank? I’m the one taking all the risk. I’m the one who’s borrowed all the bloody money. The bank’s got me by the fucking balls. I’ve even put my house on the line for the bank. That shows how much faith I’ve got in the business. We’ve got some great people here. A fantastic team. I’m proud to work with them, they’re like my family. Despite that I’ve made cutbacks. Last week I paid off six people. Six of my friends. I’ve slashed our capital spending. We’ve all taken a pay cut. I’ve even put one of the big horizontal boring machines up for sale. With any luck that’ll bring in three hundred grand. I’ve already taken all the tough decisions. All I need now is a bit more time and this will all work itself out.”

“I’m sorry, Nick. Like I said the time for action is past. You’ve been in the last chance saloon for too long.”

Nick was getting desperate. “Look Alan, I’ve prepared some new projections based on our lower break-even point. They look pretty encouraging. Take a look at these spreadsheets.”
The bank manager didn’t move.

“Please, Alan,” Nick pleaded.

“Nick, I’ve just told you it’s too late for all this. I warned you six months ago. You should have acted then.” He glanced at his watch. “I told you this would happen if you breached your loan covenants. The liquidators will be here shortly.”

“Liquidators?”

“Within an hour.”

“Not the receivers? You’re not even going to keep the business going while you look for a buyer?”

“It’s not worth the effort. All they want to do is flog off those machines for whatever they can get and cut their losses. Look, it’s not just you. You can’t push water uphill. Manufacturing in this country is dying on its feet. Everyone else is in the same boat. If you want my opinion the whole bloody country’s going to the dogs. The bank wants to sell off the assets for whatever it can get and wrap things up as quickly as possible. Don’t waste your energy trying to fight them.”

Nick absorbed the bitter news through his skin, as if he had been drenched in cold water. He shook his head. “It’s a criminal waste and you bloody know it, Alan. This is still a good business with a great reputation. It’s worth fighting for. Christ, I’ve been fighting for it most of my adult life.”

“I’m sorry, Nick, I really am.”

Nick sighed. In his heart he knew it wasn’t the bank manager’s fault. Alan was a man whose advice and opinions he had come to respect over the years. He was only the messenger. Come to that, maybe this disaster wasn’t even the bank’s fault. The world was changing. George Bush’s war on terror. Al Quaeda. China booming. The Russian oligarchs. Who knew what was going on in the world?. Shell overstating its reserves. A butterfly flapped its wings in Saudi Arabia and the price of oil was all over the place. You couldn’t build a secure future on chaos. “Don’t be sorry, Alan. I was expecting it. Most small businesses are only a few months away from failure, even the successful ones. A couple of months of losses and suddenly you’re staring into the abyss. It’s the game we’re in. I knew the risk I was taking running my own company. I don’t blame you.”

The bank manager moved slowly towards the door. He looked genuinely unhappy at the turn of events. “It’s always sad when something like this happens to a well-run company like yours, Nick. Especially when it’s due to circumstances beyond your control.” The bank manager seemed reluctant to leave, as if he was fascinated by the sight of a still-twitching corpse. “What will you do now?”

“Me? I don’t know. Get a job I guess. If anyone will employ me at my age. Maybe if I can persuade Maureen to leave her teaching job we can sell the house and make a fresh start somewhere else. Go abroad perhaps. Somewhere where they still make things.”

The bank manager coughed. He peered down at his feet, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “About the house, Nick. Don’t forget you put it up as security for all those loans. You must understand it belongs to the bank now. It’s no longer yours to sell.”

Nick went white. “They’re going to call in my guarantee? I thought that was just a token gesture. A bit of paper.”

“They’ll let you stay there for a bit of course. Maybe a couple of months. But after that they’ll want vacant possession so they can put the house on the market. I know it seems harsh but that was the deal you agreed at the start of all this.”

Nick glared at the bank manager, a man he’d once considered a friend. This reminder that their home – Maureen’s pride and joy – no longer belonged to him was the bitterest outcome of all. He cursed himself for the cavalier way he had gambled with the family home, an act of incredible folly based upon his blind faith in his own ability. He’d gambled everything on making a success of the business. It was rapidly dawning on him that having lost the battle to save his company his world was about to be plunged into turmoil, a civil war with horrific consequences. He swallowed hard. “I can’t wait to tell Maureen,” he said dryly.

“I’m afraid that’s not all.”

Nick frowned. “Oh. What else?”

“You’ve given personal guarantees as well.”

“But I haven’t any money. Everything I have is tied up in the business. Jesus, they can’t get blood out of a stone.”

“They’ll take it out of your dole money if they have to. Maureen’s still working. She’s a joint signatory. They’ll go after her too. And if you get another job they’ll take the repayments out of your wages. They’re going to be on your back for a long time.”

“I’ll fight them.”

“You can’t win, Nick. They’ll sequestrate you. They won’t show any mercy.”

“So I’ll be bankrupt?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Nick turned and stared again over the frigidly beautiful white undulations of the empty golf course. It was a landscape suddenly devoid of life and hope. “It’s a hell of a price to pay for failure.”

“You have to face the consequences of your actions, Nick. You gambled and lost. Look, don’t quote me, but my advice is to get yourself a good lawyer.”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. When he finally spoke again he couldn’t disguise the bitterness in his voice. “All I ever wanted to do was to give my wife and son a good life. Nothing special. I just wanted to be a good husband that’s all. Twenty years ago I started with nothing and that’s exactly what I’ve ended up with. No, less than nothing. A mountain of debt which I’ll be paying off for the rest of my life.” He sighed. “To think I could have been a fucking teacher. Instead I became a fucking idiot.”

The bank manager shrugged and disappeared downstairs to prepare for the arrival of the liquidators. Nick turned back to the window and stared out for the last time at the view he had come to know so well. Everything looked so serene in the winter sunshine. Beautiful but bleak with no trace of life of any kind. It could have been the surface of the Moon. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the swivel chair. He had never felt so tired before and yet at the same time he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in years someone else had made a decision for him. At long last he didn’t have to think for himself any more, didn’t have the future of his business and everyone connected with it depending on him calling all the right shots. It was like being a kid again. With the death of his dream his responsibility to his old world had ended abruptly. The fight was over. He had lost.

He knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to start a new life at his age but in a funny sort of way he was already looking forward to the challenge. Starting off with a blank canvas. His metamorphosis could even be a lot of fun. He was still young at heart, had more energy and drive than many people half his age. Then there was all that hard-won commercial knowledge, wisdom even, that he had accumulated over the years. That had to be worth something. All he needed was to find someone to give him another chance. He was certain he could make a go of things second time around even if it meant working for someone else.

First though, he had to tell his staff the bad news. He picked up the phone and asked Alex Robertson, his operations manager, to come up at once.

“Bad news, Alex.”

Alex Robertson was in his sixties with a hard, expressionless face hewn out of granite . He’d learnt his trade in the shipyards on the Clyde and later with Rolls Royce making Spey jet engines at Prestwick. They’d worked together for over eight years through good times and bad. “What’s up?” the old man demanded gruffly.

“It’s the bank.”

“Oh, ay. What do they want from you now? Dae they nae ken ye canny get blood from a stane.”

“They’ve pulled the plug on us.”

“Ah. Some thought it was close right enough. Can you not fight them? Tell them things will pick up.”

“I’ve been telling them that for months. They don’t believe me any more. Maybe they’re right.”

“The bastards.”

“I’m sorry.”

The old man shrugged. “I was kind of expecting it to tell you the truth. We all were. The factory floor is like a graveyard out there. There’s not a job in the shop. How long have we got?”

“They’re closing the place immediately. I knew they might withdraw their support but it’s still a shock.”

“Aye well, shit happens.”

“It’s the guys out there in the workshop I feel sorry for.”

“I wouldnae worry about them. They’re always screaming for skilled men. They’ll be all right.”

“I guess. What about you? What will you do?”

“Me? Och, I need a break anyway. I’ll take the wife off to Tenerife for a few months till the winter’s past. After that? Who knows? Maybe I’ll get a job collecting trolleys in ASDA.”

“I’ll see you there.”

They both laughed. The old man frowned. “Seriously, what about yourself, Nick? What does this mean for you?”

Nick thought for a moment. “That’s a good question. I’ve got all this shit with personal guarantees and stuff. Then there’s the house which I put up for security. I just never believed it would come to this. I really don’t know what the future holds to tell you the truth.”

“Sounds like your arse is oot the windae and the crows are pecking at it.”

“You could say that.”

“How has Maureen taken it?”

Nick frowned. He never discussed business with his wife, tried to shield her from the pressures of running a small business. She knew things had been difficult lately but this development was going to come as a major shock. He dreaded the thought of breaking the news to her. “She doesn’t know yet.”

The old man winced. “Oh.”

“You better go and call the men together.”

“Nick?”

“What?”

“I’m nae much given to speeches but…weel, I jist want tae say you’re the best boss I’ve ever worked for, and I’ve worked for a few in ma time. You dinna deserve this.”

Nick felt a lump forming in his throat. Alex was a hard man who’d had a hard life. He did not hand out compliments – or condolences - lightly. “Thanks, Alex, it’s much appreciated. Okay, before I burst into tears you better get everyone together.”

The old man went off to assemble all the men in the canteen so that Nick could break the bad news. He stood up and looked around the office for the last time. The place had often felt like a prison in the past as he battled to keep the business afloat but he would still miss it. He crossed to the mirror in the corner and patted his hair and straightened his tie. He was shocked to see how much older he looked. His eyes seemed so dull, he looked utterly defeated. He felt a lump in his throat. The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, dear. Are you free to talk?”

It was Maureen. She almost never phoned him at work. He wondered if she’d somehow heard the bad news already. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. I’m just phoning to remind you about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The dinner party. I knew you’d forget. The Murrays and the Binneys remember. I invited them months ago. I’ve got a rack of lamb from the butchers. You’d said you’d pick up some nice wine on your way back.”

Nick sighed. That was all he needed. Forced to perform in front of his wife’s oh-so-successful friends in the present circumstances. Keeping up the pretence when all he wanted to do was crawl under a stone and hide. Not to mention the expense. Spending money they didn’t have.

“Nick, are you still there?”

“Sorry. Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all. I’m having a tough day.”

“You will remember the wine won’t you?”

“Yes.” He wondered how he was going to pay for it. He’d have to chance his arm with one of his credit cards. With any luck his Visa card might allow him to go even further over his limit. Just long enough for him to get out of the off-licence - like a bank robber making his getaway.

“And you won’t be late.”

“No.” He’d be early in fact. There was nothing for him here.

“Okay. Well. See you soon.”

“Er.” Maybe this was the right moment to tell her the bad news. Get it over with.

“What is it, Nick?”

“Er…nothing.”

“Are you all right, Nick? You sound very strange. Croaky. Are you getting a cold or something?”

“I expect so. My throat is sore.”

“Wrap up well in that case. Wear that scarf I bought you.”

“Okay.”

“And Nick.”

“What?”

“Cheer up, will you. These parties are hard enough as it is.”

“I don’t know why we bother.”

“Because it’s our turn, that’s why. Don’t be so antisocial.”

“All right. Sorry. See you later.”

He put down the phone and tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. It was the middle of January, they were only half way through another tough winter. The future looked bleak. The office suddenly seemed cold as if they had already turned off the central heating. He started shivering. It wasn’t just the cold though. He realised he was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life before. Some times in life you are on your own. Like when you’re sitting in that dentist’s chair. Or going bust. Or dying.

As he sat in his office for the last time he realised he was totally alone.

Chapter 2

In the event Nick’s much-abused credit card proved resilient enough to support the purchase of several bottles of fairly expensive claret. He was, he decided, in the mood to get drunk. Very drunk. Paralytic in fact. Well and truly smashed out of his head. Why not? Tomorrow he would be sober. And bankrupt. Time enough then to face the consequences.

“You’re early!” exclaimed Maureen, beaming, “And you’ve brought the wine!”

“I’ve brought lots of wine.”

“Oh dear. I don’t like that look in your eye. You’re not going to get drunk are you, Nick?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Nick reached up for the bottle of gin in the cabinet beside the cooker. “Want one?”

“It’s too soon for me. Listen, dear, go easy will you. You know what you’re like when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Nick tasted his gin and tonic, looking thoughtful. ”Witty? Entertaining? The life and soul of the party?”

Maureen made a face. “Argumentative. Boring. A royal pain in the butt.”

He took his drink through to the lounge and settled down with the local paper. It occurred to him that he’d probably be featuring in it soon. If not on the front page at least in the Public Announcement section where the liquidators would publish the winding up notice. Fame at last. Or notoriety at least. Soon everyone would know. All his friends. His fellow businessmen at the Chamber of Commerce. Public degradation would inevitably follow. At the very least he would be the talk of the village. Ritual humiliation manifested in scandalised whispers and knowing sideways glances from the other side of the street. And why not? He deserved his fate after all. Hubris. No question about it. Positively arrogant. So confident in his own abilities that he had been blind to what was really happening. He turned to the back page of the paper. Scotland had lost another home friendly and the coach was being excoriated again. He took some comfort in the knowledge that there was always one person in the country who was in deeper trouble than he was. Sometimes he thought this country positively luxuriated in failure, wallowed in a sort of inverted jealousy.

By the time their guests arrived he was onto his third gin and already feeling light-headed. While the three women stayed and chatted in the kitchen the men stood with their backs to the big open fireplace, drinks in hand. They were all around the same age, early fifties, and had been friends since their university days. Alastair Murray had worked for the council all his life and was some sort of director of strategy in the planning department. His rise had not exactly been meteoric but there was no doubt he was now considered a success. Raymond Binney, on the other hand, a short, tubby man with an unnaturally smooth complexion that was positively waxy, was a primary school teacher who spent most of his waking time meticulously planning for his early retirement.

“How’s business then, Nick?” said Alastair Murray, sipping his sherry appreciatively. “Still making millions?”

“Not exactly. It’s tough out there right now. Very tough.”

“Where’s the Merc by the way?” asked Raymond Binney, squinting suspiciously towards the driveway, “I don’t see it anywhere.”
The liquidator had taken the Merc. “It’s in for a service,” lied Nick. He’d spun the same story to Maureen earlier, having caught a taxi home.

“That car must cost you a fortune to run,” continued Raymond, looking envious. “Makes my Polo look a bit downmarket I must say. Still, at least I’m not harming the environment quite as much as you two.”

Alastair Murray drove a big grey Audi of which he was inordinately proud. He beamed delightedly at the insult. “Got to keep up appearances,” he murmured, “Especially in my position.”

“You’re right, Raymond,” agreed Nick, “It is irresponsible. My next mode of transport will be a bike.”

They all laughed but Nick wasn’t joking.

At that moment Maureen announced that dinner was ready and ushered them through to the room that she usually used as her study but which doubled as a dining room whenever they had guests.

“That looks good,” said Raymond, admiring the spread.

“This wine is delicious. Mm. You can’t beat a really good French wine.”

“Some of the newer Spanish wines are pretty good too.”

“Not a patch on this.”

“This lamb is meltingly tasty,” said Claire Murray, licking her lips appreciatively. There was a general murmur of assent. Everyone knew that Maureen was a brilliant cook. Nick took a deep draught of the wine. Her skills would be fully tested over the coming months. How many variations on bread and dripping did she know, he wondered.

“I don’t know where you find the time to cook like this,” said Isobel Binney, “In our house we seem to live on ready meals the whole time.”

“They’re all right,” said her husband defensively, “Sainsbury’s are pretty good. Anyway, that’s how everybody eats these days.”

“I think Markies are definitely the best when it comes to pre-prepared meals,” said Alastair, “Always have been. You pay a bit more but it’s worth it.”

I wonder what Somerfields ready meals are like, wondered Nick gloomily.

“We can’t afford Markies any more,” said Raymond Binnie, “Not on my salary. It’ll be even worse once I’ve retired. Bread and water probably.”

Alastair snorted derisively. “You’ll get a good pension. Teachers do all right. Even better than the Local Authority.”

Nick’s pension was his investment in the company, which was now worthless. He swallowed hard. He’d be relying on Maureen in the future. She was a teacher too but she’d left the profession for several years to bring up their son – her pension wouldn’t amount to all that much. Besides, he wasn’t sure if there’d be much left after the bank had taken their cut to help towards repaying the loans they’d guaranteed.

“Nick’s the one who’s going to score,” said Raymond Binnie, making a face, “He’ll sell out his business for a fat profit and go and live the high life in Spain or Monaco or somewhere. Isn’t that right, Nick? I tell you, I wish I’d started my own business instead of going into education. I’d have buggered off to the south of France long ago.”

Nick looked rueful. “If only it was that easy.”

Everybody laughed, including Maureen. They all thought he was rolling in it. Little did they know. Nick drained his glass and poured some more drinks. Working for the public sector was a doddle compared to working for yourself. They had no idea. Jobs for life. No worries about getting paid. No fighting for business. Plenty of holidays. A big fat pension at the end of it all guaranteed by the government. Fuck them, he thought to himself, fuck them all.

“It can’t be that hard,” said Alastair, “You’ve done it for long enough.”

Everybody laughed again, the mood round the table was buoyant.

Nick felt his hackles rising. “That’s total crap,” he said angily, “You’ve never had to sit across the table from a fucking VAT official whose got you by the balls because you’re in arrears when some fucking customer can’t pay you. Those guys in the pubic sector don’t give a toss for your problems. Pay up or we’ll close you down. That’s their mantra. Never mind all the people that will lose their jobs. Or the fact that you’ll lose everything because the bank have forced you to put your house on the line as security. Alastair, you wouldn’t last five fucking minutes in the private sector, you’d get eaten alive.”

Nobody laughed. Alastair coughed. He looked embarrassed and annoyed at the same time.
“Maybe you shouldn’t take on work if you don’t think you’ll get paid.”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. “Get real, Alastair. This is the world of work I’m talking about. Not the public sector. We don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing our customers. Nor do we have a guaranteed income stream . If we need more money we can’t just turn round and put up taxes or raise the rates like you guys. Christ, right now we’ll take anything you can get. It’s fucking dog eat dog out there.”

“There’s no point doing work for someone if you’re not going to get paid. That doesn’t make sense.”

“You never know if you’re going to get paid. Even the biggest companies can go tits up these days. Or find a reason for not paying you which is just as bad.”

“It all sounds very unpleasant,” said Claire Murray, pushing her half-finished plate away from her, “Suddenly the Health Service doesn’t feel so bad after all.”

Nick looked at her balefully. “Unfortunately we can’t all work for the public sector. Someone’s got to go out there and create the wealth to pay your wages. Fucking mugs like me in fact. Jesus, I wish I had taken the easy way out and become a fucking teacher.”

“Nick, please, your language,” said Maureen, looking distraught. She knew that for some reason Nick had toppled over the edge. Something must have happened at work which she didn’t know about. Something very bad. Fear made her feel faint.

In the event Nick retreated into his shell, his mind silted up with the fallout from his company’s collapse. The evening gradually petered out, suffocating itself on a familiar chorus of complaints about kids who refused to cut their financial umbilical cords, grandparents who refused to fade away gracefully. Their guests left just after nine, subdued and embarrassed. Rising unsteadily from the table Nick dragged himself off to bed while Maureen tidied up in the kitchen. When she finally joined him he was snoring gently, out to the world. She climbed into bed and turned her back on him, sliding as far away from him as possible, clinging to the edge.
At times like this she hated him, wished she’d never married him. Another performance like tonight’s and she really would leave him. He’d had his chances. It was always the same. Whenever he felt under pressure he took it out on her and anyone else who came within range. That bloody business he ran was the problem. Had been for years. It meant more to him than she did. Was the only thing he really cared about, if the truth were known. She wished he’d never started it. Wished he had become a bloody teacher.

She wiped away a tear in the dark, and eventually, after an hour or more during which she tossed and turned, her brain whirling, she fell into a fitful sleep, balanced on the edge of the world, staring into the void, utterly exhausted.

Chapter 3

Nick charged about the kitchen frantically attempting to put the evening meal on hold. He glared at his watch for the twentieth time in twenty minutes. “Bastards,” he hissed loudly, “Bastards, bastards, bastards.” They were ten minutes late already and the frozen petits pois were soft and overcooked even though he'd strained them in cold water and put them to one side on the draining board. He’s bought them as a special treat, after much prevarication, down at the local Spar shop. They should only have been blanched for a minute or so to make them al dente which was absolutely the way they were supposed to be. Then served immediately with a nob of butter (or marge in their case) and a twist of coarsely ground pepper. Now they were ruined, and with them the meal, and with the meal his attempt to create a safe haven for his family in a dangerous and demented world. He cursed himself for his own stupidity. He shouldn’t have put a heat under the peas until he actually saw their headlights coming up the farm track. It was always a mistake to rely on other people. He screwed up his eyes in despair. He could weep at his own stupidity.
"You're late," he snarled when they finally lugged their baggage into the kitchen, "Why didn't you phone me on your mobile? These bloody peas are ruined."

Maureen hoisted a heavy bag of shopping onto the table, in the process covering over the place mats he'd arranged so carefully. "We got stuck in traffic," she said calmly.

"Don't put that bag there," he snapped, furious at the way they were spoiling all his painstaking preparations for a perfect meal. He couldn't understand why Maureen was always late. She seemed to have no sense of punctuality whatsoever. Not like him, he was never late. In the time before the business had gone bust he was famous for his punctilious timekeeping. Whenever he made an appointment with one of his customers he always made a point of being early so as not to inconvenience them in any way. Equally he was careful never to be so early that he became an embarrassment. It was just good manners, that's what it came down to in the end. It was obvious really. That was what made civilisation work when you thought about it. But Maureen just didn't seem to bother or understand. She seemed to drift through life without a care in the world. She didn’t notice how much she hurt him, how much her lack of consideration for his efforts devalued his struggle to be a good and caring husband. Sometimes he even thought she did it deliberately just to annoy him. Only it did more than annoy him. It drove him crazy. Right round the bend. Sometimes she made him so furious that he wanted to kill her. Really wanted to…not just a figure of speech.

"And shut that bloody door," he yelled at Martin, "You'd think you were born in a bloody field."

Martin, his son, was sixteen years old and acutely conscious of the unfairness of life. He slouched wearily back through the hallway and shut the inner glass door, a long-suffering look on his face. He was used to his dad's temper tantrums. When they were really bad they were scary, but mostly his dad just made a fool of himself. It was something he had learned to make allowances for.

Maureen smiled bravely at her husband. "I bought you a present."

She held out a new canister of Gillette shaving foam for sensitive skin. He looked at it in dismay. He didn't want to appear ungrateful but he resented her spending money on luxuries. Especially since he was trying so hard to economise himself. Christ, he'd given up breakfast because they couldn’t afford it. He always bought the cheapest, most disgusting sandwich pastes he could find for his lunch just to save a few pennies. What’s more he now only shaved every second day, unless he had something special on. Which had only happened twice in the four months since the business had failed. He stared at the canister of shaving foam. What really annoyed him was that no matter how frugal he was it made no difference. She still leaked money from their joint account. She might have been a lottery winner the way she splashed out. Hardly a day passed when she wasn’t frittering away their overdraft on food and shoes, shirts, bras, school uniforms, council tax demands, telephone bills, electricity bill reminders and now fucking shaving foam. Christ, if it wasn’t for the fact that he might one day actually have to attend a job interview again he would have grown a beard by now. Shaving foam. SHAVING FUCKING FOAM!! And why was she trying to be nice to him anyway? He didn’t want presents. He didn’t want to be patronised or bought off like some rich man’s mistress. Like a kept man. He just wanted her to come home on time and eat the bloody meal he had slaved all afternoon over for Christ’s sake. Just keep her side of the marital bargain. Was that too much to ask? Was he being unreasonable? Simply by being punctual they could have had perfect peas ten minutes ago but now it was all ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. With a supreme effort he stopped himself from throwing the peas into the waste bin.

He took a deep breath.

He felt dizzy with anger and had to hold onto the side of the cooker to stop himself from falling over. Another deep breath. When he closed his eyes he saw stars. His heart was pounding. He was sweating profusely. Another deep breath. He staggered across to the sink and poured himself a glass of cold water. Water was free, it came from their own well. How long can you live on water? Thirty days and thirty nights? If they got any poorer his fasting would reach biblical proportions.

While they hauled their bags through to the sitting-room he gradually calmed down. He stared down at the small pyramid of overcooked peas in the colander and shook his head, despairing at his own stupidity, the way he got everything out of perspective. He knew Maureen meant well. Her motives were good. It was just that her direction was all wrong. Spending money on luxuries they didn’t need. As if she was some bleeding Salvation Army general offering charity to a bloody down-and-out or something… If only she would listen to him instead…really listen and get some sort of handle on the mess they were in. Instead of throwing money they didn’t have at a problem they weren’t addressing. Try as he might he couldn’t make her see what she was doing to him by her crazy spendthrift behaviour. She had no insight whatsoever into the panic he was feeling, the waves of desperation in which he was daily drowning.

When Maureen returned to the kitchen he held out the canister of shaving foam. "Thanks," he said gruffly, "But shaving soap would have done just as well."

Maureen sometimes felt she could do nothing right as far as her husband was concerned and this display of ingratitude was typical of his mean-spiritedness. She hid the hurt look on her face as she turned away and took off her old anorak. "Why do you always have to be so bad-tempered?" she said, struggling with only partial success to keep the intense irritation she felt out of her voice, "It's not our fault we're late."

"It's his bloody fault for not shutting the door," Nick shouted back, glaring at his son, immediately on the defensive. He was perfectly aware that lately he had become increasingly bad-tempered and petty and stupid but he couldn't stop himself. It was just that by being late they inadvertently belittled his efforts to make himself useful and valuable to them. He knew all this but it didn't stop him becoming angry and bitter.

Maureen sighed. "I'll take it back if you like and change it for shaving soap."

He shook his head. Now she was the one who was being petty, turning their poverty into a battleground. It was bad enough that he had to fight the outside world, the massed forces of impending economic disaster, of high prices and artificial demand, of structural unemployment, of imports and balance of payment deficits and a sheaf of threatening letters from the bloody bank manager and the credit card bloody usurers without her acting as some sort of fifth columnist trying to undermine his position from within. A bloody war on one front against the massed ranks of their creditors was as much as he could handle at the moment, and he wasn't even sure about that.
Silently he served up their meal and they took it through in the sitting room. They ate with their plates balanced on their laps, in front of the television. He had already eaten - yesterday's corned beef leftovers fried up with a finely chopped onion and a clove of garlic - but he sat with them for company and watched the news for the fourth or fifth time that day.

“The peas are all right,” said Maureen, by way of gentle reproach.

“They’re great. Just the way I like them,” agreed Martin, wolfing down the peas which he had mashed into a lumpy, gelatinous mass topped with lashings of tomato ketchup.

Nick was too weary to argue about the peas. To tell the truth he didn’t really care about the food any more, nor about the people eating it. He was too tired to care. He knew he was losing the battle against imminent bankruptcy and in a way he almost welcomed defeat, would be glad when it was all finally over. What did it all matter anyway? So you fucked up your life. Whose fault was that? Was it the hand you were dealt or was it the fact that you had screwed up your chances on your own because you were totally feckless? Either way he had reached the stage where he was prepared to face the consequences, whatever they might be. Making one more supreme effort, in an attempt not to appear churlish, he said to Maureen, "How was work?" It was the same question he put to her at this time every night.

"Fine," she said, as she always did.

That was it. During the remainder of the meal she never took her eyes off the television. End of conversation. They might as well have been strangers at different tables in an empty café in a nameless city. It was so dispiriting. Just by being there she made him feel lonely, much more lonely than when he was on his own. A situation made worse by his discovery after the business had folded that she was his only friend. All the rest, colleagues he had worked with for years, had deserted him. In quiet desperation he turned to his son. Martin was a tolerant child. Nick felt tolerated by him. Theirs had never been an equal relationship but recently the balance had changed and now he increasingly felt like the junior partner. He was the one who needed support and understanding. He watched Martin cramming food into his mouth. He had always tried hard to love the child more than anything else in the whole world. He had wanted desperately to ensure that his son had a happy childhood. The fact that in so many ways he had failed him as a father was the worst thing of all. In some ways their relationship had been a history of failure, a mutual inability to communicate their love for each other, even, on most occasions, to communicate. He had always tried to give the boy unconditional love but the reservoir from which he drew this most basic emotion had been too shallow – a result maybe of his own unhappy childhood.

He sighed.

Being a good father nowadays was an almost impossible challenge, both materially and spiritually, when there was so much that was out of your control, so much more that could go wrong, so many material distractions that made you irrelevant. Just like any father he had wanted give his son the best possible start in life – the start he had never had – but the reality was that it took money, a commodity that was now in very short supply. Thank God they’d paid this year’s school fees in advance before the business went bust. At least that gave them a few month’s breathing space. What would happen after the summer holidays was anybody’s guess. Martin’s higher education was a looming problem that seemed insoluble. A bright kid – a very bright kid – he wanted to go to University to become a doctor. His teachers all said he had it in him. No-one argued with that. The problem was how they could possibly afford it. Just thinking about the cost brought Nick out into a cold sweat. It was a classic case of Catch 22. Maureen’s nominal salary meant that they wouldn’t get a grant to defray the costs. Nominal because of their joint personal guarantees which meant the bank was threatening to take almost half her income. You didn’t have to be an accountant to work out that what would be left would fall far short of what was needed to pay for Martin’s university education. And it went without saying that Nick’s chances of getting a job at his age that would allow him to pay off his huge business debts and leave enough to cover the fees and their living expenses were virtually non-existent. It didn’t help that to study properly Martin would have to live in town – either Aberdeen or, his preferred choice, Edinburgh, supposedly a more prestigious university in the medical field.

Nick bit his lip.

The truth was they should never have moved out into the country the way they had ten years before. That was yet another one of his bright ideas. As far as he could remember now he had harboured some sort of romantic notion that his son would benefit from a bucolic upbringing out in the middle of nowhere, away from the temptations and the ugliness of the city. As it turned out, entirely predictably, Martin hated the countryside. All his friends were in town. He even continued to go to school in town, travelling in and out every day with Maureen. In his eyes the countryside was barren, boring and, above all, naff. Real life was lived in the city. The answer, of course, would be for them to up sticks and move back into town. Which might indeed be the eventual outcome once the bank repossessed the house and they were forced to look for rented accommodation. Always assuming of course that Maureen would agree to move back into town which was by no means certain since she loved the countryside so much. In the meantime though they were stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, in limbo. Making an effort to hide his inner turmoil Nick fixed a smile upon his face and leaned across to his son. "What about you, Martin? How was school today?"

"What?" said Martin, not taking his eyes off the latest pictures on the television news, graphic images of further atrocities committed during the so-called peace in Iraq.

“School. You know. That place you go to every day. How was it?”

Martin’s gaze remained fixed on the television, a forkful of bloody-looking peas suspended in front of his open mouth. Nick regarded his son with distaste. He knew he was supposed to love him more than anything in the whole world. And of course he did. In a way. Inasmuch as he loved the idea, the concept, of having a son. Unfortunately the reality fell a long way short of the ideal. The reality was a person whose table manners left a an enormous amount to be desired, creating a hole in his affections the size of Denmark.

“Martin!”

“What? Oh, fine.”

“Fine? Fine? Is that it? Is that all they’ve taught you to say after all these years? Fine!”

Martin turned and regarded his father with open-mouthed, barely disguised contempt. “Chill out, dad. It’s school. That’s all it is.”

“I’m trying to make conversation. You know, quality time. With my family.”

“Leave the boy alone,” said Maureen, without looking up.

“All right, dad. Fair point. How was your day?”

“Fine,” said Nick, before he could stop himself.

Martin sniggered and turned back to the television.

Within seconds the vacuum enveloped them once more. It was at times like these that Nick felt most desolate. Maureen continued to peruse the paper and Martin, who had cleared his plate in a matter of seconds, was already bounding up the stairs to the fastness of his bedroom for the night. The highlight of their day – breaking bread together - was already over and now there was nothing left to say. He got up and started clearing away the dirty dishes. He knew he couldn't go on this way. There had to be more to life than this, even for someone who had failed as badly as he had.

Suddenly Maureen spoke. “Have you had any news on the job front, Nick?”

He froze, paralysed by the direct brutality of the question. “Er…”

“Any replies at all?”

“Replies?” He was immediately on the defensive, tiptoeing around this thorny subject.

“No interviews coming up or anything?”

“Interviews?” He felt exposed, unable to recall precisely the previous gloss he had put on his job hunting progress.

“How many jobs have you applied for this week?”

“This week?”

“Nick, you need to start bringing in some money soon. We can’t survive on what I earn. Not with the bank taking…”

“I know, I know. The trouble is nobody seems to be hiring at the moment. Not people my age anyway. If I was twenty years younger it might be different. Lots of other people my age are in the same boat.”

“What about the employment agencies?”

“Nothing.”

“The Job Centre? Were you there today?”

Nick hated the Job Centre. An hour on the bus and then into a building that felt like something out of Eastern Europe, full of strange and frightening people. He found the whole process degrading, humiliating.

“Did you go today, Nick?”

“I was busy doing things to the house.” This was true. He had kept himself busy doing all the things Maureen had been nagging him about for years. Broken towel rails, a noisy central heating pump, loose tiles in the bathroom, a leaking tap. The list was endless and despite his efforts had grown longer since he became unemployed. Sometimes he imagined the house was afflicted by some sort of sick building syndrome. Maybe it had a virus. The unemployment virus. The antidote for which he had yet to discover.

“Finding a job is more important than faffing around the house all day.”

“I fixed the leaking tap in the bathroom.”

“Nick, you’ve got to get a job. I don’t give a damn about the tap in the bathroom.”

This was the first time Maureen had really pressed him on his search for employment, the first time she had refused to be fobbed off by his vagueness. She was obviously getting seriously worried about their situation. He had always found it impossible to tell what Maureen was thinking. She was deep, very deep. But the fact that she had been brooding on his failure to find a job was unnerving. If she was worried about his unemployability that was a very bad sign indeed. He said, “I’ve been thinking about having another go at running my own business.”

Maureen looked aghast. “No way, Nick. Absolutely not. I couldn’t go through that again. I just couldn’t.”

“No, listen. I’ve learnt a lot over the past few months. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again, believe me.”

“What kind of business?”

“I don’t really know. Anything. I’ve got the whole world to choose from. I could do anything.”

“What about capital?”

It was typical of Maureen to get bogged down in detail. “I’ve got intellectual capital. I wouldn’t need money.”

“We need money now.”

He gave up. Since she obviously had no faith in him any more there was no way he was going to convince her that he could still rescue them from their plight. He would show her though. Once he had thought of something. Consultancy maybe. Corporate trouble shooting. Management temping. Anything in fact. Any bloody thing at all.

While he was washing up in the kitchen Maureen came through to make herself a cup of tea. The draining board on which he was piling the cleaned dishes was already dangerously crowded. He stacked another pan precariously on top of the pile, hoping that Maureen would notice his predicament and give him a hand instead of just taking him for granted, treating him like some sort of nearly-invisible domestic help. Maureen didn't seem to notice his problem with the dishes as she glanced through the mail. Through gritted teeth he muttered, trying to suppress his anger, "It might help if you dried a few dishes."

She didn’t look up, "Just leave them to drain. They'll dry themselves."

This was perfectly true but he had set himself the task of clearing up the kitchen immediately. He was determined to show her how it would always be left neat and tidy under his regime. Her refusal to co-operate in his self-imposed pursuit of perfection infuriated him. He grabbed a tea towel from off the chair on which she was perched and ostentatiously started drying the dishes himself.

Maureen appeared not to detect the intended symbolism of his action. "What was in the mail today?" she asked.

His heart sank. That morning he had inadvertently opened a letter from the credit card company which had exploded in his head like a letter bomb, destroying in one blinding flash the illusion that he was safe at home. He had been so upset that he had forgotten to hide the rest of the mail which now lay unopened on the window sill. There were several obvious bills and, worst of all, an unopened letter from the bank. Momentarily panic overcame him and he had to restrain himself from running out of the house and being sick. "I haven't had time to open it," he lied, lamely.

“You haven’t had time?”

He laughed sheepishly. He was feeling faint again and he held on to the edge of the sink to steady himself. “I just never got round to it.”

Maureen worked her way through the pile of bills, occasionally frowning, but saying nothing. He watched her furtively out of the corner of his eye while he cleared the draining board. He could feel the tension in the room mounting as the pile of letters accumulated at her elbow. With each new envelope she opened he became more and more anxious. Each dish he dried felt as fragile as antique porcelain in his shaking hands. He didn't understand where all the bills came from. He had bought nothing in the last month so she couldn't blame him. Just existing these days, just breathing and living on bread and water, seemed to cost a fortune. There seemed to be no way of avoiding bills while you were still alive no matter how hard you tried. Which was a bloody good reason for being dead, he thought, not for the first time.

He dried the last plate very slowly, watching her as she read the letter from their bank. He saw her turn pale. "What is it?" he asked, his heart thumping.

"It's the bank. They want to speak to us urgently. We've gone over our limit and they've put a stop on the account."

It was the news he had been dreading for weeks, the worst he had ever received. "Jesus," he groaned, feeling as if the ground had opened up beneath his feet, as if he was sinking into quicksand, "Jesus Christ Almighty."

“It says we’ve ignored all their previous letters and if we don’t respond they’ll have no choice but to place us in the hands of their debt recovery agents. What letters? We haven’t had any letters from them, have we?”

“What the fuck are we going to do?”

“First you’ll have to talk to them. Then you’ll have to get a job. We can’t go on like this.”

“I can’t get a job, Maureen. I keep telling you. I’ve tried. I’m too bloody old.”

He slumped into a seat at the table and cradled his head in his hands. His heart was thumping so violently against his chest that he could hardly breathe. He had known that on their hugely diminished income they were bound to run out of money eventually but he thought they might have survived for a few more weeks. Time for something to turn up, for a miracle to happen. They were living beyond their means, that was the problem. He had warned Maureen continually about spending money but she wouldn't listen. The shaving foam was a typical example. Now they had dug themselves into a hole and there was no way out. They were going to lose everything. In a matter of days the bailiffs would arrive. First their furniture would be carted off. By the end of the month they would be out on the street. After that the best they could hope for was bed and breakfast accommodation in some ghastly place full of DHSS claimants. Then if they were lucky a council house on a crime-ridden housing estate where teenage gangs and drug addicts roamed the streets and people were mugged and burgled and threatened by neighbours from hell on a daily basis. And still they would be left with massive debts hanging around their necks. Debts that they would be paying for the rest of their lives. "Christ," he groaned again, "I knew this was going to happen. I fucking knew it."

Maureen flinched. “There’s no need to swear, Martin’,” she chastised him softly.

Her apparent calmness infuriated him. It was all very well to adopt a reasonable and rational approach to their problems but that didn’t actually help in the slightest as far as solving anything was concerned. Her demeanour was as much use as someone staying calm in front of a firing squad. What he wanted was solutions, not sweet reasonableness. “What are we going to do?" he blurted out, speaking rapidly, his voice rising as hysteria swept over him, "What the fuck are we going to do? Is there anything we can sell? If only I could get a job? What about your parents? Will they lend us money? We could sell the furniture. I've got an old insurance policy somewhere. What about the house? We'll have to sell the house, that's the only thing left."

"We can't sell the house, you know that. The bank won’t let us. Have you spoken to the lawyer again?"

“He said he’s still looking into it. He didn’t sound very optimistic. Christ knows how we’re going to pay his bill, that’ll be the next thing.”

“What about going bankrupt? What did he say about that?”

“We’ll still be stuck with those personal guarantees. Whatever happens we’re going to lose everything.”

Maureen stared at the pile of bills. “We’ll have to do something.”

Nick thrust his right hand to his mouth and bit hard into his knuckles. "Why has this happened to us?” he moaned, “Why us, God? I mean it's not even as if I spend any money. I mean you can't accuse me of being profligate can you? Can you?"

Maureen continued to stare down at the pile of threatening letters. "I’ve never accused you of anything," she whispered.

"I mean I don't spend any money do I? I don't drink or gamble or go with women do I? I don't have expensive hobbies do I? I mean I gave up going fishing because I couldn't afford it. I haven't had a holiday for years. I don't go out with my mates do I? Christ, I haven't even got any mates any more. They're all out there at their golf clubs having a good time, spending a fortune at the bar and look at me. I don't even smoke because I'm too mean to buy fags. When was the last time I went out for a meal, go on, tell me?”

“Martin, stop it.”

“Jesus I’ve been living on bread and water for the past month. I’m starving myself to death. Christ, I hate spending money now. I've become the meanest fucking man you'll ever meet. And all because I had a bit of ambition, because I wanted to do my best for my family. But I flew too close to the sun, didn’t I? I had it coming, isn’t that right? Go on, tell me, it’s all my fucking fault."

Maureen was looking increasingly distressed. "This isn't helping, Nick."

"Nothing's fucking helping, that's the problem," he shouted, hitting his forehead with his fist. He knew he was getting hysterical but he couldn't stop himself, there was nothing else left, nowhere else to turn. "I fucking wish I was dead," he continued, "I wish I had never been born. All these fucking years for nothing. All that struggle for what? For this?"

Maureen began to grow alarmed as her husband became more and more hysterical. She said softly, "You'll just have to get a job, Nick, that’s the only solution."

Her words sent a chill through him for what they left unsaid. Get a job...or else, that was what she meant. Or else what? What would happen to him if he failed to find work? He knew the answer. She would leave him, that’s what. Taking Martin with her. Abandon him. The thought terrified him.

Upstairs Martin was playing the Beatles at what seemed like full volume. Once, when he was young, Nick had idolised them too, believed in them somehow, believed that the world was full of promise and opportunities and endless excitement. Now he just hated them, hated their fatuous lyrics, their absurd optimism, their hypocritical wealth, hated Martin too if it came to that, that bastard who thought of no one but himself, the child whose education had become a monkey on his back, hated Maureen too for the way she took everything in her stride, leaving him to do all the worrying, making himself sick with worry, hated the bank, the credit card company, those mercenary bastards, the electricity board, the coalman, the garage, the milkman, the newsagent, hated all those other fucking leeches with their fat prosperous lives and their thin, insistent demands, hated himself too for failing to cope with them, above all hated that bloody nightmarish racket banging on above his head. The whole fucking thing was a bloody nightmare.

Maureen suddenly started crying, something that only ever happened at the very worst times in their lives, like the night their baby daughter had died eighteen years before. The sight of her heaving shoulders as she sat at the table cradling her head in her hands scared him, the whole bloody business scared him. He didn’t think he could take much more. He stood up.

"Where are you going?" sobbed Maureen looking up at him, her blue eyes already turning bloodshot.

He struggled frantically into his old Barbour, the one she'd given him as a Christmas present years before, in that fairytale time when they could afford presents, and money was no object, or at least of no great concern. "I'm going out for a walk," he gasped, fumbling frantically with the zip that no longer worked properly, tearing at it, tears of frustration in his eyes, using all his strength, tearing the fabric, tearing his muscles in frustration, "Jesus, I can't take any more of this. It's driving me totally totally fucking crazy."

He stormed out into the crisp, starlit night, slamming the door behind him. As the sound of his footsteps crunching on the hard snow died away Maureen closed her eyes once more and slumped forward, her forehead resting on her clenched fists. After years of putting up with him and all his unpredictable emotional demands and endless dramas she had finally reached that point where she knew she couldn’t take much more either.

Chapter 4

Maureen and Martin had gone by the time he woke up. He hadn’t heard them go. Usually he got up and made them breakfast before they set off. This time, following his frosty sojourn beneath the stars, he had slept as deeply if he had been drugged, his brain enveloped by a blackness that was unilluminated by the usual dreams and nightmares.

Downstairs the phone was ringing. He ignored it. He climbed out of bed and pulled on his thick towelling dressing-gown. The house was so cold that his breath condensed in front of his eyes. He checked the upstairs rooms but the house was definitely empty. He bitterly regretted not apologising to Maureen for his behaviour the night before. He could imagine how she must be feeling after he had stormed off in a temper, as if their dire predicament was somehow her fault. Which of course it wasn’t. Not directly at least. He bit his lip. He hated it when he was the cause of her unhappiness.

He peered out of the bedroom window into the murky dawn light. There was no sign of any activity on the narrow farm lane leading up to the house. He was safe for a while longer.
The phone stopped ringing. He padded downstairs to the kitchen in his slippers and switched on the radio. John Humphries was giving a hapless minor official in the department of transport a grilling about the underground. A woman with a husky voice read out the headlines. He listened with distaste to the perennial diet of bad news: another suicide bomber wreaking havoc in a crowded restaurant in Israel; an entirely predictable man-made famine in southern Africa; the same old tawdry political intrigues at home. He was unmoved by other people’s problems. The Thought for the Day enraged him with its banality. At least the weather forecast was good which cheered him up a little. Cold but sunny. He loved the sun. When the programme ended he switched off the radio, unable to cope with the intellectual content of the discussion programme that followed. The house fell silent again, louder this time. The echoing emptiness threatened to overwhelm him. He went through to the sitting-room window and stood at the picture window and watched a flock of blue tits at the end of the garden feeding on the stale bread he had put out for them the day before. He envied their boundless energy, admired their single-minded sense of purpose, their uncomplicated, ruthless pursuit of the next mouthful. Beneath the birdfeeder that hung from the old apple tree the daffodils were flowering at last, illuminating the shadows with bold splashes of colour. He comforted himself with the knowledge that with the imminent advent of warmer weather the garden would spring fully into life, dazzling them all with its beauty, at least for a while. He sighed. Although the scene from the window was truly beautiful, at the end of the day it was no more real than looking at a landscape painting in an art gallery.

The phone rang again, shattering the silence.

He closed his eyes and tried to blank out the noise. He recalled how the phone had once dominated his life in a good way. Wheeling and dealing, organising and cajoling, pleading and threatening. The phone was the instrument that had driven his business forward in his dealings with the outside world. In the months that had dragged by since his company had folded he increasingly missed the warmth of human contact, the stimulus of surviving in a challenging environment where time flew by, where all your energies were focused on solving tough but soluble problems, where you were part of a team fighting to win orders with all the fervour of the birds fighting for food at the end of the garden. Not an outsider looking in at life, detached from the action, existing in a sensory vacuum. These days his mind was occupied by the all-pervasive sense of dread that came from the knowledge that his world was about to implode. He was under assault from a host of faceless enemies, an aerial bombardment of letters and phone calls. He shivered in chilled recognition that there was nowhere to run, that he was trapped within the bleak, featureless landscape of his shrinking imagination, populated only by fear.

When the phone fell silent he opened his eyes and gazed out beyond the hedge at the bottom of the garden across to the snow-capped eastern Cairngorms poking up into the shining blue horizon about twenty miles away. He gazed at the picture-postcard view as if he was in a trance. A fugitive could hide out in the hills and never be found, although at this time of the year he might well die of exposure. He looked at his watch. It was still only eight thirty and there was a whole day stretching out ahead of him, a whole day with nothing to do but dwell upon his misfortune.

Mechanically, in slow motion, he returned to the kitchen and cleared away the dishes he had left on the draining board the night before. It was important that the house looked tidy, it helped to buttress the remnants of his crumbling self-respect . He rammed a load of dirty clothes into the washing machine and set it running, another of the household duties that Maureen now left to him. To postpone the looming vacuum of his pointless day he began to prepare the evening meal in advance of the far-off return of his family that night. He peeled enough potatoes for three and cleaned and chopped up half a cabbage. He found a tin of corned beef in the back of the cupboard over the sink and left it unopened beside the cooker in readiness. When he had finished all his preparations he took a small heap of scraps and leftovers out to the bird table in the back garden. He always fed the birds even if it meant going short himself. The birds depended on him, and he wasn’t going to let them down in the way he’d failed everyone else. It was at this point in his day, with no chores left to do that his imagination often ran riot. Invariably he pictured what would happen if his creditors were to suddenly descend upon the house. Whenever he did so a sense of dread would grip him for the rest of the day.

He was boiling the kettle when he remembered that there was one thing still left to do.

Maureen’s words of a few days earlier sprang into his mind. Arrange the visit to the bank manager. This wasn’t his former business bank manager who now only communicated to him through his lawyer. Maureen was referring to their personal bank manager, an even more scary individual who held their immediate well-being in his finely-manicured hands. Just the thought of picking up the phone to that granite-faced individual was enough to bring him out into a cold sweat. He decided to put the terrifying call off until tomorrow at least, or maybe even the day after, or even until the electricity was actually cut off and they were tossed out onto the streets and there were no alternatives left. As usual his decision to do nothing left him with a massive guilt complex and simply exacerbated the all-pervading sense of anxiety and unease that continually haunted him these days. The feeling of impending disaster was now so suffocating that it made breathing difficult and somehow mechanical. In this near catatonic state he only stopped his vital organs giving up on him by dint of willpower alone.

He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. The postman was due at any minute. This was the most tense time of the day, just before the regular cascade of threatening letters and failed job applications came crashing through the letterbox. As the weeks had passed he had developed a routine designed to lessen the unpleasantness. After he had checked the view out of the front and back windows he sneaked back upstairs to the safety of his bedroom. Hidden in the shadows he hoped he would fool the postman into thinking that the house was empty just in case there were any recorded deliveries or warrants or whatever it was they sent you when you defaulted on your bills. By standing on tiptoe he could just see out of the window from the back of the room. He waited anxiously for the postman's van to appear at the bottom of the hill. As usual he prayed silently that the van would pass the house without stopping and that for just a little while longer he would be unmolested by human contact. That was how he lived now: in constant fear of the final showdown. Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Every second that ticked by was another merciful postponement of his final reckoning, another endless day on death row. And every time the postman passed by without stopping meant another day's grace free from the wrath of the bank manager, the insistent demands of the tax man, the threats of the credit card company. It was just a shame that the mail wasn’t the only way they were able to get at him. As well as the ultimate threat of an actual visit there was always the latent danger from the telephone. They continually tried to get to him that way now, and whenever the phone exploded into life his nerves were sent jangling. He’d considered taking the phone off the hook but he was worried in case that might actually precipitate a visit. It was better to let them keep trying, even though the constant ringing was driving him mad. He knew he was being cowardly and stupid but he simply couldn’t take the risk of picking up the phone. If he did and it actually turned out to be his Bank Manager – as had happened a couple of months before when their financial situation was only just starting to become uncomfortable – he knew that this time he would just die. His only consolation was that this particular instrument of persecution wouldn’t survive for much longer – the phone bill reminder was already way overdue which meant that they would be cut off any day now.

This particular morning nearly an hour dragged by before he postman's van finally buzzed past the house without stopping on its way to the house at the top of the hill. His immediate relief was tempered by the knowledge that no delivery also meant no invitations to job interviews nor acknowledgements of his multiple job applications and therefore not even a faint glimmer of hope for the immediate future.

He waited in the corner of the bedroom until he heard the postman’s van roar back down the hill. He stood on tiptoe and watched it disappear from view at the end of the road. To make sure it wasn’t a trick he kept watch until his calves ached and his legs were shaking. When he was certain the coast was clear he shuffled stiffly back down to the kitchen. He knew he couldn’t go on this way. After taking a deep breath he sat down again at the breakfast table determined to confront his problems head on. He simply had to come up with a solution that would finally put him out of his misery. He knew he couldn’t go on burying his head in the sand. He was only days away from disaster.

No matter how hopeless things seemed he knew had to be positive. Sure he was in a fix but somewhere, somehow there had to be an answer. The only possible course of action was to keep on looking until he found a solution, not to give up prematurely or spend his time perpetually casting around for excuses, or, even worse, waiting for a miracle to happen. Even if miracles did sometimes happen, they didn’t happen to people like him. No, the only person that could save him now was himself. It was time to finally recognise that enduring reality.

He made himself a weak coffee and took it through to the sitting room. The bird table was still alive with chaffinches and blue tits feeding on the scraps he had put out earlier. He stood and watched them enviously for several minutes. He was just about to sit down when he noticed something beyond the skeletal branches of the apple tree that turned his insides to ice.

There was a white Range Rover which he had never seen before sitting at the foot of the road.

Chapter 5

Garry Brown wound down the window of his white Range Rover and trained his powerful binoculars upon the cottage nestling half way up the hill. Beside him in the passenger seat Rip his Alsatian raised his head and looked at his master with quizzical eyes, licking his lips in anticipation. Garry Brown surveyed the house with professional precision for five minutes before he lowered the binoculars, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He had spotted someone moving through an upstairs window. He made a note of the time in his notebook. Catching the debtor before he made a run for it was half the battle. He had only just bought the debt from the credit card company but the acquisition already looked like it was going to turn into a profitable investment. He patted the Alsatian’s head and turned the keys in the ignition. The big car began moving up the hill with all the finality of a Sherman tank.

As he approached the cottage he dialled Nick Sterling’s number on his mobile, knowing it wouldn’t be answered. It didn’t matter. The object was to create maximum confusion in his target’s mind, to disorientate him. He only wished that he was allowed to use stun grenades the way he used to do when he was in the SAS. He’d bought the debt for twenty per cent of face value – the issuing bank behind the credit card reckoned it was a hopeless case – so any result was bound to be a good one.

Garry Brown was a big man and he clambered out of the Range Rover onto the driveway with difficulty. Rip leapt down after him and he tied the dog to the door handle of the vehicle. Let the target see the dog, he thought, grinning. He kicked the dog so that it snarled at him and began barking. He didn’t attempt to calm it. He had a baseball bat in the boot but he knew he wouldn’t need it here. That instrument was mainly for inner city use, and even then most people gave very little trouble once he had cornered them. Generally speaking you had to be pretty feckless to get so deeply into debt, not the kind of person who usually put up much of a fight.

There was no doorbell so he knocked loudly on the wooden door with his big, calloused knuckles. There was no reply so he bent down and opened the letterbox. “Anybody in?” he barked politely into the shadowy void.

There was no response. “I know you’re in there,” he called through the letterbox, “I seen you through the binoculars.”

When there was still no response he ambled back to the Range Rover. Taking his time he first fed the dog then clambered back into the vehicle where he poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos and took out a mutton pie from his plastic lunchbox. While he ate he read the Sun. He was well-prepared for a long siege. When he had finished his meal he switched on Radio One and tilted back his seat and dozed lightly.

He repeated his assault on the door a further four times as the morning wore on until finally, just before midday, the door was slowly opened. A gaunt middle-aged man dressed in pyjamas lurked in the shadows of the hallway. His ashen face was unshaven, his shoulders drooping in defeat. His whole body trembled with terror.

“You took your time, sunshine,” the debt collector said, smiling pleasantly, “You deaf or something.”

“I was in the toilet.”

“Blimey, you must be constipated all right.”

“I…I’ve not been well.”

“You certainly look like shit. Have you seen a doctor?”

“I…no, not yet. Who are you?”

The man flashed a business card. “Debt collection agency.”

“What is it you want?”

The debt collector’s eyes twinkled. “Come on, sunshine, what do you think? Money, innit. The stuff that makes the world go round.”

“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I’d like to help but the fact is I’m absolutely broke myself.”

The debt collector laughed. “I know that matey, that’s why I’m here. I’ve come to collect the money you owe on your credit card. Or rather, what you used to owe. I’ve bought the debt, see. Now you belong to me.” He grinned. A large, toothy, cannibalistic grin.

“What do you mean? They can’t do that. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Oh yes they can. Do it all the time in fact. You owe the money to me now, pal. Don’t look so upset. It’s all legal and above board. So, what about it then? What about the money you owe me? When am I going to get it back?”

“I’m unemployed.”

“Your wife’s working, isn’t she?”

“My wife? It’s got nothing to do with her.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Is she working?”

“She’s working but my old company’s bank is already stopping half her salary.”

“You’re getting brew money though, eh?”

“It’s a pittance. Not enough to live on.”

“Good. Very good. I’ll have some of that. What about the house?”

“It’s signed over to the bank.”

“Oh,” the debt collector frowned. “Why’s that then? You owe them too?”

“I put the house up as a guarantee for my business loans.”

“Did you? Very silly. Very, very silly. I see it all the time. People never think of the consequences, do they? When are they going to take possession?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

The debt collector thought for a moment, a smile playing on his lips. He enjoyed the challenge of extracting blood from a stone, which was mostly a question of thinking laterally and then applying pressure in the appropriate place. Most of the time you COULD get blood from a stone, even if you ended up having to crush it to dust. “What about the contents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, “There’s always a way. Them’s mine then. Mind if I come in and look around?” He looked over Nick’s shoulder. “That’s a nice looking fridge. A Smeg is it? That’ll be worth something for a start.”

“Of course I mind. There’s no way you’re coming in here.”

The debt collector turned and whistled to his Alsatian. The dog immediately leapt to its feet and started barking, tugging ferociously on its chain. He turned back to Nick and shrugged his shoulders sympathetically. “You don’t want to have to put up with that all night, do you?”

Suddenly feeling that the situation was hopeless Nick stepped back and the debt collector sauntered into the hallway. He took out his notebook and started making an inventory.

“Nice piece of furniture,” he said admiringly, running his hand across the mahogany table in the hall. “Should get at least a grand for that in the auction.” He whistled when he peered into the sitting-room. “Wow. Look at that. Georgian if I’m not mistaken. That’ll do nicely. Right, give me your credit card.”

Nick fumbled in his wallet and handed over his platinum card, his hand shaking. The debt collector took out a pair of scissors and cut it in two. He handed one half to Nick. “That’s yours.”

“You’re going to take everything?”

“I wish I could. Got to leave the necessities unfortunately. The cooker. Somewhere to sleep. I can take the rest. You got any paintings? Any originals? What about antiques? Silverware? Jewellery? Any heirlooms? Books even? Oi, I’ll have that DVD player for a start.”

Chapter 6

Nick was close to tears as he stood at his bedroom window and watched the white Range Rover drive off down the hill through a whirling snowstorm. He felt as if he had been raped. Never in a million years would he have believed that a debt collector would have penetrated his house, brushing aside the illusion of safety. The sanctity of his home had been desecrated, it would never be the same again. He felt degraded, less of a person, somehow unmanned. He knew he had to get out, to get away from the scene of his humiliation before he broke down completely.

He dressed with feverish haste, pulling on his old Barbour as he tumbled out of the house. He felt like a refugee in wartime. Only when he reached the foot of the hill did he pause to lace up his walking boots. He was out of breath and his stomach was churning as if he had been poisoned. When he bent over he almost threw up. He staggered off southwards, leaning blindly into the teeth of an icy blizzard, his face constantly whipped by stinging snowflakes. He struggled on for nearly and hour until eventually the snowstorm abated sufficiently to reveal an unfamiliar cotton wool landscape. He was breathing hard, his heart was thumping. He stopped to collect his thoughts. He knew he would have to turn back eventually. He couldn’t abandon his family. He was the cause of all the problems, it was his duty to somehow put things right. At that moment a lorry roared past, throwing up a slushy tidal bow wave that knocked him sideways. He picked himself up and slithered on until he came to a T-junction where he deserted the main road and clambered over a wooden fence beyond which was the birch wood forest he used to play in as a child. Underneath the skeletal canopy of trees the snow was sparser and the going was a little easier. He waded through waving fields of waist-deep icy bracken and fought his way past massive banks of bramble bushes that tore at his exposed skin like rolls of barbed wire. His brain was so numbed he didn’t feel the pain. Eventually he picked up the tracks of an old drove road that he knew would lead him to the river. When the track petered out after about a mile he emerged from the forest adjacent to the main road at the point where it crossed the river Dee.

He was exhausted and he leaned against the stone parapet of the bridge and stared down into the steely grey water below. Over the years he had spent many happy hours fishing the river. He sighed. So many fond memories. He tried to re-connect with the past but failed. The river looked inviting for a different reason. He had read somewhere that drowning was a good way to die. He imagined himself plunging into the icy depths. How long it would take or the river would embrace him, he wondered? The prospect of an end to all his problems was a beguiling one. He was ready to admit defeat. He stared thoughtfully down at the water wondering how deep it was.

Despite the recent heavy snowfalls the river was running free of ice and grue. The clear nights had led to a succession of hard frosts which had reduced the run-off from the land as the earth froze. As a result the river was running low, almost at early summer levels. Later, when the snow melted up in the mountains Nick knew that the river would rise and the big spring runs of salmon would commence their journey to the spawning beds in the headwaters of the river.

He leaned out over the parapet of the old military bridge and peered down into the dark churning water below. Immediately beneath the bridge was a fine pool almost a quarter of a mile long that often held large shoals of salmon. He gazed down for several minutes into the powerful swirls and eddies thirty feet below, searching for the tell-tale flashes of silver that indicated the presence of fish preparing to dash through the rapids at the head of the pool, potential companions on his next journey. In the event the water appeared empty, devoid of life. It would be a lonely grave. He craned his neck to examine a stretch of pale sandy gravel running along the edge of the river. He had often in the past watched the dark, ominous torpedo shapes of cock fish gliding upriver in their relentless drive to reach the spawning grounds. The harsh sunlight glinting on the rippling water had turned the pool into a silvery mirror. He squinted at the burnished surface until his eyes watered. Finally he decided that the rest of the pool was empty. Either the fish had already run on upstream after the last spate or they had not yet arrived this far inland, almost thirty miles from the sea, so early in the season. As if to make a mockery of his conclusion that the stretch was empty a big fish splashed languidly in the tail of the pool sending out a huge concentric ring of ripples. From the blackness of the fish’s silhouette he decided that it was probably a kelt, exhausted after spawning, drifting back to sea on the current.

He leaned further out over the parapet to get a better view into the shaded depths beneath the arch of the bridge. To his surprise he found himself staring, upside-down, at two equally startled people looking up at him from the riverbank below.

He saw at once that the couple was a young female fisherman and her much older companion, a burly dark-skinned man of about sixty dressed in thick brown tweeds, almost certainly a ghillie. He smiled self-consciously at them. The ghillie simply scowled back while the young woman, whom he reckoned was in her early thirties, proceeded to ignore him completely as she performed a superbly executed Spey cast, sending the line out and across and down the river in a smooth and effortless delivery that he would have been proud to emulate.

Unable to breathe properly in his bat-like position he regained his footing on the road and waited for the couple to emerge from under the bridge as they worked their way down through the pool. Shortly afterwards he heard the sound of the fly swishing through the air beneath his feet and a few minutes later the couple appeared on the grassy bank immediately below him. The ghillie looked up once more, glaring at him with all the warmth of a store detective greeting the arrival of a serial shoplifter. Nick wasn’t surprised by his reaction. When you are the keeper on a top salmon beat every stranger is a potential poacher. He returned the old man's malevolent stare with equanimity. Fuck you, he thought to himself, the cat can look at the queen, can’t he? I might be a bankrupt and a failed businessman at the end of my tether but I am still a human being. Just about.

The woman wielding the rod fished on oblivious to his presence, appearing utterly intent on expertly covering every inch of the pool. For the first time he could see her face clearly and he felt certain that she looked familiar. She was dressed in a well-cut Barbour wading jacket, jeans and a smart-looking pair of green wellingtons. Round her neck was wrapped a white scarf. She was bare-headed. Her blonde hair was short and quite straight. She wore fashionable sunglasses. For the time being he could not put a name to the face, but he was sure she was some sort of celebrity, an actress perhaps or maybe someone from the world of modelling or music. She would certainly have to be either rich or very well-connected to be able to fish this stretch of water, one of the most exclusive beats on Deeside. Whoever she was he could see she was a looker, that was for sure, A cool, haughty beauty, like something that had just stepped out of the pages of Country Life. Someone who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it. And she wanted a fish and no ill-mannered rustic gawping down at her from a public road was going to stop her.

Despite the almost-tangible waves of animosity beaming up towards him Nick continued to watch the pair for another twenty minutes or so as they fished down through the pool. Three times more the old ghillie looked back up at him, plainly resenting his presence. The woman on the other hand never took her eyes off her fly, although she rose nothing. Despite her good casting technique Nick reckoned that she was moving the fly through the water too quickly for the time of year, not allowing it to sink down far enough to reach the fish. He knew from experience that a spring salmon, especially a big springer, will often appear lethargic and disinterested unless the lure swims slowly right past the end of its nose, and at this time of the year the fish always lay deep. He was surprised the ghillie hadn't pointed this out, or maybe he had but she thought she knew better. She looked like the kind of person who would always think she knew best.

When they had fished down through the pool the couple walked back along the bank to a landrover parked beside the bridge, about thirty metres from where Nick was standing. He could hear them muttering to each other and once more he was the recipient of a murderous look from the ghillie. He assumed that they were talking about him. From the safety of the bridge he enjoyed a mild feeling of satisfaction at the discomfiture his presence was creating – he had fallen so far below them in society’s pecking order this was probably the only way he would ever appear on their radar screens, in any other context he would have been invisible. Although he had never been a political animal for once he felt like he was doing his bit for his class. The underclass, actually, he admitted to himself with a rueful smile. It struck him at that moment that this was the first time he had smiled for weeks. The sudden realisation of what he had gone through in that time made him immeasurably sad. All the pain of trying to build up his own business simply wasn’t worth it and he’d been a fool to think otherwise. The sacrifices had all been in vain. He should have remained poor but happy.

A few minutes later the ghillie strapped the rod onto the bonnet of the landrover and the couple drove off across the meadow at speed, bouncing irritably across the rough pasture, scattering a herd of cows as they did so. Nick watched them go with mixed emotions. He realised that he simultaneously envied and hated them. Envied their privileged way of life, hated the social hierarchy that perpetuated it. He presumed they were off in search of a more promising stretch of water away from the public gaze. To make matters worse he felt snubbed by their abrupt departure in some strange way that he didn’t understand. Maybe he had once aspired to join them, or at least indulge in that kind of lifestyle. Yet another fantasy that had caused him to take risks he shouldn’t have done.

Another fish splashed in the river right below the bridge. And then another, ten yards below the first. Nick had caught hundreds of fish in his time and he could tell that these were big fish. Worth quite a bit when proffered round the back doors of some of the local fish merchants in town. He had regularly subsidised his fishing in the past by selling his catch in just such a way. Cash in hand. Tax-free. No questions asked. He frowned as he stared down at the river. An idea was beginning to take shape in his mind. It sounded crazy but…what if…poaching…on an industrial scale…Maybe the answer to his predicament was actually staring him in the face.
There were problems of course. For a start his debts were so enormous that he would have to catch every fish in the river if he was ever going to pay them off. But maybe that was the wrong way to think about it. He could certainly eke out an existence from poaching, he was sure of that. Not with a rod and line. A big net and a tin of poison from one of his farmer friends more like. He suddenly felt himself getting exited. The idea wasn’t too far-fetched. He knew the river like the back of his hand. The price per pound for wild salmon was high. The spring run was just getting under way, giving him at least six months in which to make enough money to keep a roof over his head and get that ghastly debt collector off his back. Maybe even buy him enough time to get a proper job that would finally get his life back on track.

There were other drawbacks naturally. Not the least of which was that the Dee was well policed by bailiffs. He knew they were equipped with walkie-talkies and night-sights and other high tech devices. They were mobile too, which he wasn’t. They had also, reputedly, a rough and ready way with the poachers they caught. On the other hand… On the other hand there was an awful lot of river to watch and provided you were well-camouflaged and kept your wits about you… Nor would he be operating in an alien environment. He knew the river round here at least as well as any keeper. There was no doubt about it: the idea had legs. He clenched his fists in front of his chest like a boxer. He wasn’t beaten yet. There was still hope.

He checked his watch. The afternoon was wearing on and he was a long way from home. He would be lucky to get back before Maureen and Martin arrived back from town, expecting to be fed. He took a last look at the deserted river. A silvery ribbon of hope weaving its way through the rich green pasture. A ribbon he would soon untie to claim his prize.

Nick retreated into the wood. His legs were stiff from standing still for so long, his feet were lumps of ice, he was chilled to the marrow, he hadn’t eaten all day. But for the first time in weeks he was happy. He had found a potential solution to his problems. It was up to him to make it work. He knew it was his last chance. He couldn’t wait to tell Maureen. She was the one who had really suffered in all this. Now he had a plan he would make it all up to her.

He strode out with a sense of purpose. He had played in the woods as a child and despite the encroaching darkness he soon found a track he recognised. He reckoned he was about eight miles from home. At least while he was still within the river’s ancient floodplane the track was flat and mostly free of snow and ice. Despite his tiredness he quickly got into his stride and was soon marching along at a brisk pace.

As he walked he tried to remember who the fisherwoman was that he had observed earlier down at the river. It really irritated him that he could not put a name to her face. She was definitely famous, almost certainly a film star, maybe even royalty. Maureen would have known who she was, she was good at that sort of thing.

After a while he gave up puzzling about the woman and started thinking about the meal he would prepare for Maureen and Martin. He was pretty sure he could spice up the tin of corned beef and maybe he could do the potatoes in a different way. Even the cabbage could be glamorised if he stir-fried it for example. Martin in particular loved spicy foods . It was a shame there wasn’t any drink in the house to celebrate his Big Idea. They would just have to make do with spring water. He was ravenously hungry and he started to salivate as he imagined the intensity of the flavours he would create. After the meal he would tell Maureen about his plan to rescue them from financial ruin. It occurred to him that he didn’t have to stop at salmon. He could reap salvation from the land not just by poaching salmon but by snaring rabbits and hares and shooting pheasants, maybe even the odd deer. What a feast that would make – like a medieval banquet. Now that spring was here he could dig up the garden and plant seeds and potatoes too. In future they would live off the land just like their ancient ancestors had done. Mushrooms and chanterelles could be picked in the autumn. Wild raspberries, gooseberries and damsons harvested in the summer. He wasn’t being romantic about it either – he wasn’t some old hippie or like someone out of the Good Life. Nor did he hark after the good old days when he knew only too well that life for most people on the land was nasty, brutish and short. What he was doing was entirely pragmatic. A short term solution to tide them over until he got a proper job. Maybe even chickens. They had a bit of land after all, nearly half an acre. Being realistic, sheep and pigs were probably out of the question. Raising animals to kill them wasn’t something he felt too comfortable about to tell the truth. All the same he smiled to himself at the miraculous way the day had been transformed. Where there had been despair there was now hope.

An hour later he reached the foot of the farm road. Wearily he trudged up the hill in darkness towards the cottage. To his great relief there were no lights showing so he figured Maureen and Martin weren’t back yet, they’d probably been held up by traffic in town, an increasingly regular occurrence nowadays. He felt guilty at the length of time he had been away. Really he should have been home a couple of hours ago to get the tea ready. If they did arrive home before the meal was ready it would mean that Maureen would be all harassed and resentful, while Martin too would be indignant that his tea wasn't ready and waiting as usual. Once again, in trying to work out a solution to their problems, he would have failed them abysmally. In desperation, despite his tiredness, he quickened his footsteps. Please God, he prayed as he struggled up the hill, please let me get it right this time. And he was just thinking about the meal either.

Chapter 7

Nick limped into the driveway and was immediately taken aback to see Maureen's Saab parked outside the garage. He frowned. Normally whoever was first back put on the outside light and of course the inside lights but everything here was still in darkness. That was odd. He hesitated. Something was wrong. An owl hooted in the woods opposite the house and he jumped. His nerves were on edge. It wasn’t a game was it? A surprise? Or… a …. trap? His heart began to beat faster. Maybe there was a posse of creditors lurking in the darkness ready to leap out on him? Or the bank manager? Worst of all maybe the debt collector had come back to take the shirt off his back. Very slowly and cautiously he slid open the back door and felt his way into the house, on tiptoe, holding his breath, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

The first thing he saw when he entered the shadowy, unlit kitchen was Maureen hunched over a roaring primus stove. She was stirring a pot by the light of a single flickering candle. The reek of paraffin pervaded the room. She did not look up when he entered the room, acting almost as if he wasn’t there, as if he was a ghost. He watched her for a moment like he was watching a scene from an old silent movie. The condensation from her breath flamed in the jet from the primus as though she was breathing fire.

Nick understood immediately what had happened. "Don't tell me another power cut," he said breathlessly, relieved that nothing worse had happened.

Maureen continued to ignore him, mechanically stirring the saucepan on the primus, staring into it like a witch casting spells over a cauldron.

The way she was behaving unnerved him. “Christ, you’d think the power company would have got their act together after all this time,” he exclaimed with unconvincing vehemence. His voice was almost drowned out by the roar of the primus, making him feel small and insignificant. “It’s the same every bloody year,” he shouted, “Couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery that lot.”

Maureen looked up for the first time. She turned down the jet on the primus. She was staring at him as if he was a total stranger. "It's not a power cut," she said softly.

Nick was puzzled. "What? It must be." He tried the two different light switches in the hall and the kitchen and nothing happened. Of course it was a power cut, it certainly wasn’t a fuse, the lights were on different circuits. Sometimes Maureen’s stupidity amazed him. Power cuts were a regular feature of life in the country, usually associated with bad weather and high winds, although on this occasion snow was the more likely culprit. Probably the weight of the frozen snow had snapped a power line although it could be anything. These blackouts were a regular occurrence. Famously, the electricity company had once discovered that it had been cows rubbing up against an electricity pylon which had caused a whole winter of disruption. Just to make sure he tried switching on the television in the sitting room. Nothing happened. "See," he declared triumphantly, "it's not working either. I told you. It must be a power cut. There’s no other explanation."

Maureen continued stirring the contents of the saucepan on the primus, gently with a wooden spoon, first one way then the other. "Look outside. No-one else's lights have gone off," she said eventually, her voice reduced to a whisper behind the hissing flame of the primus.

As the implications of her observation dawned on him Nick felt as if someone was slowly pouring a bucket of cold water over his head. He couldn’t breath in. He was drowning in terror. He wanted to turn and run back out of the house and hide out in the fields but he couldn’t move. He felt as if the blood was congealing in his veins. His brain too was slowing down, as if he was suffering from some kind of mental hypothermia. He tried to think. If it wasn’t a power cut…if it wasn’t a power cut…if it wasn’t a power cut…He couldn’t get his brain to work properly, he just couldn’t think straight any more. If it wasn’t a power cut they…they must have been cut off. He shivered. The house was freezing. His teeth started chattering. Their world was coming to an end as they entered a new Ice Age.

“Look for yourself,” said Maureen, tasting the contents of the pot with the wooden spoon as steam rose up around her.

Although he dreaded what he was going to find Nick forced himself to cross the sitting-room floor in the darkness and look out through the picture window down upon the valley below. The lights from a dozen scattered houses twinkled merrily like a scene on a Christmas card. He stared in dismay at the familiar view. Normally when a power line went down the whole valley was plunged into darkness. He felt his way back through to the kitchen, banging his knee painfully against the sideboard as he did so. There was no doubt about what happened and yet, hoping against hope, he rejected the evidence of his own eyes. "I don't understand," he said, rubbing his knee, "Why is it just us?"

"Don't you?”

“It’s bizarre. This has never happened before. I can’t figure it out.”

“Can’t you, Nick?"

He frowned again. He could tell from the sound of her voice that she was really upset. What did she think had happened to them? What did she know? Maybe she thought it was just the power line into their house. Perhaps the final link had been broken in some kind of accident. Maybe it was just them. It was possible. He said, "Don’t worry, I'll phone the electricity people right now and find out what's happened."

"You needn’t bother."

“It’s no problem. Leave it to me. I’ll put a rocket up their arse I can tell you.”

“I’ve already phoned them.”

"Oh. So what's the problem? When are they coming to fix it?"

She stopped stirring the saucepan and stared at him through dead eyes. An age passed before she finally spoke. "They said they’ll fix it when we pay our bill."

Nick frowned. “What?”

“They said they’ll turn it back on…”

"Jesus," he interrupted, "I thought we'd paid it."

“Did you?”

“I could have sworn I sent off a cheque a week ago.”

Maureen continued to stare blankly at him. "I found the bill stuck behind the clock on the mantelpiece unopened. Along with all the other unpaid bills and final reminders. Car insurance, the rates, a bill from the garage, half a dozen letters from the bank. A big pile of threatening letters from your credit card company. All unopened. The phone bill is well overdue too. I'm amazed that hasn't been cut off already."

He stared at her in horror. He felt the blood draining from his face. She knew. She knew everything.

"Jesus." His legs suddenly went weak and he was obliged to sit down at the kitchen table. He had been caught red-handed. This was it then, the day of reckoning. The showdown he had been dreading for months had finally arrived. The moment when all his dreams of salvation were about to be slaughtered on the altar of harsh reality. "I knew it was bad but I didn't think it was that bad," he said fatuously, still in denial, even to himself.

She stared at him in disbelief. "You didn't think it was that bad? Oh, Nick, what did you think? Did you think all those bills were going to go away if you ignored them? Is that what you thought? I couldn't believe it when I found them. How could you have been so bloody stupid?"

It was the first time he had ever heard her swear and it scared him. Suddenly she seemed like a different woman. Up until that moment she had always been supportive whatever his failings, she had always been loyal, had always stuck by him. If she abandoned him now he was finished. There was no way he would get through the impending crisis on his own. If she left him now she would be leaving him for dead. "All right, Maureen, I admit it. It was stupid of me to ignore them, but what was I supposed to do?”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it? I’d no idea it was this bad. If you hadn’t hidden them like that we might have been able to do something before it got to this.”

He hated being in the wrong. He knew there was no defence for his behaviour. He felt absolutely wretched. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he muttered, close to tears.

“If you hadn’t ignored them we could have talked to them, tried to have reached an accommodation somehow. The next thing you know they’ll be turning up on the doorstep asking for money.”

He didn’t tell her about the visit from the debt collector. “I know, I know. I was too scared. I was terrified.”

“They’ll have to be paid somehow.”

It was his turn to stare in disbelief. “I know, I know. But how? We’re broke Maureen. There going to throw us out onto the street."

She shut her eyes. "I don’t know the answer, Nick, I just know they'll have to be paid somehow."

"Oh yes. How? What, write a cheque. I know. Put them on the credit card. How about that? No? What about the house? Sell the house? Oh, I forgot it belongs to the bank doesn’t it. No, I’m stumped. Tell you what, you tell me how we can pay them all off. After all, I’ve spent bloody weeks worrying myself sick about them trying to come up with an answer. No, now it’s your turn. I think that’s fair, don’t you?” He was becoming hysterical, spitting out the words, foam flecking the corners of his mouth.

Maureen turned away. She hated rows. Rows were his way of avoiding the truth. “This isn’t helping, Nick,” she said, through clenched teeth.

“I know it’s all my fault. Go on, say it.”

“There’s no point blaming anyone.”

“You do blame me though, don’t you. You blame me for running the business into the ground.”

It was a difficult question. She thought for several seconds. “You never discussed the business with me. I didn’t know what you were doing. I had to trust me.”

“So it is all my fault.”

“The loss of your major customer didn’t help I suppose.”

“You can’t blame me for that. How was I to know that would happen. It came out of the blue. You can’t plan for something like that. I’m not a bloody magician you know, I can’t read the future.”

“All right, don’t go on about it. We had nothing when we first go married. We survived then, we can survive now.”

Nick grimaced. “Just like the old joke. ‘I started out with nothing and I’ve still got most of it left.’”

She didn't smiled at his feeble attempt to make light of the matter. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken on so much debt trying to grow the business. I never understood why you were always trying to make the company bigger.”

“You can’t stand still in business, Maureen. The customers always want you to do more. If you don’t do what they want they’ll get someone else who will.”

“And where were those customers when you needed them? They didn’t care what happened to you when the work dried up, did they?”

Nick shrugged. “That’s the nature of the game I was in. It could have gone the other way and I could have made a fortune.”

Maureen sighed. “We didn’t need a fortune, Nick. I was perfectly happy to get by on a living wage. If you hadn’t borrowed all that money we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted the best for you and Martin. I did it for al the right reasons. Okay, I was wrong. But I did it because I loved you both. You understand that, don’t you.”

She didn’t reply immediately. She was aware that in a way he was using their love as a justification for his lofty ambitions, almost as if it was somehow their fault. She said, “The question is, Nick, what are we going to do now.”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried everything. I’ve run out of ideas.”

“You can’t give up Nick. What’s going to happen to Martin and me? You’ve got to get a job. Anything. You’ve got to start bringing some money into the house.”

“Maureen, I’m a beaten man. I don't know what to do next.”

“Nick, how do you think I feel? This thing has been a nightmare for me too. That doesn’t stop me going out every day and knocking my pan in at school.”

“I’ve tried Maureen. No one will take me.”

“Well, you can’t leave it all up to me to sort out. That’s not fair.” For the first time a hint of resentment had crept into her voice.

The tinned stew she had been heating on the primus was starting to bubble. She placed the saucepan on the table in front of him. "You'll have to have bread with it," she said, "I can't cook potatoes as well."

He frowned. "What about Martin?"

"He's gone off to stay with one of his friends."

Nick took the news badly. "Oh has he. I might have guessed it. Jumped ship at the first sign of trouble did he? Aye, he's a great comfort to us all."

Maureen moved the candle onto the table and sat down opposite her husband, helping herself to a little of the stew. "That’s not a fair comment, Nick, and you know it. Why shouldn’t he spend the night with his friends? Would you rather he sat here in the dark feeling miserable.”

“I just think we should stick together as a family in a crisis.”

“You expect too much of him, Nick. He’s just a child. What do you want him to do, go out and get a job at Macdonald's to pay the bills? You want him to sacrifice his future to save your skin, is that what you want?"

Her words wounded him deeply. Of course that wasn't what he wanted. Just a bit of solidarity wouldn't have gone amiss, that was all. He had done it all for them, starting the business, working himself into the ground, risking everything. The least they could do when it all went wrong was to stand by him. He’d always believed in the family ideal. That’s what had driven him ever since he’d got married. He couldn’t bear the thought that his ideal might just be an illusion, a saccharine, sentimental product of fifties Hollywood. He pushed his plate away and buried his head in his hands. He hated it when they fought like this. So much for being a close-knit family bound together by love. The reality was that their solidarity was rapidly disintegrating at the first real sign of trouble. This wasn't how it was meant to be. They were supposed to present a united front against the world. That was the whole point of being a family. He sighed. He knew it wasn’t their fault that everything had gone to pieces. He shouldn’t be blaming them. He had to take responsibility for his shortcomings. He was only too aware that if Maureen had married someone else – as she could easily have done, she had no lack of choice when she was young – she wouldn’t be in this mess now.

Maureen turned off the primus and the room rang with an echoing, metallic silence.

He said softly, "I'm sorry, love, I really am. This whole thing is my fault. It's just all been too much for me recently. All those letters of rejection. It hurts so much. It just makes me feel worthless. I didn’t open the letters because I didn’t know what I could do about them. Then everything just spiralled out of control. Every time the postman calls I’m just terrified. When the phone rings I nearly die of fright. I’m just living in fear the whole time. And I can’t see any way out."

She wasn't used to seeing her husband looking beaten, feeling so sorry for himself, throwing in the towel like this. His present demeanour was a worrying contrast to his usual blithe, sometimes even foolish, optimism. The collapse of the business seemed to have changed him completely, knocked all the stuffing out of him, so that at times she hardly recognised him any more. She felt desperately sorry for him even if a lot of his present problems were self-inflicted, maybe could have been avoided with a little common sense. Even so, however responsible he might be for their current dire straits, she had no wish to twist the knife in him when he was down, whatever he might think. She loved him too much to see him hurt any more. Not unsympathetically she said, "If only you'd talk about these things more...open up a bit. Perhaps we could find the solution together."

"Perhaps you're right. I do keep these things bottled up inside me. To tell you the truth I sometimes feel like I'm carrying the problems of the whole fucking world on my shoulders."

She flinched at his violent language but on this occasion left her customary reprimand unsaid.

“Christ, I’m so uptight my head is spinning like it’s about to come off."

She waited patiently for him to calm down, as she always did. Eventually she said, "The question is, Nick, what are we going to do about all those bills? We can't just go on ignoring them. I don’t suppose the mortgage has been paid either."

He ate his stew in silence, forcing the meat between his sullen lips, dribbling gravy down his chin and onto his shirt. He was so overwhelmed by the situation that he was losing control of his bodily functions. It wouldn’t be long before his brain gave up too and that really would be the finish. As it was he was struggling to come up with any new answers, any half-sensible suggestions. Even the idea of poaching salmon suddenly seemed far-fetched when it was set against the reality of the pile of threatening letters. At the end of the day he knew the only real answer was to get a job. He didn't need her to tell him that. Doing what though? That was the real insoluble question. That and finding someone to take him on at his age. He was just too old, no one needed his outdated skills any more, the world had changed and left him far behind.

Unemployment for the likes of him was here to stay.

"Nick, you'll just have to go and see the bank manager tomorrow. Explain the position. Ask him for a bigger overdraft to tide us over."

"You mean dig ourselves deeper into debt?"

She stared across at him through the shadowy light. He no longer looked remotely like the man she had married, the loving husband who until recently had run a successful business. She felt her sympathy turning to anger as she contemplated the way he had thrown in the towel, leaving her to somehow pick up the pieces. "We can't go on like this, Nick. No electricity means no central heating, no microwave, no cooker, no television, no washing machine, no water being pumped from the well, no lights, no fridge. Not that there's much in the fridge. And the coal ran out nearly a week ago and the logs are almost finished. We'll have to get money from somewhere otherwise we really will be thrown out onto the streets."

The vehemence of her outburst scared him. "All right, all right. I'll go down to the Job Centre first thing in the morning."

"Go to the bank first, that’s more important."

The thought of confronting their personal bank manager, a man with whom in the past he had regularly shared a laugh and a joke as if they were equals, filled him with dread.

"Will you, Nick?" Maureen persisted, determined to pin him down for once.

"I suppose I'll have to," he agreed reluctantly.

"Promise me you’ll go."

He shifted in his seat. She knew how to turn the screw when she had to. "All right, I'll go. Just don't go on about it, that's all."

They ate the rest of their meal in silence and because the house was so cold without the central heating and there was no television to watch and the candle stumps gave out too little light to read by they retired to bed before nine, pulling the blankets tight up to their chins in the freezing cold room. That night they were too angry and hurt and bitter to reach out to each other for warmth or love as they usually did.

At ten twenty-three the phone rang in the sitting-room downstairs. Nick pretended he was asleep but Maureen nudged him with her elbow. "You get it,” she muttered sleepily, “I've got to get up in the morning."

He stumbled downstairs in the darkness. Who could possibly be phoning them at this time of night? Surely it wasn’t a reply to one of his many job applications. If it was it would truly be a miracle. Maybe one of the companies he had written to was suddenly desperate, had unexpectedly lost a key member of staff. It happened. He felt his spirits rising as he felt his way across the floor in the darkness. Maybe this was his lucky break at last. Please God, he prayed as he picked up the phone, please, please God make it good news. "Hello?"

"Nick Dowty?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Was it one of his old customers who wanted to offer him a fresh start? "Yes,” he said, barely able to contain his excitement, “That's me. Who's calling?"

"It's Ronnie Sutherland."

The name was vaguely familiar. "I'm sorry. Who?"

"Ronnie Sutherland. The garage up the hill. We repaired your wife’s car the other week."

The garage! Oh shit. They had serviced the car over a month ago. It had needed a lot doing to it too after his amateurish attempts to make it roadworthy, not just the brakes that he'd buggered up. A new exhaust, new tyres, a new clutch. A fortune which they hadn't yet paid. Couldn't pay. "Yes, of course Ronnie, what can I do for you?"

Ronnie Sutherland came from a farming family that had lived on the land for generations. He had a slow, deliberate way of speaking that was timeless, wise and immutable. The authority of the soil, of generations past eking out a living from a hard and unforgiving earth. A toughness that was accentuated by his thick Aberdeenshire burr. "Weel, the bill for your car for a start."

"Oh yes. The car. What about it?"

"Weel, the bill hasnae been paid."

Nick affected surprise at this news. "That's strange. Maureen usually likes to pay all the bills promptly. She must have overlooked it. I'll speak to her about it in the morning."

“The thing is, chiel, I’ve sent you three reminders already.”

“She’s been so busy recently. She must just have forgot.”

“I dinna like being made a feel of, ye ken.”

“Like I said, I’ll speak to her in the morning. I promise.”

Ronnie Sutherland pondered this suggestion for a moment. "Will you no speak to her aboot it noo?"

Considering the time of night Nick thought this was coming it a bit strong. Besides, he was determined to insulate Maureen as much as he could from the unpleasant consequences of their dire financial state. "Well, I'm afraid she's asleep right now, but I'll speak to her in the morning like I say."

“I’d prefer if you could speak to her right noo. My suppliers won’t wait. I canna afford to be oot of pocket jist because supposedly she’s too busy to pay me.”

Nick was shocked by the unpleasantness of the remark. Fuck you, he thought angrily, you leave my poor wife out of this, you bastard. “Look, she’s asleep right now. I’ll speak to her in the morning.”

A pause. “I’ve got a business to run. I’ve got better things to do than to go round hounding clowns like you for money.”

The man sounded really angry. Nick’s legs suddenly started trembling. “You’ll get your money I promise.”

Another long pause. "Will it be cash or a cheque?"

Despite his dread of creditors Nick was intensely irritated by this persistent, intrusive form of interrogation. Just because you owed someone money it didn’t mean they could treat you like shit. He wasn’t a criminal for Christ’s sake, just a guy who was down on his luck, someone going through a bad patch. He said, in a slightly posher accent than the one with which he normally spoke, "I really don't know how she intends to pay. She might want to use her credit card or perhaps she’ll pay you cash. I don’t discuss these matters with her in any detail."

Ronnie Sutherland was having none of it. "Right. Cash will be fine. I'll come round in the morning and collect it."

The idea of being confronted on his own doorstep by the burly garage owner filled Nick with horror. "She's got to work tomorrow," he said quickly, his voice rising in panic.

"What time does she leave the house?"

Christ, the man was persistent. The trouble was there was no way they could pay his bill in the morning. He had to put him off somehow. He said, in a conciliatory, almost respectful tone, "She leaves very early I’m afraid. Look, I'll bring you a cheque round myself tomorrow.”

“A cheque.”

“Honestly. I promise.”

“Not cash?”

“A cheque would be more convenient. We don’t keep cash in the house.”

"What time will you bring this cheque?"

Jesus Christ! Talk about hounding someone for payment. He didn’t attempt to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Well, I'm busy in the morning. I'll bring it round in the afternoon, is that all right?" Nick knew this was his only possible course of action. It would take several days for the cheque to bounce. Maybe time to come up with another solution.

"Before the banks shut?"

The thought that he might delay his visit to prevent the cheque being presented the same day had never occurred to Nick. The man obviously had plenty of experience of dealing with bad payers. "Yes, all right, before the banks shut."

He put down the phone and climbed the stairs back to the bedroom. The phone call had shaken him, further undermining the sense of security that being in his own home used to bring him. His heart thumped as he climbed back into bed. What right did that arsehole have to hound him like that? Invading the sanctity of his own home just like a burglar in the night. Or a rapist even. Jesus! it made him angry. He switched the bedside light off and closed his eyes and tried to sleep. In the darkness his anger turned to fear as he imagined what tomorrow was going to bring, the very real possibility that the garage owner might actually come round to confront him about the unpaid bill. Beside him Maureen slept soundly, an angelic expression on her face.

He couldn't sleep. His fear turned to anger again and then to fear and back again. Over and over. Endlessly. He could not lie still for a moment. Maureen groaned, half awake, begged him to go to sleep. He kept thinking about the phone call. There was no way he could pay the garage, any cheque he wrote would bounce. The best that he could hope for was a few day’s grace while it went through the system, but then what? What if the man then came round to the house to have it out with him? Or sent in the bailiffs. Or even a couple of hard men to give him a good hiding. Then there was the bank manager to face tomorrow. What the hell was he going to say to him? What if he called in their overdraft? What then? How were they going to eat? What about the car? If the garage owner took the car in lieu of payment they would be stranded. You couldn’t rely on the buses round here. If Maureen lost the car she risked losing her job. Then what? Without her money coming in they would be tossed out onto the streets for certain, destitute, into the gutter. He groaned. The shame of it all. Rock bottom. A life not worth living. No hope. No future. And it was all his fault.

At about midnight it started to rain. Soon a storm blew up. Torrential rain and gale force winds lashed the bedroom window and rattled the slates. He found the noise – the sound and the fury – oddly comforting. It somehow put the severity of his plight into perspective. There would be people in real danger out there in the wind and rain. People died in storms, buildings were damaged, rivers flooded, forests were flattened. He pulled the sheets up around his chin and lay safe and warm in his own bed beside his loving wife. As the rain drummed upon the roof his thoughts turned to the river. In a few hours the water level would begin to rise. In the tidal estuary far away the shoals of salmon would smell the imminent spate. Instinctively they would crowd together at the river’s mouth. At a certain moment, triggered by a hidden signal buried in their genes they would suddenly charge en masse upstream, flinging themselves into the rising current, driven by the primal urge to procreate, great shoals of silver fish swimming to the spawning beds far upstream, shoals of valuable fish swimming unwittingly to his rescue. Soothed by the din from the waves of sheeting rain that the storm was flinging against the roof tiles he finally started to drift off to sleep. It was around three in the morning. He slept fitfully for three hours or so before waking up in a cold sweat, his pyjamas soaked, his head throbbing, his heart thumping. Dawn was breaking. He rolled over but the bed was empty. Maureen had already left. Sitting up and looking out through the bedroom window he saw that the skies had cleared and the wind had dropped. The sun was shining benignly on the massed flocks of finches and blackbirds that were singing their hearts out in the trees around the house, an almost deafening dawn chorus.

And yet, even in the dazzling morning light, with the birth of a bright new day dawning, he could see no way forward, no way of avoiding his dreadful fate. He tried to clamber out of bed but the effort exhausted him. Even his soul felt leaden.

And then, just as he hit rock bottom, a miracle happened.

Chapter 8


The postman delivered the mail at the usual time and drove off up the hill in his red landrover.

Nick crept back downstairs from his usual hiding place as soon as he was sure it was safe. Scattered on the carpet lay the familiar collection of threatening-looking letters which he hid unopened in a new hiding place at the back of the airing cupboard. A few remaining innocuous-looking circulars he left on the kitchen table as decoys for Maureen to open when she came home from work. One letter, however, stood out from the others.

He picked it up gingerly. The blue and yellow corporate logo on the front of the envelope looked vaguely familiar. He looked closer. “Nexab International”. He frowned. The name seemed familiar. It took him a few seconds to recall that it was a company he had written to several months previously in response to a recruitment advertisement in the local paper, one of many he had responded to during the brief period of heady optimism that had gripped him in the immediate aftermath of his business failure. As far as he could recall he had applied for the position of Marketing Director. A senior post in a fast-growing young company that was making a name for itself in the software industry. How naïve he had been! He weighed the envelope in his hands for several seconds, postponing the almost certain disappointment that would follow when he finally opened it. He hesitated. Sometimes it was better not to hear back from a company at all. In certain circumstances no news was good news. Or at least it wasn’t bad news. This letter was almost certainly a standard rejection, a polite disavowal of the need to deploy his undoubted talents in the company. Just like all the rest. Another blow to his diminishing residue of self-esteem left over from the good old days when he had been a successful entrepreneur.

Even more than usual he wasn’t in the mood for bad news that morning. After the confrontation with Maureen and the shock of having their electricity cut off he hadn’t slept at all well. Too many wild and vivid dreams had left him struggling to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Twice he had woken up dreaming he was drowning. Even in the cold light of day – and it really was cold without the central heating - he had looked around in relief at his familiar surroundings, amazed that he was still alive. He could almost feel his synapses popping from anxiety as the inevitable denouement approached. Any more bad news would almost certainly tip him over the edge, precipitating another bout of crippling despair, the probable precursor to something much worse. He pushed the letter away from him, determined to prolong his blissful ignorance for as long as possible. He would wait at least until he had finished a second cup of tea before opening the letter. A disappointment postponed was…well, a disappointment postponed. It wasn’t much of a reprieve but when you’re living precariously on the slopes of an active volcano every second of tranquillity before the next eruption is a bonus.

Trying to conserve fuel he boiled the water on the primus with the jet at half strength. One solitary cup of tea would constitute his whole breakfast. In the event the tea was surprisingly good considering the cheapness of the yellow label tea bags he had bought so shamefacedly from the local village shop. The Today programme was on the radio but he wasn’t really listening – he didn’t much care about the rest of the world right now, he had more than enough troubles of his own to preoccupy him. With no morning paper to read he sat staring at the envelope in front of him while he drummed his fingers on the table. At least judging by the postmark it wasn’t the news he had been dreading - a summons from the sheriff officers. The minutes dragged by in a funereal procession and the news ended. The radio continued to churn out the sound of people talking and for a moment he imagined he was back at work listening to the hum of conversation all around him, most of it unintelligible, just the odd familiar word. Breathtaking. Glittering. Soaring imagination. They were discussing a new production of one of Arthur Miller’s plays, he wasn’t sure which one. The Crucible, probably. It didn’t matter. None of what they said made any difference to him. All he wanted now was silence but he was too tired to get up and switch the damned radio off. His fear of the outside world had reduced him to such a state of torpor that time itself had almost ground to a halt, animation was suspended. He imagined that this was how life closed in on you at the very end, darkening your horizons, blocking off all escape routes. He took another sip from his cup of weak tea but the dregs were now cold and he recoiled in disgust as the cold, greasy liquor swilled around his mouth. He knew he could not put off the inevitable any longer. Even cowards finally reach the point where it’s easier to confront the truth than to live in permanent fear. Bracing himself for bad news he lunged across the table and grabbed the envelope and ripped it open, forcing himself to read what he was sure would be the latest rejection letter from a prospective employer.

He read quickly, his eyes darting dizzily across the blue company letterhead:

“Dear Mr Dowty

Unfortunately the post for which you applied in February has been filled. (He knew it!) We did however put your application on file and as a result we wish to invite you to a preliminary interview for the position of Business Development Executive which has arisen due to the rapid expansion of our company (Good God! A miracle!).

While this is a less senior position than the one for which you originally applied we do feel that it is one with the potential for promotion within the company. If (IF!!!!!!!) you wish to be considered for this post please phone me to arrange an interview at your earliest convenience.

If we do not hear from you within the next five working days we will assume you are not interested in this position and will accordingly delete your file from our records.

Yours sincerely


David Millen
Personnel Director”


As soon as he had recovered from his initial shock Nick excitedly phoned the company to arrange an appointment for his interview. They were in a hurry and gave him a date in three days time. The intervening period would be nerve-wracking but exciting. When Maureen and Martin came home that evening they found the house transformed.

“I’ve been Spring cleaning,” explained Nick, beaming.

“Have you been to see the bank manager?” demanded Maureen, looking tired and worried.

“No need.”

“Oh, Nick, you promised.” Maureen looked close to tears.

“Read this.” He held out the letter from Nexab International.

Optimism flooded the house, bathing all of them in its warm glow.

“Will you get a company car?” asked Martin wistfully. He was so ashamed of Maureen’s banger that he made her drop him off a mile from his school.

Maureen laughed. “Give him a chance. He hasn’t got the job yet.”

“I’ve got a good feeling about this one, Maureen. I’m sure I’ll get it. It’s made for me. I could do it standing on my head.”

“The right way up will do fine.”

“I just want to live again. You know. Free from fear. Like ordinary people. Come home after an honest day’s work and collapse in front of the fire with a glass of wine and a good book. Re-read all the authors I loved when I was younger. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Evelyn Waugh. Re-connect to the things that really matter. Give my soul the kiss of life. Get back to being the kind of person I was before I took a wrong turning in life.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to read now if you wanted to.”

“I can’t concentrate. All I can think about are our debts and what’s going to happen. I read the words but I can’t take them in. I need that job to set my mind free again. It means everything to me.”

“I hope you get it. I really do. For all our sakes.”

While they waited for the day of his interview to arrive they continued to live off scraps of food in the cold house, without electricity, living in constant fear of a knock at the door announcing the arrival of an irate creditor. Miraculously no-one came near them.. Even the postman passed them by, sparing them any more bad news. The phone remained silent. Finally the waiting ended. His appointment was scheduled for 1.00 o’clock that afternoon. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before and he was still in bed when it was time for the others to leave. Maureen bent down and kissed him on the forehead before she set off into town with Martin.

“Good luck, darling,” she whispered, “You can do it. I know you can.”

“Sock it to them, dad,” said Martin, giving him a big thumbs up, from the bedroom doorway.

When the time came he set off to walk the half mile down to the bus stop. He was dressed in his now unfamiliar best dark blue suit, with Maureen’s best wishes still ringing in his ears and his heart pounding wildly. The bus arrived on time for once and he climbed aboard to attend his first job interview for almost two months. As they entered the outskirts of town Nick watched the sporadic groups of people scurrying about their daily business. After the emptiness of the countryside it was a pleasure to see this sprinkling of humanity at work. He envied them their apparent sense of purpose. Soon he hoped to be just like them, with a job, a steady income, manageable debts, a sensible mortgage, mundane worries about cutting the grass and cleaning the car, anticipating their glass of wine at the end of the day, enduring a reasonably happy marriage, glowing with a modicum of self respect. He felt a pang of envy. He realised that to be like them was all he had ever wanted from life. He should have been a lawyer or an accountant. Even a schoolteacher. Anything that would have made him ordinary, more like other people, averagely happy.

As soon as he alighted from the bus in the centre of town it struck him forcibly how much things had changed in the six months during which he had been exiled deep in the countryside.

For a start nearly everybody now seemed to be striding around with a mobile phone pressed to their ear, a sight that in his day had been a comparative rarity. There seemed to be many more young people too, all of them exuberantly self-confident, even aggressive. Everyone was in a hurry, the same grim expressions on all their faces, living in another world, making plans over their phones, their lives bursting with purpose. It was a world so different from his own aimless, tortured existence that he ached with jealousy. Battling through a tidal wave of earnest shoppers he commenced his dazed progress along the crowded High Street where it ran through the centre of town. It was impossible not to notice that all the shops seemed to be holding sales, their floodlit windows plastered with posters announcing massive discounts on just about everything in huge screaming letters. The milling crowds rushed around from shop to shop, frantically snapping up bargains, everyone loaded down with bulging plastic bags as if the world was coming to an end. He stopped and gaped. Everyone seemed to have money to spend yet no one seemed to be working. It didn’t make sense. What was the secret of their wealth? Christ, he thought to himself in bewilderment, he wished he knew. He’d been hard up all his life, had ploughed every spare penny back into the business. Over the years he had become conditioned to living frugally, eventually reaching the stage where he actually hated spending money, especially on himself. It was all so different today. All the fast food shops were packed, people were lining up outside in the streets to get in. Whatever had happened to home cooking? A flask of soup, a sandwich made at home before setting off to work? Vast numbers of people were eating in the street totally without shame or embarrassment. Empty food cartons were discarded on the pavements without a second thought, litter piled up everywhere, swept into corners by a swirling, snell March wind. Nick was only too conscious of the fact that he couldn’t afford lunch and the pervasive smell of fast food that lingered around the entrances to the shopping malls made him feel nauseous with hunger. Something else struck him in this alien environment. The expressions on the faces of the people in the crowds. They seemed almost subhuman. Universally aggressive, as if their snarling humanity had somehow degenerated in his absence into something primitive, perhaps tribal. Christianity had deserted the city, the abandoned churches now were all pubs and restaurants. In his short time away people had begun worshipping a different God with a fervour he had never observed before. Shopping truly was the new religion. He felt like a stranger amongst these pagan hordes, a character trapped in the bustle of a Breughel painting. As he fought his way along Union Street, swimming against the prevailing current, hordes of people charged past him, elbowing him out of the way, glaring at him as if he was an imbecile. The feeling of latent violence in the air was oppressive. The shopping malls through which he passed became a series of brightly-lit nightmares. He felt claustrophobic, it was hard to breathe, he was beginning to panic, wishing he’d never left home. To make matters worse he realised that he had lost his ability to navigate through crowds. His clumsiness meant he was continuously jostled, pushed backwards, cursed at, disoriented. He felt like he was drowning in a whirlpool of heartlessness. Carried out through a heavy glass door into the chill fetid air of the main street he stood in a daze as the traffic raced past in an endless stream, a few feet away, snarling at his ankles whenever he attempted to sprint across to the other side of the road.

By the time he finally reached Nexab House in the West End he was already ten minutes late for his interview despite running the last half mile through the broad leafy avenue lined with granite mansions built by fish merchants and Baltic traders back in the nineteenth century.

He needn’t have worried.

He was dismayed to discover that he was one of at least twenty candidates for the post and his prospective employers had already fallen well behind with their interviewing schedule. He sat on a plastic seat in the large, modern reception area of the converted town house along with half a dozen other candidates, all of whom were much younger, and, mercifully, even more apprehensive, than he was. After a while he noted that the switchboard on the receptionist’s desk hardly ever rang which was surprising for such a supposedly busy company. He was mildly irritated at the way the bored receptionist did not attempt to engage any of them in conversation or offer them coffee. Instead she spent most of her time on the phone to a friend, a conversation he was obliged to overhear.

“We’re flying down to London on Easyjet in September….that’s right…no…Luton… then we’re flying Virgin to Barbados…I know…Garry booked it on the internet…I know…he’s brilliant that way, he does it all while he’s at work. What? My mum’s met him…yeah, she likes him…My dad? No way. He’d scare him off…What?…Too right. This is my last chance and there’s no way I’m going to let my dad screw it up…What?…Two weeks. It’s all inclusive…I know. Garry says we’ll get our money back on the booze alone. The way he drinks we might even make a profit. It’s dead cheap over there anyway…No…I’ve been to Spain and that with my folks lots of times but this is the first time I’ve been properly abroad…What?…as long as the food’s okay I don’t mind…What?…And the weather yeah…The sea’ll be warm at that time of year…I know…Garry says”

As the minutes stretched into hours Nick began to hate Garry.

Darkness was falling outside he was finally summoned to his interview. When he stood up he felt light-headed from hunger. A smartly-dressed young woman led him into a smallish boardroom which was almost totally filled by a large and expensive-looking rosewood desk. He squeezed into the proffered seat opposite his two interviewers. A man and a woman both in their early twenties, casually dressed, cool, self-important. They seemed completely at ease in his presence which immediately unnerved him.

The man flicked through Nick’s CV. “You’re obviously a self-starter if you’ve run your own business,” he observed, smiling encouragingly at Nick across the highly polished expanse of desk, a gulf that was wider than he would ever know.

Nick nodded. “I don’t lack motivation.”

“How would you feel working for someone else? Not being your own boss any more?”

“Not a problem. The challenges you have to face if you want to succeed in business are the same whether it’s your own business or someone else’s.”

“You’re quite a bit older than everyone else round here. You wouldn’t mind that?”

“I’ve been around all right,” agreed Nick, forcing himself to smile deprecatingly. As soon as he uttered the phrase he regretted it. It made him sound like an old whore who was past her sell-by date. Exactly the opposite impression to the one he was trying to convey.

“What special attributes would you bring to this job?” asked the woman in a bored, refined voice, without looking up.

Nick thought for a minute but it was hard to concentrate. He couldn’t get the nasal twang of the receptionist’s voice out of his head. He knew he had to say something if he was to have any chance of getting the job. Before he could organise his thoughts his mouth opened and he heard himself saying, in a surprisingly confident voice, “Well, I’m numerate of course. I can run the numbers. Cash flow, profit and loss, balance sheet. All the key financial ratios. I know how to monitor the way a company’s performing and discover what is and isn’t working. I’d also like to think I could put all my experience of running a business to good use to achieve the company’s key objectives.” He was pleased with his answer. He’d managed to avoid waffling or saying anything stupid just by sticking to the truth.

He was taken aback when the young man winced. “That’s a bit old economy, isn’t it? Cash flow? That’s not how we measure success here. Cash in the bank earns peanuts. We’ve got first mover advantage in our field and our primary objective is to leverage that into a dominant market share. Just like Microsoft,” he added, helpfully.

Nick’s first reaction was that this was a pretty dumb strategy for a small business. Cash flow was all-important in the early days. On the other hand, what did he know? His attempt to build a successful company hadn’t exactly been a rip-roaring success despite the years of careful investment. “I see,” he said, nodding his head sagely. When it obviously didn’t pay to disagree it was a technique that had served him well in the past.

“We’re growing too fast to worry about cash flow,” continued the young man airily, “When we’ve burnt up our cash reserves our exponential growth means we’ll have a queue of investors dying to pump fresh capital into the company. When we’re number one in the market then the cash will come flowing in. How we spend it will be the problem.”

Nick couldn’t stop himself from looking doubtful. “I thought the technology bubble had burst?”

“We’re not technology. Definitely not. We’re enterprise systems. Business process engineering. And in our field we’re unique.”

“Truly differentiated,” explained the woman brightly.

Nick felt at this point that it would be prudent to guide the conversation back onto safer ground where he actually knew what they were talking about. He coughed politely. “So what is your product exactly?”

The young man leaned forward, his eyes burning with all the fervour of a true believer. “We’ve developed an innovative suite of enterprise software that will completely revolutionise supply chain management in the oil industry.”

“Supply chain management?” Naturally Nick had heard the term but he had no real idea what it meant in practice.

“Do you think you could deliver that concept to the key players in the industry?” the woman asked him abruptly, looking up from her notes for the first time.

“Do you mean could I sell the software?”

“Well, yes.”

“I did all the sales and marketing for my own company for ten years.”

“Ten years!” The young man rolled his eyes and whistled. “We plan to sell out within three, max.”

Nick had dedicated half his life to growing his old company. With disastrous consequences. Maybe the young man had the right answers after all. He said, “If you’ve got a good product I guarantee I can sell it.”

“It’s a GREAT product,” enthused the young man.

“Who’s bought it so far?”

The young man’s eyes widened and an idiotic smile spread across his face as he began nodding conspiratorially. “Our upgraded beta version is currently being evaluated by some of the biggest names in the business.”

“The feedback is very positive,” the woman added, beaming.

“Once we’ve ironed out the bugs we’ll have an army of sales guys hitting the road running. You could be one of them.”

“It’s an international product.”

“That’s right, the oil industry is just the start. There are dozens more applications in just about any market segment you care to think of.”

Nick tried to look positive as the two young people stared triumphantly at him. They really believed in what they were saying. Maybe they were right. Most successful companies were built on faith. If the product was half as good as they thought it was this could be his big break. Even if it sounded like they hadn’t actually sold anything yet. “Okay,” he said, nodding deliberatively, mirroring the actions of the young man opposite him, “I know how to talk to buyers at that level. A lot of these guys in senior positions are my age too. I’ve probably played golf with most of them. Once I figure out what your fancy software actually does I’m sure I can sell them the benefits in a language they can understand.”

The young man’s grin grew even broader. “That’s exactly why we asked you here, Nick. There’s still a lot of old farts in this game who don’t speak our language. That’s why we need an interpreter like you, someone who’s on their wavelength. A bridge between the old and new. Today and tomorrow.”

“The quill pen and the computer,” added the woman helpfully.

“We’ll have to train you of course.”

“I’m not too old to learn.”

“Oh, you don’t need to know much. Once you’ve got your foot in the door we’ll send in the real experts after you.”

“Guys with brains,” the woman added.

“Bright young techies who write computer games as a hobby.”

They laughed and Nick laughed with them.

Ten minutes later he left the meeting feeling ten years older but for once he was not disheartened by his age. He had the feeling that he’d done rather well, that beneath their confident surface these young people were rather in awe of his age and experience. For once, he thought, the past might just be working in his favour.

A few days later Nick’s quiet confidence was amply rewarded when he received a phone call from the company offering him the position of he’d been interviewed for, starting immediately. The salary was double anything he’d earned before and there were stock options attached which would be worth a large amount of money if the company went public. He couldn’t believe his luck. It really did seem as if his fortune had finally changed for the better. Even his creditors had remained quiescent. Best of all, the debt collector had not reappeared. He phoned Maureen and told her the good news.

That afternoon the electricity came back on. The empty fridge whirred back into life. The video recorder re-set itself. The pump on the central heating started circulating. The house grew warm.

Maureen phoned just as he was settling back to watch some horse-racing on the afternoon telly. “Nick, I…”

“Maureen, you won’t believe it but the electricity has come back on. It’s a miracle.”

Maureen laughed. “Not exactly. On the strength of your good news I borrowed some money from mother and went round and paid off the arrears. They were very good about it actually.”

“Oh. Well, it’s still a miracle isn’t it.”

“It is, Nick. Will you be allowed to keep all of your wages? What about the bank?”

“They’ll take the lions share I’m afraid. But they’ve got to leave us enough to live on. It’s the law. We’ll see a huge difference compared to what it’s been like. We can start living again.”

“We never stopped living, Nick. We survived, despite everything.”

“We did, didn’t we. Thanks to you.”

“And you, Nick. You’ve come good in the end. I always knew you would. Listen, I’ll stop off at the shops on the way home and get something nice for tea. We’ll celebrate.”

“Yeah, why not. I’m starving. Besides, we deserve it.”

“YOU deserve it.” They both laughed.

That night he and Maureen celebrated with Australian champagne. Even Martin had a glass. As a special treat Maureen cooked them some rib eye steak from the local butcher. They accompanied the meal with a modest Italian red wine from the Co-op which Nick warmed by a log fire he lit specially to give the room a festive air.

At the end of the meal Nick tapped the table with his knife and held up his glass. He was slightly tipsy and spoke slowly and deliberately so as not to slur his words. “A toast,” he declared. Maureen and Martin raised their glasses. “To the man upstairs. Our lord Jesus Christ. Who works in very mysterious ways but who came good in the end.”

“To the man upstairs,” they chorused.

Nick raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Next time though, don’t leave it so late.”

“Don’t let there be a next time,” said Maureen, smiling.

After the meal the three of them watched television together, enjoying the novelty, a nuclear family that had somehow avoided meltdown. When it was time for bed Martin hugged his father before he went off to his room. “I knew you’d get a job eventually, dad,” he said, tears in his eyes.

Nick smiled, a proud father once more. “Listen, Martin, life can be tough and pretty unfair at times but I’ll make you this promise. I’ll always be here for you. You hear me? If ever you get into trouble, no matter what it is, I’ll stand by you. The way you stood by me. As long as I live. It’s called unconditional love. It’s what families are for. You understand?”

Martin nodded. “I know, dad. You’re the greatest, you really are.”

“So are you, son.”

“Does this mean I can go to university?”

“Definitely. You have my word on that. It’ll still mean sacrifices but it’ll be well worth it.”

Later that night he and Maureen made love, for the first time in weeks.

“Jesus,” Nick gasped as he rolled off onto his back, “I needed that.”

Maureen laughed. “All you’ve got to do is whistle.”

“I’ve been in such a state these past few months. Getting a job changes everything. I feel like I’m a whole man again.”

Maureen leant across and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome back, lover.”

“It’s good to be back.”

“Don’t make it so long next time.”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said it was too long.”

She hit him with a pillow.

Nick smiled in the darkness. Miraculously they had weathered the storm together and he felt that they had never been closer. Whatever happened in future things would never be so bad again.

Three weeks later, a short time after he had completed his initial induction training, just as he was about to set out on his first proper sales call, Nexab International went into liquidation.
That afternoon the building was full of stunned employees. Nick joined the crowd staring in disbelief at the notice in the canteen explaining what had happened. Apparently the cash burn had been greater than anticipated. There were still bugs in the software. As a result sales had not materialised as anticipated in the business plan. The current cash reserves were insufficient to take the company through to profitability. Despite the best efforts of the original investors and their corporate advisers the directors had been unable to raise further capital. The bank had reluctantly called in the company’s overdraft. The company’s auditors had come in the same day and after a brief scrutiny of the books had advised immediate liquidation. The share options were worthless, there was not even enough money to pay that month’s salaries.

“Bunch of fucking wankers,” spat the man who had just become Nick’s former boss, turning away from the noticeboard with a look of fury on his face.

The former receptionist who had ignored him when he had arrived for his interview tottered past in a very short skirt and improbably high heels clutching a laptop and a printer to her bosom. “I’m entitled,” she gasped, tears streaming from her eyes, “The bastards owe me this at least.”

As he left the building Nick was handed a note telling him he would get the wages due to him from the liquidator, eventually. He felt ill at the thought of having to tell Maureen what had happened. So ill he wanted to die. He took a deep breath. Then another. And another. He felt like he was drowning. In fact, he wished that he was.

Chapter 9

That night Nick forced himself to eat along with his family as if nothing had happened even though every forkful of the shepherd’s pie he had cooked for their tea tasted like sawdust in his mouth. Later on, after Martin had gone upstairs to do his homework and he had finished the dishes, he rejoined Maureen in the sitting-room where she was reading the paper while watching the Channel Four news.

He coughed politely, the usual signal that he wanted to speak. “How was work today?”

“Fine. You?” She replied, without looking up from the paper.

“Not so good.”

Maureen looked up immediately, all her senses alert. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not good news.”

“You’ve been sacked?”

“No, I…”

“You’ve quit?”

“No...”

“What’s happened? You haven’t done something wrong have you?”

“No, I...”

“What is it then? Tell me.”

“I’m trying for Christ’s sake. You won’t let me finish.” He sighed. “It’s the company.”

“What about them?”

“They’ve gone bust.”

At first she said nothing, she simply stared at him, looking stunned. The half hour that followed was framed by a ringing, cascading silence that drilled into Nick’s head like tinnitus, making it impossible to think. They pretended to watch the news while they each struggled to come to terms with this calamitous development. The programme was dominated by graphic pictures of a terrorist bomb that had gone off in London that morning in a crowded department store, causing many deaths and injuries. Out of the corner of his eye Nick saw his wife starting to cry.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, turning off the television with the remote. “Please don’t cry. I’ll get another job, honest I will. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. It’s just a setback, that’s all it is. Trust me.”

Maureen stared at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. When she finally spoke her voice was thick with resentment. “I knew I’d live to regret those personal guarantees you made me give to the bank.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t make you.”

“You blackmailed me into doing it. Moral blackmail. I had no choice.”

“It was the only way I could raise the capital.”

“I should never have trusted you.”

It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting from the person he relied on most for support through all the ups and downs of their married life. Almost instantly anger replaced shame and remorse. “Jesus, Maureen, you don’t think I do this deliberately do you? How the fuck was I to know this lot would go bust? You blame that on me I suppose? Yeah, okay, why not? You blame me for everything else.” He was shouting now, becoming hysterical. “You’re right! I’m a bloody Jonah.”

“Nick, please I’m tired…”

“I’ve been a bloody Jonah since the day I was born.”

“I’m not blaming you. I simply want you to face up to things. I borrowed money from my mother on the strength of you having a job. You know she can’t afford it and I promised I’d pay her back out of your first pay packet. So it’s not just us your hurting, it’s other people too.”

“Oh, it’s the whole fucking world,” screamed Nick, “I’m responsible for making everyone who’s ever lived miserable now.”

Disturbed by the commotion Martin bounded downstairs to see what was wrong. “What’s going on? Why are you crying, mum?”

“Your father’s lost his job again,” Maureen explained tearfully, “They’re going to put us out onto the street”.

Martin hugged his mother. “Don’t worry mum, I’ll look after you. I’ll leave school and get a job if I have to. The co-op’s looking for people. I’ll get a job stacking shelves. Don’t worry. We’ll be all right, I promise.”

Nick felt a wave of resentment welling up inside him at this usurpation of his role as head of the household. “Stop being bloody silly, Martin. I’ll sort everything out. If you really want to help get back up those stairs and do your homework.”

Martin squared up to his father. “Leave mum alone or I’ll batter you.”

Nick was taken aback at the way his son was suddenly standing up to him, the first time it had ever happened. The boy was almost as tall as he was and he was well built and fit from the rugby he played into the bargain. It flashed through his mind that if it actually came to a fight he wasn’t certain he would win. At that moment another familial relationship changed for ever.

“Martin, it’s all right darling, do as you’re asked,” whispered Maureen.

Martin was as white as a sheet, his fists clenched by his side. “If you lay a finger on my mum I’ll bloody well kill you,” he shouted at Nick.

Maureen gently guided her son away from his father. “Go and finish your homework, darling. It’s nothing to worry about. Your father and I will sort everything out down here.”

When the boy had gone back upstairs Maureen turned to Nick, her eyes blazing with anger. She spoke quietly, so softly he strained to hear what she was saying. “You’re a bully, Nick. And you’re selfish. You blame everyone but yourself for your own shortcomings. The truth is you’ve been a rotten husband and a bad father and I don’t see why we should have to put up with it any longer. We’ve been living in fear of your moods and your temper for as long as I can remember. Now because of you we’re going to lose the roof over our heads. It’s about time you took a long hard look at yourself and accepted your responsibilities. You need to sit down and work out exactly how you’re going to sort out the mess you’ve created. And you need to do it now. Not tomorrow or the next day. No more putting it off. Sort it out now.”

The vehemence of her attack shook him almost as much as the unfairness of her accusations. “Sort out the mess? You think I haven’t been trying. Jesus, Maureen, I’ve spent my whole life trying to sort things out. All right I admit I’ve made mistakes along the way. Everybody does. But I’ve been unlucky too. You know that.”

Maureen eyes narrowed, her hatred of him was plain to see, disfiguring her face like a third degree burn. “You have to take responsibility for your own failings, Nick. What’s happened to this family is nobody’s fault but yours.”

“I did it for the family, Maureen. That’s why I started the business in the first place. To give you both a decent quality of life.”

“You did it for yourself.”

“That’s unfair.”

“When did we ever see any of the benefits?”

“I had to plough everything back into the business. That was the only way to make it grow. You have to make a business grow if you’re ever going to make decent money.”

“We didn’t need more money. We were perfectly happy with what we had. That business became an obsession. It wasn’t about us. It was all about you. Proving to everyone how good you were. I wish you’d never started it.”

Her words left him stunned. She had never spoken to him this way before, never blamed him directly for what had happened. They sat together in front of the television in silence for the rest of the evening, brooding on their predicament, hating each other, fearful of the consequences now that the truth about their feelings towards each other was out in the open, knowing that tomorrow, as their creditors closed in upon them, it would be even worse.
Eventually Maureen got up. Her eyes were red. “I’m going to bed,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Maureen, really I am.”

He sat up until the early hours of the morning watching the telly with the sound turned down, wrapped in his raincoat for warmth as the last embers of the logs in the grate slowly turned to ash and died. He felt lonely and defeated. After all the trials and tribulations of the last six months he had finally reached rock bottom. It was almost a relief to know that things couldn’t get any worse.

The next morning Maureen got up early before he was fully awake. He sat up in bed and lay with the bedclothes pulled up to his chin watching her dress. Like any married couple they had had disagreements in the past which they had always managed to patch up without too much trouble, usually with a joke and a muttered apology. Maureen wasn’t one to bear grudges. This time he couldn’t think of anything witty to say about the situation. What had happened yesterday was no laughing matter. And he certainly wasn’t going to apologise for something that wasn’t his fault. Instead he said simply, “I’m shouldn’t have lost my temper last night, Maureen. I didn’t mean to upset you and Martin.”

She looked at him with dead eyes as she buttoned up her blouse.

“I’ll get in touch with the bank manager this morning.”

She continued to button her blouse in silence.

“Then I’ll go down to the Jobcentre. I’ll take anything they’ve got. I’ll clean lavatories if I have to. Anything to tide us over until I get a real job.”

She left the room without speaking. He heard Martin coming out of the bathroom and crossing the landing. “Martin,” he called out, “Can I speak to you for a minute.”

Martin never appeared. A few minutes later he heard the car drive off. He was alone in the house once more. Nick had no idea what his wife was going to do next or even if she would ever return. It hurt him more than he would have believed possible to see her this way, crucified him to think how badly he had failed her. She was right too, it was all his fault. His utter fecklessness, his abject failure to confront reality, had forced her out into a cruel, nasty world with nothing but pain and bitterness in her heart. Even in his worst nightmares he had never imagined it would come to this.

After he got up he gathered some kindling from beneath the beech hedge in the front garden and built a fire with the last of the logs. There didn’t seem any point in saving them any more. At least the back boiler also heated the water so he was able to save on electricity. He wash the breakfast dishes in lukewarm water, a small and inadequate penance that did little to salve his conscience. He was drying the plates when the postman arrived with the mail. He lingered out of sight in the shadows until the van drove off.

There was only the usual pile of bills, another letter from the bank and one from the Inland Revenue, none of which he dared to open. Instead he hid them in another new hiding place behind the chest of drawers.

He made a weak cup of coffee and then, because he feared Maureen even more than he did the bank manager, he finally plucked up enough courage to phone the bank to arrange an appointment with the manager. He felt giddy as he spoke into the phone, half expecting to be hit by an immediate torrent of threats and abuse. Instead he was treated with the customary civility of indifference. The manager's secretary said that the earliest the manager could see him was the Wednesday of the following week so he made an appointment for that day at eleven. His heart leapt as he put down the phone. Nine days grace. It was a miracle. Nine whole days for a miracle to happen.

He was still euphoric over his stay of execution as he fed the birds with the remains of the stale bread. He was still free, just like them, even if it was only an illusion of safety, a totally artificial environment of his own creation. Later, he sat down at the sitting-room window and watched as the blue tits flocked around the apple tree at the foot of the garden. There was still a thick collar of snow where the big beech hedge shaded out the sun and the powdery snow swirled around on the same bitterly cold wind which spun the hanging bird table with its vindictively icy fingers. The home-made contraption rocked crazily like a spinning top, forcing the dozen or so tits and finches perched on it to cling on for dear life.

He realised that he too was clinging on for dear life. Losing his job meant that he was right back to square one in his struggle for survival. Even at the most basic level it was starting to get difficult. Soon the fire in the grate would grow cold. There were no more logs left. He wasn’t sure they would be left with enough money out of Maureen’s salary to pay the next electricity bill. Spring seemed a long way off. The future was looking bleak once again. He had to think of something quickly. Usually when his brain was in turmoil he liked to go out for a walk to clear his head but this time he didn’t have the energy. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was a solution to his problem. Perhaps it might be better to let things take their course. Some battles you just couldn’t win.

He was sipping the last cold dregs of his coffee when out of the blue he suddenly remembered who the woman was that he had seen fishing down on the river Dee the week before last. Angela Roberts, the famous organic fast food entrepreneur. Of course. There was a time a couple of years back when she had never been off the television thanks to the success of the unique organic fast food franchise she had created. She was even more successful now, appeared to have conquered most of Europe and even America had succumbed to the fashionable organic formula that differentiated her restaurants and takeaways. Recently the novelty of a successful self-made woman seemed to have worn off, or perhaps she had deliberately adopted a lower profile, anyway these days she rarely appeared in the media. Now he thought about it he vaguely remembered reading somewhere that she had bought an estate in this part of the world in order to indulge her passion for the countryside. It seemed a bit incongruous to him that such a well-known vegetarian and animal lover should also be a keen fisherman, but maybe fish didn't count.

Not that she needed to worry any more about what people thought of her. She was reputed to be one of the richest women in Britain, right up there with the Queen and Madonna and J. K. Rowling. She'd made her fortune in a remarkably short time, displaying a brilliant flair for marketing that had left all her male rivals gasping in her wake. She was still only in her early thirties too, and beautiful to boot. He smiled ruefully to himself. Some people have all the luck. Actually that wasn't really the case. People like that usually made their own luck. It was a trick that had signally eluded him.

He finished his coffee and put the last log on the fire. He sat at the window again and watched the birds still struggling to feed in the near gale force wind. The endless battle against the elements. Perhaps that was the fate of everyone who was put on this earth. Of course, some people had to struggle harder than others. He was willing to bet Angela Roberts didn't live in constant fear of her bank manager. Probably the other way round in fact. He wondered if she might lend him something to tide him over. He smiled to himself. Not very likely. People like that were inundated with begging letters. There was no reason on earth why she should treat him any differently from all the other beggars that must continually pester her, the vast majority of whom she almost certainly ignored. Rich people were generally pretty tight with their money, that was one of the reasons why they were rich people.

All the same, he thought to himself, she must be worth a small fortune. Or, to be more precise, a large fortune. A packet. A king's ransom. A king's ransom? The phrase intrigued him. What did it mean? Did people once kidnap their king and then hold him to ransom? Poor people taking the law into their own hands? Was this something they did regularly to supplement their meagre income?

He put the kettle on to make another coffee. There was no milk left but he could drink it black. The idea of holding a king to ransom intrigued him. Such a stratagem, if it was in use today, would certainly solve all his financial problems. The amazing thing was that Queen did actually live just up the road at Balmoral, about twenty miles further inland. But the security that surrounded her made such an idea totally unfeasible. Nowadays you wouldn't be able to get near her with all that surveillance stuff and armed detectives and walkie talkies and the SAS lurking in the rhododendrons and God knows what else besides. An impossible task. More likely to get yourself killed. Besides, the very idea smacked of treason, of disloyalty to the old country. No, you had to draw the line somewhere and kidnapping the monarch was pretty much beyond the pale whatever people might have done in the past.

On the other hand...On the other hand Angela Roberts wasn't anything like so heavily protected and even if she wasn't quite so rich either he was sure somebody would be happy to pay a decent ransom for her release. He stared unseeingly at the bird table which was now being mobbed by a flock of angry bullfinches fighting over the few remaining scraps of stale bread. The more he thought about it the more the idea of kidnapping Angela Roberts intrigued him. Even though he’d never done anything wrong in his life before, the last remaining legacy of his being brought up as a Catholic. Never stolen anything, always paid his taxes, rarely told lies, never cheated anybody. This crime was different though. The sort of thing where no-one needed to get hurt, not even financially, since she was bound to be insured against that sort of thing. All he would have to do was keep her in captivity for a couple of days and then release her with barely a hair out of place. The perfect victimless crime. Hardly even a sin.

He suddenly realised he was beginning to get excited by what on the surface might seem like a ludicrous idea. The thing was, the more you looked at it the more the idea really did seem to be feasible. Okay, there was a lot of planning to be done, a complicated pattern of logistics to work out, a lot of field research, but in essence the idea itself was simple. Grab the target when she was out fishing. Just that old ghillie to deal with when she was down by the riverbank but that would be easy enough if he took the pair of them by surprise. He could tie him up and leave him in the landrover. They’d soon come looking for him. Of course he'd need to hide the woman somewhere while he waited for the ransom to be paid. Not exactly an insurmountable problem. Following the Clearances there were plenty of derelict cottages that would serve the purpose scattered in the isolated landscape round here. Kind of ironic if they were put to a new use to get redress from the rich. There was even a cave or two that could be adapted for the purpose. And her being a woman too, that made it ideal. She'd be easy to handle, he wouldn't need to rough her up or anything unpleasant like that. Wouldn't dream of it in fact. Indeed, he'd always made a point of being extremely chivalrous towards the opposite sex, even if some people thought his behaviour was somewhat old-fashioned, not to say politically incorrect nowadays. Best of all though, the scheme would be quick to deliver a payoff. He'd get paid cash in a couple of days, in time to settle all his debts and get all his creditors off his back. They’d get to keep the house. Maureen would be happy. She might even forgive him.

He paused as a potential fly in the ointment occurred to him. Angela Roberts might already have gone back to England, the bird might have flown. It would be just his luck. The only thing in his favour was that the river was in excellent condition after the recent rains and he had read in the local paper that there were plenty of fish being caught. It all depended on how passionate she was about the sport. All he could do was hope. If by some miracle she was still around there was no time to lose. His pulse quickened. It was time to get dressed and get down to the river.

At that moment another thought struck him. The idea of only asking for enough money to settle his immediate debts was a somewhat unimaginative, not to say downright feeble. Considering the enormous risk he would be taking it would be far more sensible to demand enough to pay off the mortgage AND send Martin to university as well while he was at it. In fact it was probably prudent to assume that at his age he was never going to work again and take that into account. The ransom would be more like a pension really. He needed to ensure that he was left with a sizeable lump sum after he had settled all the immediate bills. Enough to purchase an annuity that would see him and Maureen into a happy and secure old age. Say, twenty-five thousand. Actually, that probably wasn't enough what with the way the Health Service was going, and the cost of living and all that. Suppose either of them had to go into a nursing home. Or what if they both did. Wouldn't get that on the National Health. And what about a holiday every year, they were entitled to that after a lifetime's hard work surely. Well, not entitled perhaps, but it would be nice. On reflection one hundred and fifty thousand sounded more like it. All right, two hundred thousand to be on the safe side. Say a round quarter of a million. She could afford it after all.

He could just picture the look on Maureen's face when he handed her the money. That really would be a sight worth seeing. He frowned. Except that it wouldn’t. The provenance of the money was another problem. Maureen was a devout Christian, there was absolutely no way she would sanction a criminal act. Absolutely no way. Besides, any foreknowledge of the crime would turn her into an accomplice which would be a disaster if anything went wrong. No, the best thing would be to present her with a fait accompli. Even then he wasn't sure if she would accept the money. Maybe he would have to lie about where the money came from. A white lie, in the circumstances. He’d think of something.

Even if he couldn’t convince the money was legitimate would she really refuse it? He pondered this possibility. Although she might demur on moral grounds, he was pretty sure that her ethical perspective would change once the bailiffs started hammering at the front door. The way people behaved was just a question of circumstances, that was all. Desperate times required desperate remedies. That was Robin Hood's justification in the olden days and no-one today blamed him for what he had done. What Nick was proposing after all was a similar tax on the rich levied by the poor, his only option in the present situation, the only way left open to him. Recent history had shown that he couldn’t beat capitalism after all, the best he could hope for was to skim something off the margin without getting destroyed in the process. It was worth a shot. In his present circumstances anything was worth a shot.

It was at this point that Nick realised to his surprise that he had suddenly come to a major, and extremely radical, decision that, whatever the outcome, was bound to change his life for ever. For the first time in months he had glimpsed a ray of hope penetrating the gathering storm clouds. What was needed now was the courage and the clarity of vision that would allow him to formulate a workable plan. He needed to concentrate and to think clearly about his next steps. That would be hard. He had spent the last six months daydreaming, hoping for a miracle. To have any chance of success he had to plan and execute his mission with the precision of an SAS raid. It was a daunting prospect but there was no alternative.

He stood up. His heart was beating fast. There was no doubt that this was a crunch time in his life. Was he up to the challenge? All he could do was try his best. His circumstances left him no alternative. He was in the last chance saloon a minute before closing time. It was finally time to stop daydreaming. He had to become a man of action. A hunter gatherer. Quite literally.
He took a deep breath. This was it. The first thing to do was to go down to the river and reconnoitre, to see if his quarry was still there, to start to figure out a solution to his previously intractable problems. And then to act. Whatever happened he had to act. Without a second thought.

He had run out of time for second thoughts.

Chapter 10

Nick could hear the clock in his head ticking down the minutes until the final showdown with the bank manager. With no salary going into his account that month he knew they must already be over their overdraft limit. Somehow he would have to solve all their problems within the next nine days. Whatever plan he came up with he would have to implement it fast. Their salvation was going to be touch and go.

The challenge seemed almost overwhelming. He sat in the freezing kitchen with his head cradled in his hands. He didn’t know where to start. Obviously he had never contemplated a kidnapping before. And abduction was only the start. He had no idea how to issue a ransom demand or even to whom he would send it. He spent more than an hour trying to figure out where to begin with his plan. Every scenario he mapped out in his mind ended up a blind alley. Each scheme he dreamt up seemed so hellishly complex with so much that could go wrong. He began making notes on a sheet of foolscap in a desperate attempt to give some form to the jumble of thoughts cascading around inside his head.

An hour later he still hadn’t figured out a foolproof way to execute his plan. In the end he decided that his only hope was that the outline of a plan might somehow emerge from the cauldron of synaptic connections that were popping off like champagne bubbles in his turbulent brain. He had filled both sides of the foolscap sheet with various scenarios as well as lists of all the tools and equipment he might need before he suddenly realised that with every stroke of the pen he was creating a mass of damning evidence that could quite possibly be used to put him in prison for the rest of his life. The incriminating notes would have to be burned. Whatever happened he mustn’t leave any potential evidence lying around. He sighed. This whole crazy scheme was about as easy as walking blindfold through a minefield. It was obvious that his salvation wasn’t going to come cheap. If indeed it came at all.

The more he considered the problem the more evident it became that transport was his greatest problem. Maureen had first call on the car during the week and he couldn’t change that arrangement without good reason. A harebrained plot to kidnap a rich lady that he had caught a glimpse of almost a fortnight before was definitely not a good reason. And yet his need to get down to the river in order to carry out an initial survey had become urgent. Walking there and back would take far too long and anyway would make him far too conspicuous. The only alternative he could think of was the local bus service. Yet he didn’t dare travel on public transport in case he created a trail that might subsequently lead to his door. The fewer people that saw him the better. The problem was that the river was nearly six miles away. He might have to visit it several times before he spotted his quarry again. He sat at the sitting-room window staring blindly into space, stumped by the challenge. He turned the problem over and over in his head until he felt like his brain was beginning to seize up. He started to think about the bank manager and his army of creditors again. The thought that any one of them could confront him again in his home at any moment was terrifying.

He felt his pulse quickening. It was hard to concentrate on the problem in hand. He could feel he was on the verge of panicking, of losing all self control. His brain was becoming enveloped by the same dark cloud that had benighted him during the final few traumatic months before his business had gone into liquidation. He knew only too well that in these situations his body would quickly follow his brain into shutdown: it wouldn’t be the first time recently that he had been so overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness that he had been paralysed and sunk into a catatonic state. If he lost his nerve now he knew he would lose everything. Despite his determination to fight he was close to tears, knew he was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown, only a step away from unconditional surrender. The river might as well have been a million miles away. The whole idea was totally impracticable. Pie in the sky. Just like all his other grand ideas. Building up a successful business. Becoming wealthy. Buying a house abroad. Even a boat at one point. Ideas above his station. All his grand schemes were just that. Schemes. Dreams. Wish fulfilment. Childish fantasies. Just like all those other occasions in the past he had fallen at the first hurdle. He shook his head. The old familiar feeling that had dogged him all his life had returned with a vengeance. The conviction, inherited from his mother and drummed into him throughout his childhood, that he was born to fail.

His spirits had sunk to their lowest ebb since that day the bank had pulled the plug on his business. If there had been any drink in the house he would have sought oblivion in a bottle. Drugs would have been even better. With the cupboards bare there was no easy way out. He was trapped inside his own head. Maybe there was only one solution. Maybe his time had come.
And then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer flashed into his brain. Maureen’s bike! Of course! The darkness shrouding his soul was suddenly illuminated by a blinding burst of light. For some reason the image of Maureen cycling into the village the way she used to do when they had first moved here from town leapt into his mind. As far as he could recall her old bike was still out in the barn that they used as a garage. That long- discarded, rickety conveyance was the answer to his prayers. He punched the air with exhilaration. “Thank you God,” he cried, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He remembered how in the second world war German soldiers had made extensive use of bicycles to conduct covert reconnaissance near the front lines. More recently in the Vietnam war this modest form of transport had played a major part in helping to defeat the mighty American war machine. Now the same vehicle would be deployed with the same deadly effect in his own personal battle for survival. He hurried out to the barn, praying fervently that the ancient contraption hadn’t been thrown out without his knowledge. Frantically he rooted around in the gloom, picking over the debris of their early married life. A split table, broken chairs, an ancient sofa, several corroded saucepans, a broken down pram, a cracked mirror that was still bringing them bad luck ten years on, a rusty paraffin lamp, rolls of old carpet from the sitting room upon which they had once made love, as worn and faded as their threadbare dreams.

Eventually he found the bicycle in the far corner of the garage propped up between an old washing machine and an ancient second-hand fridge that was on its last legs when they originally bought it. The faded red bicycle was so heavily shrouded in dust and cobwebs it was barely recognisable. The chain and the handlebars had rusted solid, the wheels barely turned and worst of all the tyres were completely flat. He wasn’t even sure he could restore it but with no alternative, and with his future hanging in the balance, he hastily retrieved his toolbox from the house and immediately knelt down on the bare concrete to begin work on the restoration. He wrestled with the rusty skeleton for the rest of the morning. The atmosphere grew thick and acrid with WD-40. Within an hour his hands were bloody and bruised and his back was sore enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He was exhausted by the time he finally managed to free the wheels. The tyres presented the biggest a challenge since the rubber in the valves was perished and even the bicycle pump had lost most of its vacuum. Fortunately in the saddlebag he found the tyre repair kit he had used as a child. It took him another hour to rectify the leaking tyres. He squirted oil down the barrel of the pump which partially restored the vacuum sufficiently to enable him to blow up the tires so that they were reasonably hard. It took him another hour to free up the pedals, oil and tighten the chain and finally to raise the height of the saddle. The overhaul of the bike represented a major investment in time and effort which he could ill afford and he prayed that the rest of his plan would prove easier to implement.

Only when he was convinced that the bike was serviceable did he dare to take a break for lunch. It was nearly 2 o’ clock. He was ravenous. He heated up a tin of own-label beans and gobbled down the lot. There was one more tin of beans and a tin of Heinz Vegetable Soup left in the cupboard. Together with a few stale slices of white bread, an apple and an old packet of cheese and onion crisps that represented the sum total of their remaining food supplies. Barely enough for two more meals for Maureen and Martin. The realisation of how close they were to the breadline made him feel ill. It was another ten days before Maureen got paid again, several weeks before he would get any benefit money. Christ alone knew how they were going to survive, living on air. He could feel the familiar acrid taste of another panic attack rising in the back of his throat. At times like this it was better not to think too far into the future.

Concentrate on the task in hand, that was all that mattered. If he could just work out how he could secure a decent ransom after he had kidnapped his target then all their other worries would vanish. He cleared the table quickly and washed the dishes so that he left the kitchen tidy. If something went wrong and Maureen arrived back before he did he wanted everything to look normal.

It was time to assemble the final items he would need to carry out the initial survey of the river.
He consulted the notes he had compiled earlier. At the top of the list were his binoculars, an old pair of Swift Audubons with scratched lenses. They weren’t perfect but they would do for basic surveillance. He packed them in a side pocket of his rucksack where they could be easily retrieved. Next he looked out the ordinance survey map for the area from the dozens he kept stowed away under the stairs. The cardboard-covered sheet was badly torn through heavy use over the years. He invested more precious minutes in patching it up with sellotape. If he was forced to hide out for any length of time it might prove vital. He consulted his list again. A groundsheet. He knew they still had one from their camping days. Eventually he tracked it down to the blanket compartment under the bed upstairs where Maureen had neatly stowed it away. The lightweight plastic sheet would have a variety of uses ranging from a temporary shelter if he had to camp out in the woods to something for lying on while he was watching the target to smothering….well, he preferred not to think too much about its other potential uses. No point in getting too graphic – or melodramatic – at this stage. From the wardrobe in the bedroom he retrieved his old Barbour jacket and Orvis moleskin trousers which were suitably shabby and nondescript – perfect camouflage in every way. His old Barbour in particular was the perfect camouflage for hunting down quarry on a riverbank, that’s what it had been designed for after all. When he was sure he had everything he needed he finally packed a necessarily frugal lunch box with an apple and the last remaining packet of crisps together with a thermos of weak black coffee. It was all he would get to eat that day, maybe even for the rest of the week. Finally, as an afterthought he added the Collins Book of British Birds to his rucksack, reckoning that it might prove useful in constructing a plausible alibi if things went wrong.

After checking to ensure that there was no one around in the immediate vicinity of the house he gingerly mounted the newly-restored bicycle, and set off unsteadily down the hill. At first he was alarmed by the unexpectedly rapid acceleration of the ancient machine, especially since the brakes appeared to be completely useless, but gradually he was overcome by a sense of exhilaration as the old familiar pleasures of cycling returned. The wind ruffling his hair, his growing confidence as he mastered the balance, the beauty of the hedgerows sweeping past right alongside. Apart from the circumstances it was like being young again.

When he reached the main road the rest of the route to the bridge lay across gently sloping countryside that formed the ancient flood plain of the river, demanding little effort or concentration on his part. In less than an hour of pleasant peddling he came once again within sight of the densely-wooded river valley that enclosed the river. He dismounted on the outskirts of the wood about a quarter of a mile from the same bridge where he had observed Angela Roberts flyfishing nearly a fortnight before. He hid the bike amongst a thicket of rhododendron bushes well off the main road, about four hundred yards up a disused track. He knew it was imperative to remain inconspicuous as an insurance policy against the time when the police would begin interviewing people after the inevitable manhunt that would follow the kidnap.

He had already figured out that the best way to remain unnoticed would be to travel within the cover provided by the ancient forest. At the same time it occurred to him that it would be prudent to construct an alibi in advance in case he was interviewed by the police. At that precise moment he couldn’t think of a suitable cover story but he hoped something plausible would occur to him soon, even as his plan was still unfolding. He was only too conscious of just how vulnerable his inexperience in these matters rendered him. Christ alone knew how he would react if the police ever did question him. His cover story would have to be watertight. He sighed. More things to think about. More stress. More fear. More chance of things going pear-shaped. So many little things that could trip him up. Even the fact that he had renovated the bike might be deemed suspicious. He resolved to dispose of it later to be on the safe side. He might have to dispose of a lot of things later when the time came. He shuddered. Once again he told himself that it was better not to think too much about what he might have to do if things went wrong. Much safer to focus on his plan and keep his over-fertile imagination firmly in check.

Moving stealthily he left the track after a few yards and entered the penumbral world of the birch forest, setting off in the general direction of the bridge, making sure that he kept well out of view of the anyone driving along the main road which skirted the eastern boundary of the forest, less than a quarter of a mile away. The snow was thinner below the canopy of leafless trees and the going was relatively easy, except in the places where he had to force his way through the dense undergrowth of tangled bracken and overgrown rhododendron bushes. At one point he was obliged to bend double as he forced his way through the tangled masses of bramble and hawthorn bushes that blocked his path. Almost inevitably he scratched his face on an overhanging bramble branch. He cursed himself for his carelessness as he dabbed at the blood running down his cheek with a tissue. It was yet another unplanned event that he might subsequently have to explain away. Once he had staunched the bleeding he threw away the bloodstained paper tissue and resumed his journey. He had only taken half a dozen steps before he paused. Evidence. Evidence of his movements, more parts of the jigsaw puzzle that could send him to prison. He retraced his steps and retrieved the bloodstained tissue. Stuffing the potential evidence into his inside pocket he made a mental note to burn it later when he got back home.

He continued his clandestine progress through the woods for another twenty minutes before he eventually came within sight of the bridge. To his dismay, from his new vantage point on the northern edge of the woods, he discovered he was too low down to see the actual river which was obscured by a high bank as far as he could see in either direction. There was no escaping the fact that if he wanted to observe his quarry properly he would have to leave this part of the wood and cross the main road again to get to higher ground. Unnerved, he sat down on an uprooted tree trunk in a small clearing while he regained his composure and tried to work out his next move.

Although he had always known that sooner or later he would be forced to emerge from the safety of the wood to get closer to his quarry it would obviously be safer if he was seen as little as possible, whether it was by local residents or passing motorists or the ghillie or even Angela Roberts herself. Keeping a low profile therefore meant keeping under cover, hiding in the bushes, using the lie of the land. He thought about his strategy for a long time. He had absolutely no training in fieldcraft. On the other hand. On the other hand he was used to staying concealed when he was fishing. When you looked at it that way there wasn't all that much difference between trying to catch a salmon and trying to catch Angela Roberts. And of course, just as in fishing, he had one big advantage: the prey did not know it was being pursued, that it was a player in someone else’s game. A game whose rules were known only to the hunter. As in life, knowledge was power. The power of life and death. If he kept his head Angela Roberts would soon be as helpless as any of the many beached salmon he had landed over the years. The principle was the same except that the game he was playing now was, he suddenly realised, even more like playing God. After years of helplessness when his destiny had always been in somebody else’s hands the thought sent a thrill through him exactly like the rush he used to get from cocaine when he was younger.

He lurked impatiently amongst the trees until the busy road over the bridge was finally clear of traffic in both directions before he stood up and strolled across to the bridge as nonchalantly as possible, clutching his binoculars to his chest and scanning the surrounding trees as if he really was a genuine birdwatcher. If he was spotted by any unseen eyes he wanted his behaviour to appear as natural as possible. Once across the road he climbed the low fence that ran alongside the rhododendron bushes shielding the exclusive beat from prying eyes. By now his heart was beating so hard it was knocking the breath out of his lungs. His mind too was racing. If anybody accosted him he had fabricated what he hoped was a believable cover story: he would claim to be looking for kingfishers, a rare bird in these parts. He was pleased with this story - he felt it demonstrated that he was beginning to think constructively at last, that indeed he was astute enough to cover all the angles, maybe even clever enough to succeed.

To his surprise he realised that in a strange sort of way he was even beginning to enjoy himself, pitting his wits against the most important quarry he had ever hunted. It was all so different from the aimless weeks and months he had wasted recently sitting at home fretting about the future while he waited for something to turn up. It just showed you – if you had faith in yourself you really could do absolutely anything. He stopped and smiled at this thought. For the first time in months he was no longer suffocating under a blanket of despair. He actually believed in the prospect of his own salvation. It was a wonderful feeling, one that was worth fighting for, whatever the price. Freedom from fear and anxiety. It was a basic human right after all, one which he had been denied for far too long. Hell, he thought bitterly, people had died for a lot less.
He had barely tiptoed another ten yards through the dense bushes towards the river when a pheasant flew up at his feet and lurched up into the sky squawking in alarm, its wings flapping noisily. He froze in terror. In the ensuing silence that engulfed him the only sound was that of his heart thumping against his ribcage, the drumbeats of his coursing bloodstream roaring in his ears. He was terrified his cover was blown. For several long seconds he waited for something awful to happen. A tap on the shoulder, his ignominious ejection from the wood for trespassing.

Standing there in that unfamiliar, hostile environment he had an inkling of what it must have felt like for the GIs in the jungle in Vietnam back in the sixties. Now he too was stranded in a foreign country. The enemy was all around him. It was a weird feeling. The land he had loved and thought of as his own had been transformed into enemy territory. Maybe it always had been – he’d just been too dumb to realise that he had been trespassing all his life. Thankfully nothing further disturbed the stillness of the air. Not far away a pigeon cooed contentedly. A few seconds later a hare loped slowly across the snow on the other side of the clearing. That was all. No gamekeeper appeared, his presence in the grounds remained undetected. He was safe. After a couple of tense minutes during which it seemed like he had been frozen in time he resumed his stealthy progress towards the river.

Eventually he emerged from the edge of the woods to find himself directly opposite a large Victorian mock-baronial mansion. He gazed in awe at the huge pile. The vast and immaculately manicured front lawn stretched at least a hundred yards from the ivy-covered front of the house all the way down to the river. Surreptitiously he drew back into the anonymity of the bushes and waited, fearful that he might have been spotted by the inhabitants. Again nothing happened and when he had regained his composure once more he began to work his way along the edge of the forest for another fifty yards or so until he was sure he could not be observed from the house. Taking a deep breath he stepped out of the forest and crept down towards the river across the empty, exposed meadow.

A few minutes later he reached a grassy bank about fifty feet above the river at a point where it overlooked a long slow-flowing pool of glassy water. He dropped down onto his belly and scanned the river upstream and down. There was no-one upstream but his heart immediately started racing when he saw once more the figures that had become familiar in his imagination. Against all the odds the dark outlines of the old ghillie and Angela Roberts were silhouetted on the skyline, on the bank opposite, about twenty yards below him, fishing a fast-running pool at a shallow bend in the river.

Forcing himself to remain calm he began to scrutinise his surroundings through his binoculars, looking out for hollows and hiding places, assessing the suitability of the terrain for the part it would play in the planned abduction. He made a mental note that the river immediately opposite was almost fifty yards wide, that it was reasonably shallow, most importantly of all that it was definitely wadable at its present height. Just here would make a good crossing point, particularly if he needed to get back into the cover of the woods in a hurry. Fortunately the uninhabited cattle pasture he would have to cross to reach his target and then return across with his captive to reach the anonymity of the woods was out of sight of both the main road and the big house. A roaring waterfall at the head of the pool generated enough noise to drown out all but the loudest screams. He could not have hoped for a more remote spot so close to the main road. Satisfied that what he had in mind was feasible he once more trained his binoculars on his quarry, thirty yards downstream.

The river had risen slightly since his last visit and on this occasion the woman was fishing with a spinning-rod, flicking the bait out with an easy action across the full breadth of the river and letting the spinner swing round slowly in the classic manner before she started her slow retrieve. Although her method of fishing had changed to one that required a lot less skill the look of fierce concentration on her face remained the same. He smiled when he observed the outlines of two silvery spring salmon glinting in the sunlight on the bank behind her. She was obviously having more success with the new method too.

He watched the couple for nearly an hour. Together they worked their way gradually downstream as she fished the pool methodically, covering every inch of water, although without further success. The old ghillie shadowed her faithfully, resting his elbow on his wading staff a few feet from her right shoulder while she remained stationary between casts, never straying more than a few yards from her side. A dog, a black Labrador by the look of it, made an occasional appearance, rooting around the bank and appearing to get the rough edge of the woman’s tongue whenever it came close enough to hamper her casting. It worried him that he might be forced to deal with the dog if it got in his way.

The woman eventually stopped fishing when she reached the tail of the pool and this was the first time the ghillie left her side. He walked back up the river to fetch the landrover, taking the dog with him. He climbed into the vehicle and drove slowly back across the meadow, pausing to collect the two salmon still lying on the bank at the top of the pool, before returning to his client. After a brief conversation she climbed into the passenger seat. While she waited in the vehicle he got out and fixed her rod to the rod holders on the bonnet of the landrover. Eventually all their gear was stowed safely and they headed off in the direction of the big house, presumably for a well-deserved lunch. Nick timed the whole performance carefully. From the moment he left the woman’s side at the tail of the pool it had taken the ghillie six minutes to return with the landrover, during which time he was out of sight for just over two minutes. Two minutes which was just about long enough for what Nick had in mind. Two minutes that would change his life forever. His heart thudded against his ribcage as the adrenalin kicked in. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the glorious blue sky, a sky that for once was devoid of clouds. He took a deep breath, flooding his brain with oxygen.

At long last it was good to be alive.

Overhead an invisible flock of skylarks sang gloriously, celebrating his imminent release from the fear and despair that had dogged him for so long. He closed his eyes and felt the sun beating down on his face. The ensuing warmth felt like God’s beneficent smile bathing his whole body. It was a cathartic moment. In those few seconds it seemed to him as if he was present at the rebirth of his lost soul, that he was floating in warm, celestial amniotic fluid, a born-again member of the human race. He felt like he was floating, hovering, an out-of-body experience where he was witnessing his own redemption.

He breathed a long, glorious sigh of relief. Against all the odds his crazy idea really did seem feasible after all. He started to pray. As long as he continued to enjoy God’s blessing he knew he there was a chance he could still save his family from ruin. He thanked God from the bottom of his heart.

Chapter 11

Nick hurried back to where he had hidden the bicycle, flitting through the woods like a ghost, completely invisible from the road. He was elated at the way his fortunes had finally taken a turn for the better. Most of the time life might seem like a maze of blind alleys in which you were forever trapped but actually if you persisted long enough you could always find a way out.

Today he had learned a valuable lesson – never give up. He might be on his uppers now but in a few days if everything went to plan – albeit a plan that was still evolving in his mind as the situation developed - he would rescue himself and his family from destitution.

After he had been walking for twenty minutes or so he paused at a mossy clearing a few yards off the track. The priority now was to start making plans for the safekeeping of his hostage. He sat down on a tree stump and spread out his ordnance survey map in front of him. While he ate the apple and the packet of stale salt and vinegar crisps that he had packed for his lunch he pored anxiously over the map. The key attribute of any hiding place, he decided, was security. Somewhere that was absolutely escape-proof during the highly dangerous period when he would be negotiating the ransom for the woman’s safe release.

He obviously needed somewhere remote yet accessible, somewhere that was not likely to be visited either casually or as part of any organised search. Somewhere he could visit regularly without attracting suspicion.

Distance from home was crucial too. He needed somewhere that was within cycling distance since he would be obliged to visit his captive regularly in order to feed her and attend to her needs and he could hardly borrow the car from Maureen for that. Say two hours cycle run maximum. Maybe ten miles each way. He looked at the map. A ten mile radius from the house took him into the foothills that formed the natural amphitheatre of the Howe of Cromar and beyond into the bleak and empty moors surrounding Morven Hill, the conical mountain that dominated the landscape for miles around. Thanks to the effects of the Clearances and the general drift from the land the whole area in the immediate vicinity was dotted with abandoned farms and shielings, interspersed with the odd derelict shooting lodge and deserted but and ben. Fortunately, with the introduction of large-scale sheep rearing in recent years the moors were no longer prime shooting country. The only casual visitors he was likely to encounter, apart from occasional hillwalkers who would almost certain follow the well-known ascent routes up the mountain, were likely to be either sheep or the odd deer driven down off the high tops by bad weather. He was sure he would be able to find somewhere safe and out of the way in that desolate desert of heather and bog.

Once he’d located somewhere the other imperative was the total security of his hostage. It wouldn’t be enough for her prison to be lockfast. Because she would be left alone for long periods she would have to be restrained in some way. Reluctantly he decided she would have to be bound and, possibly, gagged as well. To be on the safe side he would probably have to blindfold her as well to keep her from recognising him. The idea of tying up a fellow human being, especially a woman who had never done him any harm, seemed an extreme, not to say barbaric, measure. The image of the woman bound and trussed like a chicken that sprang into his mind made him feel distinctly uneasy. He had spent his whole life trying to treat people with dignity and respect. This would be the first time he had ever used force to make anyone do something against their will. The least he could do was to make the experience as free from trauma and pain as possible. Maybe if the hiding place was remote enough it wouldn't be necessary to gag her. She would soon tire of screaming her head off when nobody came to her rescue. Escape was a different matter. He could not afford to take any risks whatsoever with her security on that score. Whatever happened he would have to stop her from escaping, that would be unavoidable, just no way round it. Exactly how he was going to do that posed something of a challenge. After all, waiting for the ransom to be paid was likely to take a couple of days at least. Maybe longer. Indeed, he hadn't even begun to work out how this phase of the operation was going to be accomplished. At least it shouldn’t be too hard to convince her that it would be in her own interests to co-operate if she wanted to bring the ordeal to a fast and satisfactory conclusion. If she could see the logic in that then any necessary violence and discomfort could surely be kept to a minimum.

When he had finished the crisps he carefully folded up the empty Golden Wonder packet and tucked it back into his rucksack. He was learning fast about not leaving clues behind, it was almost second nature to him now. He was still hungry but the food was finished and there was only an empty cupboard to look forward to when he got back home that evening. God alone knew how he was going to feed his family later in the week. If ever he lacked motivation, that challenge alone was sufficient to underline how desperate the situation had become. To contain his mounting panic at the precariousness of his family’s circumstances he forced himself to concentrate upon the main task in hand. All that mattered now was the efficient capture of his prospective victim, the one ray of hope on his dark horizon. Tying her up securely with rope or whatever would be difficult without hurting her. It might be better if she was handcuffed and chained. Chained to a wall probably so that he didn't have to stand guard over her the whole time. He bit his lip. The thought of the poor woman being left alone at night while chained and blindfolded in a deserted hiding place in the middle of nowhere was pretty gruesome, there was no getting away from it. He took a deep breath. Desperate problems demanded desperate solutions.

He sighed as the amount of preparatory work he still had to do began to dawn on him. Figuring out what he was going next to do was only the beginning. Implementing all the necessary actions would be even more difficult. For a start, where the hell would he get handcuffs and chains? He couldn't exactly borrow them from the police, that was for sure. He tried to think laterally. Handcuffs were the sort of props a magician might use. Maybe he could buy them in a toyshop. Except that they would probably be designed with would-be Harry Houdinis in mind – with one bound you would be free. Which was exactly the opposite effect to what he wanted to achieve. The only other thing he could think of was bondage gear, the kinky sort of stuff he’d occasionally stumbled across on the internet. He shivered. There was absolutely no way he would go into a sex shop and buy such stuff. He wouldn't have the nerve. Talk about embarrassment. Besides which, sex shops weren’t exactly plentiful in this part of Scotland. Didn’t exist in fact. Besides, he didn’t have the money and his credit cards were useless so even buying online was out of the question.

So handcuffs, he concluded glumly, were probably out of the question.

He sat in the clearing for over an hour turning the problem over and over in his mind without getting any nearer to a satisfactory solution. Eventually it dawned on him that he was making the problem out to be worse than it really was. Focussing on handcuffs was a mistake. It surely wasn't beyond his wit to fashion some other sort of suitable restraint. The plastic ties the police used as handcuffs nowadays were probably not much different from the ties he used in the garden to stake out young trees. There was a whole box of them in the shed. The other item in the shed that might come in useful was the length of chain they had bought years ago to tether the goat they never actually got round to acquiring. And there were any number of old padlocks in his toolbox which he had acquired over the years. So. Make do and mend. Necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Problem solved. No, he mustn't get hung up on details the way he usually did or nothing would ever get done. Think out of the box, that was the answer.

There are no problems, as John Lennon used to say, only solutions.

But of course there still were problems.

Without a doubt the central problem still remained the location of the safe premises. He stared down at the map. It was hard to visualise anywhere suitable just by looking at the swirling contours and empty spaces. It was just a pity that the easiest solution – keeping the woman at home in his attic – obviously wasn’t feasible. If she was blindfolded and gagged, maybe even had her ears stuffed with wax or something so she couldn’t work out where she was, if she was bound securely so she couldn’t make a sound. It would certainly make it easier to keep her under constant surveillance. Much less obtrusive too, with no need to keep coming and going all the time.

But letting Maureen into the plan was out of the question. She would never be party to anything criminal or even immoral. It was inconceivable that she would allow him to go through with such an evil course of action. Nor was it simply her moral objections that stood in the way. The fact was that she would never believe he was capable of pulling off such an audacious scheme. She would think he was mad even to consider it. He was sure she would rather suffer the degradation of abject poverty, of sequestration and the bailiffs coming round, of being turfed out on the street with only the clothes she was dressed in rather than commit a mortal sin or do anything that would bring shame to the family.

There were other problems too. First and foremost was that without Maureen’s co-operation the problem of where to keep his hostage while he waited for the ransom to be paid seemed insoluble. He squinted at the map. Caves weren't really appropriate although there were a few around here. They were a bit too obvious really. They tended to attract curious tourists and youngsters looking for somewhere safe to puff the odd spliff or two. Not to mention the fact that they were usually damp and smelly and obviously without any kind of sanitation. His poor hostage was going to have to suffer quite enough without putting up with unnecessary privations of that sort. An old abandoned cottage or farm steading had to be the best solution. Somewhere he could make lockfast to keep out prying eyes. He scanned the map for a suitable site. Maybe somewhere he used to play as a kid. One of the old hideaways where they used to go for a smoke and a few bottles of beer. He sighed. Too well known. He didn’t want any of the locals leading the bobbies straight to his hiding place. It had to be somewhere he’d discovered on his own. Somewhere that no one else knew about.

Wherever he kept the woman the place would be found eventually. They were bound to mount a massive search. There’d be helicopters and sniffer dogs and God knows what all out looking for her. Her capture was bound to make front page news. A millionairess taken hostage. It would be all over the telly and the radio too which was a little bit scary. The police would probably call in the SAS which meant he might be shot if they found him. It was an unnerving thought. He wasn’t sure he wanted to die just yet, although there had been a few times recently when he had truly wished he was dead. Wishing is one thing of course. A bullet blowing the top of your head off is quite another. He swallowed hard. This undertaking was going to need genuine courage as well as brains to see it through. He forced himself to remain calm. He had to keep things in perspective. As long as they didn't find her for the couple of days it would take to complete the ransom transaction and the handover of the money that was all that mattered really. The good thing was that the authorities wouldn't have a clue where to begin looking. As far as they were concerned she could have been spirited away to anywhere in the UK, even abroad. They would surely think it highly unlikely that she was being kept right under their noses. As long as he didn't leave any clues behind he should be safe. That was obviously vital. He'd have to watch that. Didn't want them doing a Sherlock Holmes on him.

With the help of the map he retraced in his mind's eye some of the walks he'd done with Maureen over the years. There were many. Great memories, they brought back waves of pleasure. The simple life, simple food, simple problems, simple pleasures, sharing the burden, back to nature.

And then it came to him

The Damson Farm. That's what Maureen used to call it. They hadn't been back there for years. The place was a bit too isolated and difficult to get to on foot. An old abandoned farm, most of the outbuildings roofless and crumbling, the old cottage with its windows boarded up. The once-substantial garden was almost completely overgrown the last time they’d visited it, totally surrounded by an encroaching forest of naturally-regenerating birches, the original orchard had mostly been subsumed by native geans and birches, except for three or four very old damson trees which were unusual in this part of the world. They had made regular visits for a number of years to collect the ripe fruit which Maureen used to turn into delicious jam. The setting in the lee of Morven Hill was a delight. He recalled how they had been so enchanted by the magic of the place that once they had even made love inside the old cottage on the cold earth floor. A very special place. No one else had ever discovered it so that each year they could be sure of their bountiful harvest of ripe damsons, certain that their journey through the old pine forest and the foothills of Morven Hill wouldn't be wasted.

He folded up the map and tucked it into his rucksack. That was the place. It was perfect. He shook his head in amazement. It was almost miraculous the way things were falling into place. He was pretty sure his search was over and in less than a day, after he had checked out the site just in case, he would know for certain. He couldn't suppress a frisson of excitement at the thought of what was happening. For once in his life it seemed that things were actually coming together the way he wanted. Someone up there must be smiling down on him at last.
While he was pushing the bike back along the landrover track several dark clouds began drifting across the sky, temporarily obscuring the sun. The woods turned dark and brooding. He shivered as the temperature plummeted. Before he reached the main road it started to snow, the mazy snowflakes drifting down prettily on the still air. Almost magically a scene straight off a Christmas card was silently created in front of his eyes. When he eventually stepped out onto the main road a swirling breeze sprang up out of nowhere and pelted him with snowflakes, momentarily blinding him. He mounted his bicycle and started peddling home, the rising wind now in his face. The return journey was mostly uphill as the road climbed out of the valley of the Dee onto the flood plain. His legs began to ache with the effort and he was forced to stand up on the pedals in order to climb the hill. Several times he was almost blown off the bike by a sudden gusts of icy wind rolling straight down from the mountains. By the time he reached the half way point he was exhausted, his empty body drained of energy. His eyes watered as the icy snowflakes pelted his eyeballs. His forehead ached from the cutting wind. His unprotected ears were frozen. To make matters worse he could hardly breathe as the driving snow filled his gaping mouth. It was hard to keep the bike on the road as his chilled hands barely had enough strength to grip the handlebars. At one point he thought he wasn’t going to make it. He was almost crying from exhaustion, the bike wobbling all over the road, leaving a long drunken trail behind him in the fresh snow.

By the time he reached the turnoff to the farm road leading up the final steep hill to home it was dark and the snow was coming down as thick as goose down shaken from a heavenly pillowcase. Where the road was unprotected by hedgerows it was already starting to drift. He dismounted and pushed the bike up the hill, leaning into the wind, half blinded, dreading the thought of going home to a cold cottage and bare cupboards where he would be forced to sit with an empty belly and await the arrival of his family.

When he turned into the driveway at the top of the hill the lights in the cottage were burning bright.

He stopped and stared in surprise as the light streamed out from the kitchen window and bounced off the dancing swirling clouds of snowflakes. Maureen must have arrived home early. Normally he would have been pleased but tonight he felt only foreboding as he contemplated the chilly reception that awaited him.

Maureen looked up from the cooker and smiled as he staggered into the kitchen, brushing snow from his hair and eyes. The smell of cooking stopped him in his tracks. He suddenly felt faint with hunger.

“What’s happened? I thought…”

Maureen looked a little self-conscious, pursing her lips. “I swallowed my pride and went round to see Mum again. She gave me another loan to tide me over. She took it out of the nest egg she was left by Gran. I had to think of Martin. I couldn’t bear the thought of him going to bed hungry.”

“Oh, I see.” Nick didn’t get on with Maureen’s mother. The feeling was mutual. She thought her daughter had married beneath herself. She was probably right. He looked enviously at the cooker. “What are you cooking?”

“Stew.”

It was a delicate moment. After all the things that had happened he was by no means certain that he would be included in the feast. He took off his wet clothes and sat down at the kitchen table. He made an extra effort to be civil. “Where’s Martin?”

“In his room.”

“How is he?”

“He’s okay. I bought him a new dance album CD so he’s happy.”

Nick bit his lip. He couldn’t afford such luxuries for himself. He hadn’t bought any new music for months. He couldn’t stop himself feeling envious of his son, resenting the way he always benefited from his mother’s unconditional love. He was going to say something about Maureen’s favouritism but thought better of it. The money wasn’t even his after all. He had no rights in the matter, none at all. Instead he said, “Did you get a paper?”

Maureen reached into her shopping bag. “Here.”

“Thank you.” He was so hungry he felt dizzy. He couldn’t focus on what he was reading, the print swam in front of his eyes. He put down the paper. “I fixed your bike by the way.”

“Did you? Why?”

An idea leapt into his head. “I needed it to get to Banchory.”

“Banchory?”

The lies flowed surprisingly easily. “I went to the Job Centre. I’ve got a job interview in town tomorrow.”

Maureen looked dubious. “Doing what this time?”

Nick had no idea what his next lie was going to be. He opened his mouth and trusted to instinct. “It’s not much of a job. It’s labouring at a builders in town.”

Maureen looked impressed. “It’s better than nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Sounds a lot more realistic than that last one you had. I always thought that was too good to be true. Something down to earth will suit you far better. Is it weekly paid? That would help our cash flow.”

His mind was racing as he planned ahead to the big day. Not tomorrow when he planned to check out the cottage. The day after when he would be ready to carry out the kidnap. Which was a Thursday. “I think so. I’ll find out at my interview on Thursday. The thing is, I’ll need the car to get into town, if that’s all right.”

After a moment’s hesitation the stern expression on Maureen’s face melted into a smile. “If it means you’ll get a proper job of course you can. I’ll make sure it’s got a full tank of petrol. What time is your appointment?”

“Two thirty. I could take you and Martin in and kill time in town till then.”

“What would you do all day? Martin and I will get the bus in that day. It’s not a problem. You take the car. And good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Nick.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be too greedy. Remember we need the money. Take whatever they offer, will you?”

“Sure.” It was an easy promise to make. “Listen, Maureen, I’m sorry about what I’ve put you through. None of this is your fault and yet you’re the one who’s suffering most. In a way I deserve it…but you. It doesn’t seem right that they can arrest your wages and take the house away from you.”

She looked at him, her face expressionless. “Maybe they won’t.”

“What?”

“Take the house away from me.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated. “I’ve been to see a lawyer.”

Nick was astonished. “You’re kidding. When? Why?”

The seconds ticked past. “Why, Maureen? What about?”

She looked away. Eventually she said, “I went to see about getting a divorce.”

“Jesus.” He gripped the edge of the table to stop the room spinning.

“I had to think of Martin.”

“So you’re leaving me?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe not if you get a job. While I was there the lawyer looked at that personal guarantee we signed. He thinks there might be a flaw in it. Apparently we shouldn’t have taken legal advice from the same lawyer. Something about you having undue influence over me. Apparently there’s a precedent.”

“So we won’t lose the house? Jesus, that’s great news.”

“Not necessarily. Your situation is different. You went into it with your eyes open. It might be that we have to split up if I’m going to protect Martin and myself.”

“I see. What about the arrestment order on your salary? Is that legal?”

“He’s not sure. He’s looking into it. He’s thinks there’s a chance I can get the order rescinded. Particularly if I’m a single parent. I’m sorry, Nick., I have a duty to look into these things. Whatever else happens I’ve got to protect Martin.”

Nick was devastated. He felt betrayed. The ideal of the family upon which has life had been built was shattered. All the sacrifices he had made were for nothing. “What about if I get this job? Will you still leave?”

Maureen thought for a moment. “I honestly don’t know, Nick. I’ll have to take advice from the lawyer.”

“Don’t you want to stay together? Doesn’t it matter to you?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Well then?”

“I’ll have to see.”

“What kind of answer is that? Are you going to stay or not? Christ, Maureen it matters to me.
That’s why we’re in this mess.”

Maureen flinched as his voice rose. “It depends how high the price is, Nick. I think we’ve already paid enough as it is.”

“What if I get this job? Will you stay then? Please, Maureen, I’ve got to know.”

Maureen turned back to the cooker. She lifted the lid on a saucepan and peered into it. “Give Martin a shout,” she said eventually, “This is ready.”

Nick saw that he was wasting his time pursuing the matter. “Okay,” he sighed, “Give me a little time that’s all. I’ll get that job and pay off our debts I promise.”

She stared at him without speaking, her face blank.

“At least give me a chance.”

She said nothing.

“Please.”

She took a deep breath. “As long as Martin doesn’t suffer any more.”

“He won’t , I promise. You’ll see. I’ll get this job and everything will be all right. Trust me.”

She looked unconvinced. “All right, Nick, I’m too tired to argue. It’s up to you. But whatever happens, this is your last chance. This time don’t let me down. Now, please, give Martin a shout will you, this is ready.”

He stood up and moved to embrace her but she turned away from him. “Not now, Nick, I’m not in the mood.”

“Okay, sorry. I’ll give Martin a shout. You won’t regret this. Er, am I getting any?”

Seeing the downcast expression on her husband’s face Maureen broke into a smile. “Of course you are, stupid. Just make sure you get that job on Thursday, that’s all.”

Nick muttered something that he hoped sounded suitably grateful as he sloped off to find his son.

Chapter 12

After he waved goodbye to his family the following day Nick set off on Maureen’s bicycle to re-locate the Damson Cottage. The derelict farm where the cottage was sited wasn’t marked on any map and he was relying totally on memory to guide him back. In the event it took him the whole morning just to find the overgrown track running through the pine forest where he and Maureen used to leave the car all those years before. As far as he could remember the Damson farm was situated around a mile and a half or so beyond the edge of the forest, up towards the brown, heather-clad foothills of Morven Hill.

He hid the bike amongst a clump of ferns about a hundred yards in from the road and set off along the narrow footpath through the trees.

Half an hour later the muddy track petered out as it emerged into the open on the far side of the wood. The hills in front of him formed a natural amphitheatre which looked vaguely familiar but he was unsure in which direction he should strike out. He retrieved his compass from the rucksack and took a sighting a few degrees north-east of the snow-capped summit of Morven Hill. He was disconcerted by how disorientated he felt and how different the landscape appeared compared to his vivid memories of the times they had foraged there for wild raspberries, damsons and mushrooms when they were younger. He was surprised that he should have forgotten so much about a place that had once been so dear to him. In those innocent days of long ago when they were first married he had been head over heels in love with Maureen and everywhere they went assumed a special significance, retained its own particular resonance when he recalled their good times together in later years. Maybe it was inevitable that as the years had passed and their love had metamorphosed into a kind of fond indifference so too the way he viewed the world had changed beyond easy recognition.

After several false starts following various twisting tracks that quickly petered out, he eventually found a promising-looking path that struck out decisively across the moor, an unbroken sheep track which meandered in the general north westerly direction where he thought the farm should lie.

Out in the open moorland away from the shelter of the trees a stiff breeze bowled down the mountainside, tossing the occasional sleety shower into his face as he trudged across the heather. Every few yards he was obliged to make a wide detour around boggy ground and twice he sank up to his ankles in waterlogged peat. A small flock of bedraggled sheep watched his lack of progress with blank disinterest. In a very short time he was cold, wet and exhausted. To make matters worse there was no sign whatsoever of human habitation. He sat down upon a clump of heather and took off his right boot and emptied it of water. As the rain dripped off the end of his nose and ran down his back he laced up his boot and seriously considered abandoning his search. It was only the knowledge that he was running out of time, and that there were no real alternatives left, which forced him to press on with his desperate quest.

At last, over an hour later, on the far horizon he spotted a copse of trees shimmering in the in the misty rain like an oasis. His heart leapt. “Thank Christ,” he muttered, as he slithered towards them down the embankment of some ancient peat lots.

Another hour passed before he finally stumbled upon the ruined farmhouse nestling amongst a thicket of spindly birch trees at the base of the rolling foothills of Morven Hill. The building itself was almost totally hidden behind a thick barrier of brambles and ivy and rampant rhododendron bushes. On hearing his approach a deer ran out of the narrow opening where a gate had once guarded the entrance to the neat cottage garden many years before. Inside the low-walled garden the carefully cultivated landscape had been totally subsumed beneath an enormous bramble bush which was in the process of swallowing up the whole house, climbing almost up to the gutters of the black tiled roof like some enormous prickly octopus crawling out of the ocean.

Cautiously he toured the perimeter of the garden looking for any signs of recent human occupation but to his relief there appeared to be none. He forced his way gingerly through the brambles towards the front door, taking care to keep all traces of disturbance to a minimum.
Exactly as he remembered the front door had been forced open long ago but fortunately it was still on its hinges. The door itself looked stout enough and he was confident that he would soon make it lockfast with the padlock and screws he had brought along for the purpose. He congratulated himself for having the foresight to bring a padlock that was suitably rusty in order to blend in with the surroundings. If anybody did stumble upon the cottage in the next few days it would look as if no one had been near it for years.

All the windows were boarded up and the only light within the cottage came from the open front door. He paused at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Gradually he was able to make out a wooden staircase to the upper floor on the far side of the main room which appeared to be rotted through and partially collapsed. The green wood ceiling of the room had numerous broken timbers hanging down and looked like it could fall in at any moment. The bare earth floor was cluttered with bits and pieces of farm machinery, a horse-drawn plough, a giant wooden mincing machine, several rolls of barbed wire, all decorated in a thick layer of bird droppings. The damp walls were covered in fungus, like green flock wallpaper. The only furniture was a crude wooden table with one leg missing that dominated the centre of the room. He shivered. The air of dereliction was oppressive, the place didn’t feel like it had ever been a happy house. It was cold too, the kind of clammy cold that quickly ate into your bones and dampened your spirits. “A potential holiday home in need of some renovation” he muttered aloud. Even an optimistic estate agent might be pushed to come up with a description like that, he thought gloomily. On the other hand, for all its shortcomings, he reckoned that once the door was repaired and padlocked the place should be wind and waterproof at least on the ground floor, which was the main thing as far as his particular requirements were concerned. Thanks to the poor state of the corrugated iron roof which was rusty and torn the cottage obviously wasn’t soundproof but the location was so isolated it hardly mattered. He stepped inside, picking his way carefully past the barbed wire. On closer inspection he could see that the large rickety table was riddled with woodworm and dry rot and seemed about to collapse under the weight of birdshit. Looking round he thought the dwelling was probably an old farmhand’s cottage, most likely vacated after the war when the land became uneconomic for whatever reason. There would be a poignant story behind it, he was in no doubt about that. A far older tragedy than the one he was involved in right now, but one with a resonance to his own, a tale of grinding poverty and tarnished dreams, a life of honest toil unrewarded. Standing there in the middle of the decaying room he could smell the sad history of the place. The degradation, desperation and eventual defeat of the working man. The age old story in fact, although this time he was going to do his damnedest to make sure that his sad little drama would have a different ending.

He tried the old bakelite light switches but not surprisingly the electricity had long since been disconnected. He stumbled though to the kitchen where he discovered a huge old enamel double sink beneath the boarded-up window which would once have looked out upon the tidy back garden. Miraculously there was still running water in the taps although it was brown and oily, not the sort anyone would wish to drink. Drinking water wouldn’t be a problem though, there were plenty of streams nearby. What was important was that the toilet, which was located in a room no bigger than a cupboard off to the side of the kitchen, although cracked, blackened and seatless, still flushed when he pulled the chain. At least his captive guest wouldn't be deprived of all her home comforts during what would be, hopefully, her brief confinement.

Back in the kitchen he examined a huge antiquated wood-burning stove which was set against one wall, a crude precursor of the modern Aga. He reckoned that the thing must weigh at least a ton. Although rusty and seized solid it would be ideal for what he had in mind - something immovable to which he could securely tether his prisoner and render her immobile.

While he was bending down to examine the stove for suitably robust anchor points he suddenly heard a scratching sound, like sandpaper being rubbed against wood. He froze in horror. The silence that ensued lasted for several seconds until it was eventually broken by a shuffling sound that rapidly grew louder and eventually culminated in the appearance of a rat's head poking out from underneath the stove, about two feet away from his own head, with a surprised, but not particularly startled, expression on its face.

"Jesus!" he gasped, jumping back in alarm.

The rat sniffed the air while it considered the situation before eventually retreating in a dignified manner back beneath the stove.

Nick stumbled back rapidly to the safety of doorway and stood there staring in horror at the stove, his heart pounding. There might be a whole plague of rats lurking under it, he thought wildly, there could be hundreds of them. The idea of being attacked by an army of rats was his worst nightmare. He struggled to restrain the urge to turn and flee. Only the thought of the fate that awaited him and his family if his mission failed through his cowardice persuaded him to stay.

Once again he heard the rat shuffling about underneath the stove, a sort of slow unconcerned, lazy scraping sound, as if it knew it was safe inside its metal home. A shiver ran down his spine and he hunched his shoulders and shook his head in defiance. No fucking rodent was going to screw up his plans at this stage. He would rather risk being eaten alive than fail now. “Fuck off!” he screamed at the invisible adversary, “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!”. Silence followed his outburst. Nothing moved. The rat seemed unimpressed. Nick thought of poor Mrs Roberts being forced to share the house with a plague of rats. He pictured the disgusting creatures sniffing round her feet, climbing over her face and body, maybe even attacking her. Actually eating her alive. Jesus. The idea was too gruesome to contemplate. He shook his head again.
“No way,” he protested out loud. It was out of the question. There was absolutely no way he could subject the poor woman to such inhuman, degrading treatment. The rats had beaten him.

He backed out of the house, holding his head in his hands, blinded by the realisation that his plan had failed.

Beneath one of the boarded up windows he could just make out the shape of an old wooden bench covered entirely by the rampant bramble bush. Rolling his jacket around his arm he cleared a space on the end and sat down to contemplate this fatal setback to his grandiose scheme.

He felt utterly deflated. Up until that moment everything had been going so well. Against all the odds his plans had been coming perfectly to fruition, everything had been slipping seamlessly into place. Now this. The perfect hiding place in every respect except one: it wasn’t habitable. With time rapidly running out the presence of the rats was an insurmountable problem. He was beaten. This was the end. He might as well end it here. The rats would feast well tonight.

Of course he should have guessed that it wasn't going to be easy. Life never is. He’d been a fool to allow himself to be dazzled by the faint glimmer of hope that had flickered so precariously in his benighted soul. There was no getting away from it, he had been guilty of breathtaking hubris. It was bad enough to dream up such an outrageous scam. It was even worse to have deluded himself into thinking that he would have been capable of putting his crazy scheme into action. He seemed to have learned nothing from the collapse of the business, his last crazy scheme.

He heard a now-familiar shuffling noise within the cottage. The rats were gnawing away at his dream, feasting on his febrile imagination.

Maybe they were God's way of punishing him for contemplating something so wicked and inherently evil, he thought glumly. Or maybe it was a warning. A warning not to commit such a heinous crime against nature. Perhaps God was saying that he and his family deserved everything they got, that they should share the punishment, that they should all do their penance in conditions of abject poverty, accepting that their suffering on earth would expiate their sins. The sins of the father. Maybe that’s what this setback was all about. It was God’s curse upon him and, by association, his family. A plague of rats upon their house. Rats gnawing at his sinners' soul, eating him alive from the inside. Maybe that was the fate that was waiting for him in purgatory. Not even purgatory. Here on earth. Hell on earth. Rats crawling all over him, tearing at his flesh, his dreadful penance for the rest of his life.

At that moment the sun broke through the clouds and he felt its late Spring warmth focussed on the top of his head as if through a lens. He lay back against the wall with his eyes closed, his face tilted up towards the heavens, bathing in the life-enhancing warmth. In a matter of moments the heat was so fierce he imagined the sun’s rays might even set his hair on fire. Rivulets of sweat began to trickle down his temple. It was hard to breathe in the airless heat. He felt like he was already in hell.

He opened his eyes and saw that nothing had changed. He stood up. He knew he was at the crossroads on the road to his salvation. He had to make a decision about which route he was going to take. If he left now he knew it was all over, his plan would be in tatters, it was too late to think up an alternative scheme. Walking away from the cottage meant he would lose everything.

He made up his mind.

Taking a deep breath he turned and went back into the cottage. It was cooler within the thick granite walls and he could breathe again, and more importantly, think. A rustling sound from the direction of the cooker told him that he still wasn’t alone. He picked up a piece of roofing timber and threw it at the cooker. Silence followed. Time to think.

He closed his eyes and concentrated with all his might. There was no other way. This plan was his only hope. He clenched his fist and shoved his knuckles into his mouth and bit hard until he could stand the pain no longer. He wiped the back of his hand on his jumper, brushing away the blood. As the pain gradually subsided his felt his brain easing. He could see clearly in the darkness for the first time. His life for the past six months had been hell on earth. Nothing could be worse than what he’d been through since the business had folded. He realised that ever since that day he had been living in constant fear of the telephone call from the bank manager, of the terror of the morning post with its endless demands for money, of the constant scanning of the road for the approach of his creditors. Every waking second had been hell. Every night’s sleep had been an extended nightmare. He cursed his Catholic upbringing. Although he had been an agnostic for years he was still haunted by the fear instilled in him by the priests and the nuns at his primary school. And there was no doubt that what he was proposing was a mortal sin. It didn’t matter. Whatever price he might have to pay in the afterlife – if there was one - for the evil deed upon which he was about to embark, it would be worth it if it brought some sort of earthly peace to him and his family. At the end of the day he was prepared to sacrifice everything to save his family. They were all that mattered to him. He couldn’t give up now. He owed it to them. As for his own fate, he was prepared to pay for his release from fear with the biggest sacrifice of all, the eternal damnation of his soul. For the first time he could see clearly that his sins alone had brought his whole family down. He would pay any price, go to any lengths to make amends for all the sins of omission he had committed over the years, for his recurrent hubris, for his persistent envy of other people’s success, above all for his utter failure to provide for his family as any decent husband should. Even if the price of their salvation meant that others would have to suffer. The rats in the cottage were simply part of the price Mrs Roberts would have to pay for her part in his salvation. He’d seen her speak once at a Chamber of Commerce dinner. She had come across as a pretty tough woman. Maybe the rats wouldn't worry her that much anyway, maybe she wasn't as cowardly as he was. Maybe it was the rats who would have to look out.

He stood up and made the sign of the cross in expiation for the crime he was about to commit. He had made up his mind. From now on he was committed, whatever the consequences. There was only one way forward. He would still be travelling down a rocky road that might turn out to be a blind alley or even the road to hell but from this moment there would be no turning back. He regretted the inevitable misery he was going to cause, but in this world everyone had their cross to bear, including Mrs Roberts.

He took out the screwdriver from his rucksack and started work on repairing the door. It was hard work. The screws were rusty. No one had ever said it was going to be easy. Nothing in life was easy, it never had been. As Mrs Roberts was about to find out.

Once he had made the house lockfast he sat down again on the front seat and studied his map. It had taken him far too long to get to the house. He realised he had been wandering in a circle. He took out his compass and took a bearing on Mount Keen in the distance. Next time he would be able to head straight for the cottage. He reckoned it would take him less than half an hour from where he planned to park the car even if he had to forcibly drag his reluctant hostage along with him. He stood up and took a last look round. Everything was in place. For the first time he felt truly confident that his plan would work.

Half an hour later, as he stumbled back across the moor, it started to snow. In a matter of minutes a blizzard sprang up and soon he was engulfed by a total white-out. Guided by his compass he eventually reached the relative shelter of the woods. He checked his watch. Notwithstanding the conditions it had taken him a little over thirty minutes to return to his bicycle which was now almost hidden beneath a thick blanket of snow. On the way home the snow built up on the road ahead of him, drifting to a depth of several feet in places, forcing him to dismount and plough his way through the drifts on foot. That night he went to bed early. He was exhausted by his efforts but also excited at the prospect of the imminent resolution of his problems, an outcome that only a few days previously would have seemed like a miracle.
Tomorrow, he knew, his life would change forever. By the time Maureen joined him in bed later that night he was already asleep, exhausted by the physical effort and the rapid draining of nervous energy from his body. During the night his brain worked frantically to make sense of the days ahead, and he tossed and turned endlessly until dawn finally arrived, much to Maureen’s relief.

Chapter 13

Nick woke up in a sweat but for once it wasn’t caused by fear. He had overslept and the sun was streaming in through the bedroom window, bouncing off a million particles of dust in a tight shaft of light, firing a laser stream of focussed rays that was burning him up. He groaned. His head was buzzing as if there was a swarm of bees flying around inside his skull. He hauled himself upright and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Beside him the bed was empty. The house was as quiet as the grave. Maureen and Martin had obviously already gone off into town. He dragged himself out of bed and peered out of the bedroom window. The car was still parked in the driveway. They must have gone off early to catch the bus.

Miraculously the heavy snowfall of the day before had vanished. In its place all the newly-washed colours of Spring had emerged to light up the gravid landscape. The field that surrounded the house glowed a lurid green. The bursting buds on the clump of silver birches at the end of the garden formed a shimmering purple haze that swayed in the breeze. Overhead there were no clouds in the deep blue sky. He blinked. The world hadn’t looked this good since his one and only acid trip a lifetime ago. He felt his spirits rising. He realised that the thaw had obliterated the tracks he had left on the landscape in the past couple of days. Overnight he had become invisible. No one would ever know he had been roaming in the woods. Finally the Gods were smiling on him. At long last things felt right.

He washed and dressed quickly, not bothering to shave. The noticeable stubble on his chin enhanced his unsavoury appearance. He hurried downstairs and ate a light breakfast of toast spread thinly with the last of the marmalade. It was enough. He was too excited to feel hungry. He lingered over a cup of black coffee while he constructed a mental checklist of the equipment he would need to execute his covert operation.

At first the lack of a suitable weapon stumped him. A convincing weapon was vital to establish his credibility. A shotgun would have been ideal but he had never owned one. There was absolutely no way he could obtain one at this late stage. It was a major problem. The next best thing he could think of was an old pickaxe handle that he knew was lying in the shed somewhere, but that seemed inadequate to the task, even, somehow, crude. He didn’t want to appear like a thug after all. A knife seemed equally unsuitable in the countryside, it was much more of an urban weapon, designed for close range. He racked his brains for a suitable alternative, without success. He was starting to become discouraged again when he suddenly remembered Martin's old air rifle. A Christmas present from one of the neighbouring farmers who Martin had occasionally helped with the milking a few years back. Ostensibly for shooting rabbits and small vermin it had immediately become the cause of a number of family rows. Its total unsuitability as a present in Maureen’s eyes had not been enhanced by the fact that to the casual observer it looked exactly like an AK47. Maureen had loathed the thing and had insisted that it was kept out of her sight, out of the house indeed. Ironically, in the context of what Nick was planning to do, it was hard to think of a more appropriate weapon. As an object that would create the maximum effect with the minimum of danger it was ideal in every way. In the event that he did actually have to fire the thing in anger it probably wouldn’t kill anyone but the .22 slug it projected would definitely slow someone down. In addition, the faithfulness of its design meant that the woman almost certainly wouldn't know the difference between it and a real assault rifle even if she was one of the hunting, shooting and fishing set who was familiar with guns. Just in case his bluff was called when he confronted the woman he decided to back up his makeweight arsenal with a large kitchen knife which he intended to stick down the belt he was going to wear outside his Barbour jacket. An old skiing balaclava and a pair of dark sunglasses completed his vaguely paramilitary uniform.

He assembled everything he needed in the kitchen. When he was certain that he had forgotten nothing he took the clothes upstairs and checked out his appearance in the bedroom mirror. The effect was startling. Even menacing. He puffed out his chest and snarled back at his reflection. The overall effect was undeniably impressive. He doubted if even his own mother would have recognised him dressed like this. He felt different too in his new identity. Bolder. Braver. Maybe even capable of extraordinary feats that stretched beyond his normal imagination. Even though he knew that he was simply acting a part this feeling made a big difference to his confidence. After all, cowing his victim into immediate and total submission was vital to the success of his plan. He would be scared too, but she wouldn't know that.
He pointed his gun at his reflection. “Okay, lady, get your hands up,” he snarled.

His voice was so squeaky she would have burst into laughter.

He tried again. “Move, or I’ll shoot you!” he muttered gruffly.
It didn’t sound very convincing. He tried to recall some of the many gangster films and B-movies he had watched over the years for some pointers on which he could base his performance. Tarantino’s stuff naturally sprang to mind but he couldn’t immediately visualise any scenes that actually fitted the vague screenplay he had in mind. He dimly recalled a film that had shocked him some years before. Was it directed by Oliver Stone? “Natural Born Killers”? Except that he’d walked out on that one, disgusted by the violence, somehow feeling degraded by the experience, sitting in the dark enjoying other peoples suffering. The telly wasn’t much help either despite the thousands of hours of dreary cop dramas he must have watched since he was a kid. Z Cars. The Sweeney. The Bill. The real problem was that he didn’t know anything about kidnapping - or any kind of violence come to that - from a first-hand, factual perspective. As a consequence he found it impossible to visualise how events were likely to unfold. Maybe if he’d read Terry Waite’s autobiography or something similar he would have had a better idea of what to expect. Too late now. Even Amazon wasn’t that quick.

He tried again.

“Do what I say or I’ll shoot you!” he snarled at his reflection.

It was better but still not terribly convincing. It didn’t help that his loss of self-esteem following the collapse of the business had fatally eroded his former assertiveness, destroyed the natural leadership qualities he had developed over the years. These days neither Maureen nor Martin did what he said any more, which wasn't exactly reassuring. He smiled ruefully at himself in the mirror. Fortunately a rather scary stranger leered back. He realised that he was probably underestimating the effect his sudden appearance was likely to have on his intended victim. People usually paid attention to aggressive strangers, especially when they were bawling instructions at you while they poked a gun in your ribs. The main thing was probably to act quickly and decisively in order to disorientate his intended victim. Just like the SAS storming the Libyan Embassy. He stared at his reflection. It was only play acting after all. A means to an end. It was a mistake to think too deeply about it. What he was planning to do had nothing to do with the real him. Violence was not at all in his nature. In fact he couldn't recall ever shouting at anyone before, apart from Maureen of course, and even then he always regretted his outbursts afterwards. On the whole he much preferred to reason with people, to win over their co-operation, even their approbation, with cogent arguments. Clearly that approach wasn't appropriate in this situation.

When he had finally satisfied himself that he at least looked the part he removed his disguise and put the clothes and the gun into the large canvas holdall that Martin used for carrying his rugby kit. He remembered how dark the cottage was and he rooted out from the box room an old paraffin lamp they sometimes used during power cuts. A box of matches completed his preparations. He carried the holdall out to the car and loaded it into the boot. On the way to the river he would stop off in the village and buy food with the money Maureen had left him for his supposed visit into town to attend the job interview. If he was careful he reckoned he might be able to buy enough food to last his victim for three, possibly even four, days. He planned to get packets of soup mostly, stuff that was light to carry which could be heated on the old primus they used to use when they went camping on the west coast in the old days. Certainly not fresh meat or anything that might attract the rats. No fresh fruit either, but that was simply a question of lack of finance. He remembered to add a toilet roll to the little box of supplies he was planning to take. And a couple of blankets to keep her warm. Unfortunately no pillow. He knew that he was being somewhat inconsiderate but there wasn’t a spare one in the house and Maureen was bound to notice if he took one off the beds. Besides, there was a limit to the amount he would be able to carry across the moor in his rucksack. After he had finished packing the basic supplies into the rucksack he went out into the shed and retrieved the old goat chain and a couple of small padlocks which, although rusty, were still in working order. Last but not least he took a pen and some paper on which his hostage could write out the ransom demand which he would dictate to her. He hadn't yet worked out the correct form of wording for that either, but he didn't think it would be too difficult to think of something suitably authentic once he actually had her captive. What was it they said? Cometh the hour cometh the man?
Something like that anyway. Besides, she'd be able to help him get it right. It would be in her own interest after all. She would know who he should send it to as well.

When he had completed all his preparations he locked up the house, loaded the rucksack into the boot and set off down to the village shop to collect the necessary rations. He took his time in the little Spar shop and bought astutely. Fortunately they had an extensive range of packet soups. In the end he reckoned he had enough food to last for five days, which allowed him some leeway in his timetable if anything went wrong. He still had a pound left. He promised himself he would spend it on a celebratory can of beer once the first phase of his operation was successfully concluded. Everything was now in place to begin the mission. He packed the new food supplies into the rucksack and drove sedately down to the river. Ten minutes later he parked in a clearing a quarter of a mile along the track through the woods where he had previously hidden the bicycle. He knew that the police would find the tracks the Saab made in the mud but he couldn’t see what they would learn from that, unless they actually tracked down the vehicle which he thought was unlikely now that the snow had melted. Maybe later, when he came into the ransom money, he might buy some new tyres to be on the safe side.
Reconditioned ones would probably be best. Pay cash too. Used fivers. He smiled to himself.
He was learning fast.

He climbed out of the car and spread a map on the bonnet and pretended to examine it for five minutes. Nothing happened. Satisfied that he was alone and unobserved he removed his combat gear from the car and started changing into uniform. In the event he decided against carrying the breadknife – if he did meet anyone in the woods or down by the river it would look far too conspicuous. Besides, there was more chance that he would do himself a serious injury if he fell crossing the rough ground than anything else. He finished dressing and retrieved the air rifle from the boot and slung it diagonally across his left shoulder. With this one symbolic act he felt transformed. His mission truly had begun. His hand shook with excitement as he locked the car. It was one thing to plan things in his head but standing there in the woods dressed like a terrorist raised everything onto a different plane. His apprehension was heightened by the knowledge that if he was spotted now he would be forced to abort the mission and run for it, the hunter becoming the hunted. After finally checking to see that he remained unobserved he set off through the woods towards the river as nervously as a sun-dappled deer in the hunting season, his senses on high alert.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the edge of the wood where it bordered the river. He could hear the river in the distance rumbling like a motorway. He waited until he was certain that the coast was clear before he sprinted the hundred yards across the open meadow, bent double, to his vantage point on a grassy knoll overlooking the river. He had a quick look up and down the river but there was no sign of anyone. He spread out a groundsheet on the damp grass and lay down and stared in dismay at the roaring water cascading down the river channel. He’d overlooked the effect of the overnight melting snow. The river was in full spate, almost unfishable. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. All his preparations had been for nothing. All his hopes had vanished with the melting snow. He gazed morosely at the pulsing, bucking, muddy current. The woman had probably taken one look at the river earlier and decided that it was a complete waste of time. Maybe she’d packed her bags and headed for the airport and the next plane back to London. The very best that he could hope for was that she was waiting for the water level to drop an inch or two. It was just possible that in an hour or two, perhaps longer, the river would drop sufficiently to try a large Toby. Even a heavily weighted Devon might get down to the fish. Or maybe she had decided instead to spend the day shopping in town. Stocking up the wine cellar perhaps. The possibilities were endless, unfortunately. He cursed under his breath. So much for God smiling upon him,

Whatever she was up to right now all he could do was wait.

The minutes ticked by and turned into hours. He was lying there speculating on what sort of wine the woman would drink with her catch –Chablis, maybe, or a fashionable Pinot Grigio – when a large salmon splashed in the fast water at the head of the pool. He could see it was a silvery fresh run fish, a lovely head and tail rise, almost certainly a taking fish. He pondered on the irony that if she didn’t show up she would be missing a grand opportunity to add to her basket. As well as screwing up his life in the process, of course. As the hours dragged by he began to doubt that she would turn up at all. He imagined she’d probably spent a heavy night carousing and feasting or whatever it was that rich folk did to pass the time. Maybe he was doing her an injustice. She’d probably spent a sedate evening listening to opera or Mahler or somebody on the gramophone with a glass of port in her hand. Perhaps rattled off the Times crossword. Maybe played backgammon or a rubber of bridge with the servants. Certainly wouldn’t have frittered away her time watching East Enders or any of that rubbish. Maybe Bloomberg on satellite.

At that moment – which would have been lunch time if he had had any food - the sun came out and the gorse bushes all around him were suddenly alive with flocks of finches singing their hearts out. The sound transcended the roar of the river and filled his heart with joy. It was like listening to an unruly heavenly choir. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. Just at that moment he hadn’t a care in the world. He stretched out upon the groundsheet and filled his lungs with the crisp clean air. It was one of those spring mornings when it felt good to be alive, when the world seemed to be bursting with a myriad wonderful possibilities. What was it Scott Fitzgerald had written? Ineffable toploftiness? That just about summed it up. Despite the collapse of his rescue plan at that moment he felt ineffably toplofty. He knew the feeling was as transitory as the clear blue sky but he was determined to enjoy it while he could. That was what life was about after all. Snatching simple pleasures, stealing beauty, living for the moment.

As another hour dragged by and his spirits subsided he forced himself to remain optimistic that his quarry would eventually appear. Most fisherman, he reminded himself, periodically come down to look at the water in a spate. That moment when the water level starts dropping can often be the most productive. Once again he scanned the horizon with his binoculars. It was strange but on what was probably the most important day of his life he no longer felt in the least bit nervous or even excited. The truth was, he realised, that even at this stage the whole thing still seemed unreal. Lying in wait to ambush somebody was such a bizarre experience for him that it was impossible to relate it to anything else he'd ever done. It was like being in a dream. A dream not a nightmare, that was important. A good dream. A dream that ended with riches and happiness all round. Imagine there's no...however it was the song went. That sort of dream. Like a fairy tale with a happy ending. Money. Lots of money would secure a happy ending. It occurred to him that he would need to ask for cash to prevent the authorities spotting any suspicious movement in his bank account. And anything above a five pound deposit was going to look suspicious given the dire state of his finances. He smiled to himself. He found it oddly comforting that even at this desperate juncture in his life he still managed to retain the vestiges of a sense of humour. Maybe he was still human after all. On a more serious note, he knew he’d need to find somewhere safe to keep all that money. Out in the shed probably. Or was that too close to home? He frowned. Twenty pound notes. Half a million pounds. How many notes was that? A lot. A shedload, as Martin might say. Might give some to charity actually, he thought, that would be a nice idea. All right, conscience money. Not that he needed to feel guilty about what he was doing. He had been pushed into corner by forces beyond his control. As a result he was simply applying other market forces of his own devising to solve a huge debt problem. The same principle the World Bank imposed on debt-ridden African countries. Imposing a unilateral tax on the rich. Attacks on the rich. Redistribution of wealth. Just like Robin Hood. The comparison gave him a warm glow inside. What he was doing was not entirely selfish. Giving to charity would be okay. Do some good for once in his life.
And then, when he had almost given up hope, he heard the sound of a Landrover some minutes before the vehicle itself nosed into view.

He swivelled round and trained his binoculars downstream. A few seconds later the vehicle appeared, rolling across the lumpy meadow like a small boat beating against a heavy swell. It stopped at its familiar place at the head of the first pool on the beat, just out of sight of the water where it wouldn’t scare the fish. Nick fiddled with his binoculars but he couldn’t get them to focus properly. He picked up the air rifle and nestled the stock against his cheek, reassured by its coolness, and squinted through the telescopic sight at the landrover. He could just make out figures moving inside the vehicle. “Than you, God, thank you,” he muttered aloud. Suddenly everything was going to plan once more.

Then everything stopped going to plan.

Three people, small black figures in the distance, climbed out of the vehicle. "Shit," he whispered, a feeling of despair tightening its icy fingers round his chest. He held his breath, trying to keep the rifle steady. The third figure appeared to be a young man in his twenties, ginger-haired, smoking a small cigar and laughing continuously as he darted around helping to unload the rods. Dressed in a long check waistcoat and green corduroy trousers, he looked like a caricature of a country squire, a figure straight out of Country Life, and Nick cursed him vehemently. Three against one considerably increased the odds against him. He watched in dismay as the unanticipated new arrival carried the rods down to the river. Twice the man fell over the springer spaniel which kept leaping up at him to lick his face. Nick couldn’t believe his eyes. This totally unexpected appearance fatally undermined all his plans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swore out loud, thumping the ground with his fist. Surely to fuck he wasn't going to be thwarted by some gormless twat who had nothing better to do than play the clown on the riverbank? Who the fuck was he, he wondered? Some fucking Hooray Henry straight out of the pages of Evelyn Waugh. A fucking toy boy. A wastrel. Someone who had never done a day’s work in their lives. He raised his eyes heavenwards, glaring up into the expressionless, cloudless blue sky. “Christ, God,” he muttered, “You’ve got some fucking sense of humour all right. Talk about kicking a man when he’s down.” He started to feel sick as he contemplated the consequences of failure. He remembered the cheque he had written to that fucking garage owner, the one that had bounced. Jesus, that guy was after his blood all right. Then there was the debt collector. And the rest of his army of creditors would be queuing up right behind him. The bank manager, the sheriff’s officers, the inland revenue. No doubt about it, they were probably battering down the door of the house right now.

He buried his head in his hands and cursed his luck. He might have guessed it would turn out like this. In his heart he knew he’d fuck it up. He just wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Christ, when he went to confession as a kid he had to make up sins to tell the priest he was such a goody-goody. The whole idea had been stupid from the start. Pure fantasy. Like everything else he had done in his life. He should never have started his own business in the first place. Anyone with any sense in his position would have been a lawyer or an accountant. Even a teacher for Christ’s sake. At least they did some good in the world.

He lay down the air rifle and buried his head in his hands and began to cry. In a funny sort of way it didn’t really matter any more what happened next. Whatever the outcome he was a condemned man. A secret life as a sinner if he successfully carried out the crime. A public life as a bankrupt if he didn't. He shook his head. How had he got himself into this predicament? A lose-lose situation. Yet again he asked himself the old question that had tormented him continuously for the past six months. Just where exactly had he taken the wrong turning in his life? The image of himself as a bright-eyed sixth-former at school flashed into his mind. Emerging triumphantly from his unhappy childhood, escaping the clutches of his manic-depressive mother, an alcoholic father. Appointed Head Boy in a tough comprehensive, a glittering future ahead of him. Four good highers, a credit to the school, a place at university. And all he had ever tried to do was be respectable. He had yearned for respectability. Let nothing stand in his way as he struggled and clawed his way into the middle classes. Dedicated his life to building up a successful business. All those sleepless nights. The anguish and the worry. Only to fail in the end. And for what? To be kicked in the balls by some idle bastard who had probably never done a stroke of work in his life. He picked up the air rifle and trained the sights on the group who were now standing beside the bonnet of the landrover. The ginger-haired idle bastard was tying on a fly for the woman, biting through the nylon with his teeth, laughing as he did so.

Nick snarled at the sight. If he’d had a real gun, a sniper's rifle, he'd have dropped the guy there and then. Dropped the lot of them in fact. Declared war on them and all their class. A one man revolution.

Eventually, after an interminable amount of toing and froing the woman finally began to fish. Nick shook his head scornfully. He couldn't understand how it took these people so long to get themselves organised. If it had been him he'd already have had his first fish on the bank in the time they had wasted pratting around.

The young ginger haired man lay sprawled out on the bank behind the woman, smiling and laughing the whole time. The woman turned frequently, laughing and gesticulating. They were obviously very close, lovers perhaps. Every few minutes the man jumped up and waved his arms about, conducting some kind of elaborate pantomime. His exuberant behaviour irritated Nick. He had always believed fishing should be a serious business, truly a matter of life and death, a contest in which you treated your prey with the utmost respect, a deadly game where you always accorded your quarry dignity, especially in death. The way the guy was behaving demeaned the sport, denigrated the sanctity of life itself.

And then the woman got into a fish. The fierceness of the take almost jerked the rod out of her hands. Nick saw the line snap taut and the rod bend double as she hung on desperately. He observed her technique through the scope of the air rifle. After the initial excitement of the take had died down she became cool and determined, keeping the rod up and the line tight. The man had leaped to his feet and was frantically jumping up and down and yelling as he tried to attract the attention of the ghillie who was still sitting twenty yards away in the landrover drinking from his thermos. Two more salmon splashed in the pool, right alongside the hooked fish, showing in sympathy. A few seconds later three more fish, one after the other, showed in the tail of the pool a hundred yards downstream. The river was suddenly alive with fish. It was almost as if they knew that something dreadful was happening. Calmly the old ghillie climbed out of the landrover and ambled down to the bank clutching a large landing net. He took up position a few yards downstream from where the woman was playing the fish.

The fish took nearly twenty minutes to land. Nick saw the flash as the ghillie finally hauled the flapping bar of silver up onto the steep bank. Through the scope he could see that it was a beautiful fresh-run fish, not long out of the sea. He felt a twinge of envy. It was a long time since he’d caught a fish that big. Above the roar of the cascading water he heard the young man whooping with delight, as if he was the one who'd actually caught the fish.

The ghillie despatched the salmon with a couple of firm blows over the head from a large wooden priest. He strung up the fish on his wading staff and held it out in front of him for the woman to admire. The ginger-haired man danced around the fish, prodding and jabbing at it like a boxer in the ring. A few minutes later the ghillie unhooked the fish from his wading staff and handed it over to the young man. More animated conversation ensued, before the young man finally set off across the meadow in the direction of the big house, about a mile away, with the fish slung across his shoulder in a salmon bass. The excitement over, the ghillie folded up his net and returned to the landrover out of sight of the woman, where he resumed his half-finished breakfast as if nothing had happened. Not surprisingly, thought Nick. He’d probably killed thousands of fish during his career.

The woman was left alone on the riverbank to resume the pursuit of her next prize.

Alone and unprotected.

Vulnerable.

Nick realised with a start that this was the chance he had been waiting for. He hesitated, his pulse thumping, his mouth suddenly dry. Once he embarked upon his plan there would no going back. It was now or never if he was going to transform his elaborate daydreams into reality. He took a deep breath. He was so nervous he felt sick, desperately wanted to relieve himself. He knew only too well that this was a turning point in his life. Maybe a fatal one. Salvation or damnation awaited him, he had no way of knowing which. He sat up and closed his eyes, momentarily feeling dizzy as the blood drained from his face. All the old self doubt was seeping back into his bones. For a second he was tempted to give in and face the consequences of his impending bankruptcy. At that moment, while he knelt beside the riverbank as if in prayer, the face of his bank manager leapt into his mind, closely followed by the angry garage owner at the head of a whole army of baying creditors. Nick visualised the look of terror in Maureen's eyes as the angry mob hammered on the front door. He saw the look of shame on Martin's face as they were chased from the house. There was no way he could betray his family now. In the final analysis he’d rather throw it all away than have it taken from him.

This was it.

He picked up the air rifle and cocked it and put a pellet into the barrel. Crouching beneath the skyline he scurried along the floor of the valley that meandered from his vantage point down to the river. Five yards from the river he dropped onto his stomach and wormed his way to the top of the ridge. He could clearly see the upper half of the back of the woman, fishing intently, her feet straddling the track that skirted the river, about a hundred yards downstream from where he lay. The landrover was hidden from view behind a grassy knoll. To reach the woman he would have to cross a patch of open ground about forty yards ahead. As long as the woman didn’t turn round he would be safe. Still bent double he followed the valley until it petered out on the edge of the open ground. He paused to get his breath back. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, almost deafening him. As soon as he stepped out onto the open ground he would be visible from the road bridge two hundred yards away. There was no alternative. He took a deep breath and sprinted across the meadow. He reached the path that ran alongside the river without being seen. He crept downstream, moving quickly, staying below the skyline. He stopped just before the bend in the river which marked the tail of the pool where he knew that the woman, just out of sight round the corner, was still fishing. His heart was thumping and he was gasping for breath. He needed time to compose himself but he dared not delay in case the young man or the ghillie reappeared. As he crept forward he could hear the swish! and the plop! as the woman cast her bait across the pool. With shaking fingers he pulled the balaclava down over his face. This was it. Taking a final deep breath he stood upright and, after a second’s hesitation, charged round the bend in the river. He was immediately confronted by the sight of the woman with her back turned to him, in mid cast, the rod raised above her head, the monofilament line arcing out across the pool.

“Do exactly what I say or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” he screamed, pointing the air rifle at her anonymous back.

The woman swung round in amazement and gaped up at him. She remained frozen in astonishment as the line collapsed into the river behind her where it was immediately carried downstream by the strong current.

He ran up to her and pointed the gun at her chest. "Move downstream," he yelled, "Do it or I'll fucking shoot you!"

The woman simply gawked at him.

It was a pivotal moment during which his courage almost deserted him. They stared at each other for several seconds. He though about Maureen and what would happen to her if he failed. It was all the encouragement he needed. He lunged forward and stabbed the woman’s chest with the barrel of the gun. Despite the protection afforded by her jacket and the thick woolly jumper she was wearing he felt the end of the barrel bouncing off her breastbone.

“Ouch. What the hell’s going on,” the woman protested, dropping her rod as she stumbled backwards.

"Get moving," he screamed, jabbing her again, harder this time, "Run!"

“That hurt! Stop it! Get away from me.”

“Do what I say!”

“Leave me alone.”

He pulled the gun back ready to jab her again.

Seeing the murderous look in his eyes the woman turned round and slipped headlong onto the muddy path. “Help,” she screamed at the top of her voice, “Help me.”

He hit her over the back of her head with the butt of the air rifle. There was a noise like a cricket bat hitting a ball to the boundary. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Leave me alone.”

He hit her again. A six this time.

Momentarily, as her face was pushed into the mud, she was stunned into silence. Then she started sobbing.

He reached down and grabbed the collar of her Barbour and started hauling her to her feet.
Suddenly the ghillie appeared on the bank above them. The old man must have heard her screams. He peered down on the scene in astonishment, bending forward. "What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

Nick looked up and saw an old, white-haired man dressed in a green tweed jacket and baggy plus twos gazing down at him with a face frozen in horror. A spindly red tartan tie dangled from his neck. Nick jumped up and grabbed hold of the tie and jerked it towards him with all his might. The old man, caught off balance, tumbled like an acrobat through the air in a graceful arc over Nick’s head. He landed head first on the footpath, his neck snapping loudly. Immediately he crumpled up like a concertina. Slowly he toppled forward into the swirling water, uncoiling as he did so. Nick and the woman stared down in disbelief as the suddenly inert body slowly swung out from the bank and began to float off downstream. The face-down head bobbed gently in the current like a cork.

Nick swallowed hard to suppress the nausea rising in his throat. He dragged the woman to her feet and pushed her forward along the muddy path. "Run or you’ll follow him!" he yelled.

The woman could not tear her eyes away from the sight of the old man’s body floating down the river. “My God,” she gasped, “You can’t leave Peter to drown. You’ve got to save him.”

Nick had heard the man’s neck snap. “It’s too late,” he snarled, “He’s dead. Now run!”

As they stumbled back up the river the woman kept turning round to look back at the ghillie. Nick too glanced over his shoulder. He was appalled to see the body being swept along the shallows at the tail of the pool, slowly rotating with the force of the current. The woman pointed. “He’s waving at me,” she cried, “Peter’s still alive.”

When the woman tried to turn back towards the ghillie Nick hit her across the front of her neck with the rifle butt, as hard as he could. She fell backwards and he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her up the bank and onto the grass. The edge of the wood was about a hundred yards away. “Run, run,” he shouted, pushing her in front of him. She stumbled forward. Twice she fell over and twice he dragged her to her feet. After what seemed like hours they finally reached the safety of the rhododendron bushes at the edge of the wood. "Follow that fucking track," he hissed, prodding her forward with the gun. She staggered slowly forward. Her clumsiness and stupidity infuriated him. “Faster, faster,” he screamed, his face purple with rage. He wished he had an Alsatian to bite at her ankles. It was important to keep her moving, disoriented, unable to work out what was happening. “Run, run,” he screamed into her face whenever she slowed down.

When they eventually reached the car he handcuffed her hands behind her back with the plastic garden tie and taped over her mouth with thick brown sellotape. Then he made her climb into the boot. "If you make a single fucking sound I'll stop the car and kill you right away," he said, slamming the lid down upon her.

When he climbed into the car his hand was shaking so violently that it took him several attempts before he was able to fit the key into the ignition. The past few minutes had been unbelievably violent and horrible, far beyond his worst imaginings. He eventually started the engine and reversed back along the track at high speed, cursing himself as he did so for letting everything get so totally out of his control.

Chapter 14

Nick backed the car along the track at high speed, the spinning tyres churning up mud, the engine screaming. He burst onto the main road and slewed the car round in the direction of the cottage. The engine stalled. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. He knew that if he panicked now he was lost. He forced himself to calm down. He counted to three and turned the ignition and the engine burst into life. He heaved a sigh of relief. He drove off at his normal, safe speed. Fortunately the road was empty. So far so good. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might have a heart attack at any moment. His head was splitting too, one of the worst headaches he'd ever had, so bad it made his eyes water. He found it difficult to think straight any more. He was utterly exhausted, dangerously close to giving up if anything else went wrong. His mental and physical fitness for the task was something he hadn’t considered, and, as it had turned out, it was one of the first things to go wrong. Typically, he had packed no medical supplies of any kind, not even aspirin. He hadn't planned for such contingencies when he’d been dreaming up his Hollywood-style version of the kidnap.

The simple task of driving the car to the turnoff for the ruined cottage proved to be extraordinarily difficult. The harder he concentrated on driving normally, the more mistakes he seemed to make. He took one perfectly ordinary bend so fast he nearly drove off the road. His left leg was shaking so much that whenever he tried to change gear he couldn't depress the clutch properly. Several times in quick succession he selected the wrong gear, just like a learner driver. Every time an oncoming car approached he was sure the driver was staring across at him as if he was piloting a vehicle from outer space. Which in a way he was now. All those other people in their nice new cars, nice ordinary people leading nice ordinary lives. He could never be one of them now. Murderers are not nice ordinary people.

He had been driving for ten minutes when he passed the site of the ancient Peel Ring, the twelfth century motte he often walked to from his house. As he drew level with the signpost pointing to the ancient monument a car pulled up behind him and tailgated him for several minutes along the narrow winding road. It loomed large in his rear view mirror even after he slowed down to let it overtake. He almost fainted with fright, certain that he was being followed. To his immense relief the vehicle pulled out and overtook him as soon as they reached the straight stretch of road that bordered the marshes at Drem. He slowed right down to let it pass easily, but his relief was short-lived when he saw the driver shoot him a curious backwards look in his mirror as he pulled away. A few miles further on he overtook a tractor whose ancient driver gave him a cheery way and, a little later, two cyclists both wearing bright yellow crash helmets. As he breasted the brow of a hill a woman weeding in her garden looked up as he drove past. They were all witnesses who might later recall seeing his car. Despite his best endeavours his behaviour was attracting attention. He bit his lip. He reckoned he still had another fifteen miles or so to go before he reached the safety of the turn off into the woods.
He turned right at the T junction at Logie Coldhouse and the narrow road immediately emptied of vehicles. Driving on automatic he began to reflect on what he had done.

He kept seeing the old man flying through the air over his head and hearing the splash he made when he crumpled head first onto the footpath. The sickening sound he had made as his neck broke. Jesus. He bit his lip. Jesus what had he done? Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Oh God. Oh God. What had he done? What had he done?

Then there was the poor woman in the boot. Jesus Christ, what was he going to do with her? She knew everything. She knew exactly what he had done. She could condemn him to life imprisonment. Despite the threat she represented his heart went out to her. She was simply an innocent victim. At that very moment she was rolling around in the dark terrified at what was happening to her. She probably thought she was going to die, just like the ghillie. Christ, he thought miserably, she must be absolutely petrified. He put his foot down on the accelerator as far as he dared. He had to get her to the cottage as quickly as possible and release her from her tiny prison before she died of fright. Whatever happened next he had to try and minimise the trauma to which he was subjecting her. He had an obligation to try and comfort and reassure her, to minimise her pain. As soon as they got to the cottage he would try and convince her that he hadn't meant to hurt the old ghillie. He would explain how he had panicked. Above all he would try and make her understand the desperate circumstances that had driven him to embark upon this lunatic scheme. Finally, he would implore her forgiveness.

He was so preoccupied with what he was going to say to her - how do you explain away a murder to someone you are abducting - that he missed the turn off into the woods where he had planned to hide the car. He drove on for another half hour vaguely aware that something had gone wrong. At first he thought that somehow time had slowed down. He wondered if maybe once you've killed somebody the physical laws of time and place that you've known since childhood no longer hold true, that the world was changed forever in ways you couldn’t hope to understand. When he eventually realised that he had driven miles past the turning he cursed his stupidity. He pulled over at the first opportunity and reversed into a farm track and turned the car round and drove back as fast as he dared. He was furious with himself for his ineptitude. The last thing he wanted in the present circumstances was to be seen driving round aimlessly in the car, drawing even more attention to himself. To make matters worse he began to imagine that the woman in the boot might be dead by now, quite possibly suffocated to death, a truly horrible way to die. He considered stopping to check but the thought of what he might find was too frightening. He should have checked the boot beforehand to make sure that it wasn’t airtight. That was something else he hadn’t thought about in advance. He squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. “What a fucking idiot,” he muttered out loud, appalled at his stupidity. If she was dead he vowed he would take his own life too, exacting upon himself some sort of retribution for his criminal fecklessness. Even as he contemplated the idea of suicide another dreadful thought struck him. Although he had long proclaimed himself an agnostic his thinking was still tainted by the ingrained shibboleths and oppressive rituals of his Catholic upbringing. The concept of the afterlife was a powerful one that still haunted him. It was easy to imagine the possibility that he would be confronted by his victims in the hereafter.
As their paths crossed briefly in purgatory he would be haunted by their ghosts. A brief interlude before he was cast down into eternal damnation. That was inevitable now. You couldn't kill someone and go to heaven. He was sure about that. He was damned for all eternity. There was no way back, no absolution for the crime he had committed. Tears began to well up his eyes. How had this happened? How had he been so stupid as to get himself into this ghastly mess?

At the second attempt he found the turn off into the woods. The lane was more deeply rutted and pitted with potholes than it had been on his visit the previous day when everything had been blanketed in snow. The car bounced and rolled so much it was difficult to steer. He tried not to think about the way the woman in the boot must be being thrown around. He drove as carefully as he could but he couldn't avoid all the potholes. This was one more of the many things he hadn't thought about, one of the unfathomable ways the world had changed since he had first contemplated his terrible crime.

At last he reached the natural layby where he planned to hide the car, buried within a dense thicket of rhododendrons. He manoeuvred the vehicle into the bushes until it was completely obscured from sight to anyone passing along the farm track. He switched off the ignition and sat and held his breath while he listened for any sign of life from the boot. The only sound was the regular ticking noise from the engine as it slowly cooled. He sat for several minutes and prayed that he would hear some signs of life. Anything. A sob, a sigh, even a scream would have been welcome. As the rays of the overhead sun filtered down through the treeless branches it grew warmer inside the car. Beads of sweat started trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes. To make matters worse it was becoming increasingly airless inside the car but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to wind down the windows, preferring instead to seal himself off hermetically from the horrors of the outside world. As the silence lengthened he began to grow increasingly afraid of what he was going to find when eventually he was forced to open the boot. The possibility of seeing a second dead body within the space of an hour filled him with dread. Two people whose lives had been ended through his stupidity. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so deluded as to come up with a scheme like this? If only he had done the sensible thing and taken a menial job and worked for the rest of his life to pay off his debts like any sane person would have done. Accepted his living penance here on earth instead of choosing a course of action so evil that it was bound to result in his eternal damnation. It was yet another example of his failure to do the right thing in life. Yet another disaster of his own making. He shook his head. Why had the good Lord put him on this earth and then forsaken him so completely? Why? God moves in mysterious ways but this wilful neglect on the part of his Creator defied all explanation.

And then the car moved.

A muffled groan came from the boot. She was still alive! Thank God! Thank God! He was so relieved he immediately began to offer up a prayer of thanks. It didn’t work. No matter how hard he tried he found he couldn't remember the words to even the simplest prayer. Whenever he closed his eyes to pray his mind was immediately filled with a jumble of crazy kaleidoscopic images, randomly bouncing around inside his head, as if he was on LSD or something. First his dead father’s face leering at him, huge, misshapen, drooling, like something out of a childhood nightmare. Shaken, he blinked and tried again but this time Maureen was screaming at him, hammering on the inside of his skull with her fists, the noise she made was deafening. He tried even harder to concentrate, screwing up his face with the effort, desperately trying to clear his head. This time in his mind’s eye he saw his local parish priest, a man who had been dead for years, kneeling down in front of the same altar Nick had served at as a boy, his arms outstretched as he tore up the Eucharist and scattered the pieces into the air like confetti. Perched in the pulpit at the side of the altar Bob Dylan was wailing about the hard rain that was going to fall as he smashed his guitar over the head of a nun. Nick covered his eyes with his hands and lurched forward in the seat, his forehead banging upon the steering wheel. The face of the woman he now held captive in the boot leapt into his mind, young and pretty, smiling at him with laughing eyes as she sat up and tossed back her long blond tresses, her arms still bound behind her back.

The vision, he realised with a start, was entirely naked.

He opened his eyes and the vision vanished. He stared out through the windscreen at the dense screen of rhododendron branches. He was alone in the forest with a beautiful woman completely in his power. His swallowed hard but his mouth was dry. He had never been in a situation like this before, not even in his wildest fantasies. At that moment the car shivered perceptibly as the woman in the boot moved. A few seconds later he heard her groan and the car swayed more violently. She was struggling to get free.

He closed his eyes once more and her naked image once again drifted into focus. Her head was bent, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Her breasts were round and firm, her nipples erect. She was smiling demurely. She was the kind of woman he had dreamt about all his life.

He opened his eyes and for the first time he began to consider the true consequences of what he had done. He was no longer daydreaming. He really did have a beautiful woman captive and alive in the boot of his car. He felt his pulse beginning to quicken. He pictured her lying back there in the boot, bound and gagged in the darkness. She was totally in his power in a way no other woman had ever been. She was his to do with as he wished. Having already committed the worst mortal sin he was freed from the constraints of normal behaviour. Compared to murder nothing else mattered. He had fallen so far from grace that nothing he did now could make matters worse. In a funny sort of way he was free. For the first time in his life he was so far beyond the pale that there were no longer any rules or moral sanctions to constrain him. Not only was she completely at his mercy, maybe she was also his reward. Some sort of compensation for his headlong fall from grace. He was free to do what he liked with her. As his exhilaration grew at his new-found sense of power he was surprised to feel himself developing an erection, his first for weeks, months maybe. His breathing quickened, his pulse raced faster, he began to feel light-headed with excitement. He was shocked by this carnal reaction. Up until that moment his motives for kidnapping the woman had been totally pure within the boundaries of his own twisted logic. What he was contemplating now totally debased the moral justification for his actions. Yet it was hard to ignore the reality of his present situation and the temptation it presented. Try as he might he could not expunge the impure thoughts erupting out of his brain. The image of her naked body triggered his imagination into feverish activity, a billion synapses popping in the darkest recesses of his brain like a firework display. It was wrong but…everything he did from now on was wrong. There was no justification whatsoever for what he was thinking of doing but when your soul is already as black as it can be what difference did one more mortal sin make? The thought of total domination over another human being was so intoxicating, driving every other thought from his mind. Alone out here in this isolated stretch of woodland he could do anything he wanted. She was completely in his power. He could do things to her he'd only read about in dirty books, stared at on the internet. He could perpetrate acts he wouldn't dare think about doing to Maureen. Anything was possible, even torture. Jesus, he had absolute power over her, just like the Nazis had over their prisoners. He recalled a catalogue of half-forgotten scenes from the dirty books he had read when he was at university and the pornographic films he had watched as a young man before he got married. A slideshow of perverted and unspeakable acts that had once shocked him to the core. By now his imagination was ablaze. The thought of her lying helpless made him ache, really ache. He was consumed by the desire to do something dirty to her, something unspeakably filthy. The desire was so bad it actually hurt.

He could wait no longer.

He climbed out of the car and staggered round to the boot. He was dizzy with excitement, weak with desire. Feverishly he tugged open the boot. He stared down at his prostrate captive. The bound and gagged figure lifted her head and stared up at him. Her fear-wide eyes blinked in the sunlight. Her face was grotesquely bruised and swollen. Her long blonde hair was matted with mud. Tears streaked her face. Hastily he opened his fly and pulled out his cock and began to masturbate as he leant forward over her, his knees pressed against the bumper for support, holding onto the boot lid with his raised right hand. He came almost immediately, within seconds, groaning loudly as he ejaculated onto the writhing, moaning figure in the boot.
He leaned against the car, gasping for breath, eyes closed, his brain pounding.

"Oh Jesus," he gasped, “What have I done?” His cock instantly grew limp in his hand. “Oh God forgive me.” Now at last he knew that there were no depths to which he would not sink, there was no sin he would not commit.

He slammed the boot shut and staggered back from the car. He sunk to his knees on the wet ground and lowered his head into his hands and began to pray in a low moaning voice. Again and again and again, the tears streaming down his ashen face, he pleaded for forgiveness from the God he had forsaken so many years before. Eventually, after several minutes had passed, his self-abasement drew to an end, all energy spent. Slowly he hauled himself to his feet, a forlorn, abandoned figure in the empty forest.

At that moment he realised that in his frenzy he had defiled his victim while he was bare-headed, without disguise. The balaclava that had previously protected his identity lay where he had left it on the passenger’s seat. The implication of this oversight immediately struck him. The woman now knew exactly what he looked like. His face would be indelibly imprinted on her memory. The tables were turned. As long as she remained alive and could identify him he was completely in her power.

Chapter 15

This time he remembered to pull on his balaclava before he unlocked the boot.

She lay on her side staring up at him with huge, round, terror-filled eyes. She looked as helpless as a baby seal that was about to be clubbed to death. The sight of her snapped him out of his dream-like state, and he glimpsed for the first time the full extent of the brutality and ugliness of his actions. He stared down at her. He had never seen such a piteous sight. He wanted to pick her up and clasp her to his breast and comfort her as if she was his own child. He bent down towards her and she let out a shriek. He jumped back, startled by the violence of her reaction.

"It’s all right," he whispered as he bent down and gently brushed the congealed semen from her hair with his handkerchief, "I'm not going to hurt you I promise." He spat on the handkerchief and dabbed at the worst of the mud streaks on her face. When he had finished he folded up the handkerchief and tucked it into a pocket of her jacket.

Her body was still frozen in a catatonic state when he lifted her out of the boot and set her down on the ground. She was unsteady on her feet and he held her upright for a nearly a minute, his arm around her shoulders, holding her loosely against him, terrified that she might fall over in a faint. He was surprised how tall she was, taller than Maureen. As she leaned against him she gradually became more pliable, moulding her contours into his until she fitted his body exactly as if they were matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. As her muscles gradually relaxed she started to shiver, gently at first and then more violently, until eventually she was twitching wildly out of control as if she was about to have an epileptic fit. He gripped her more tightly, pulling her head onto his chest, hugging her as if she was his own daughter.

“Calm down, it’s all right. Nothing’s going to happen.”

As the seconds passed she gradually began to relax and the shaking subsided. As he gently caressed her hair he thought how familiar they would have looked together, if anyone had been watching, like lovers in an embrace. When he was sure that she wasn’t going to collapse he eased her away from his side. “Stay there, please,” he commanded, as he moved away to retrieve the canvas holdall from the car. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and, after he had satisfied himself that the coast was clear, he took her arm and began guiding her along the path through the woods, gripping her elbow firmly with his left hand. The woman shuffled forward slowly, as if she had arthritis, as if she had aged fifty years in the last hour. He gently pushed her ahead of him and she immediately stumbled and fell forward onto her knees.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he helped her to her feet, “I didn’t mean to push you over. Take my arm. This way.”

He half-dragged, half-carried her the next two miles through the forest until they reached the peat moor which lay between them and the cottage.

The melting snow had turned the moor into a quagmire, a patchwork of tussocky islets floating on a sea of glutinous peat.

“You’ll have to jump,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t, it’s too far.”

He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

“This is crazy,” she protested, “We’ll drown.”

He leapt from tussock to tussock, dragging her after him. When they stopped for breath she began to sink into the peat. He put his arms around her and pulled her out, leaving her Wellingtons behind her.

“I can’t go on,” she sobbed, “I’m exhausted. Please stop. Please.”

He dragged her across the bog. “If we stop we’re done for,” he gasped.

They were in sight of dry ground when suddenly the woman screamed. “What’s that?” she cried, pointing at her feet.

He stopped and peered down. Something round and white the size of a small football was gently bobbing in the jelly-like peat.

“And that! And there’s another one. And another. My God, what are they?”

Nick bent closer. “Christ, it’s a skull! Jesus, there’s lot’s of them!”

He grabbed the woman’s hand and began scrambling towards dry land as fast as he could. The woman started screaming. Eventually he managed to claw his way up onto firm ground, dragging the woman along behind him on her stomach. He lay on his back on the grass, gasping for breath, utterly exhausted.

The woman was the first to speak. “Those skulls…what were they doing there?”

Nick sat up and looked back across the bog. A dozen or more skulls were glinting in the sunlight about sixty yards away. They looked like a field of giant mushrooms. “I think there was supposed to have been a battle round here. In the seventeenth century. I read about it somewhere.”

“It’s horrible. I stood on one. It cracked like an eggshell.”

It took them another hour stumbling across the rough pasture before they finally reached the ruined cottage. They were both hot, wet and close to collapse. Nick’s head beneath the balaclava was sweaty and itchy, the coarse wool rubbed roughly against his skin, but he dared remove it, fearful of compounding his earlier error.

“Don’t try and run for it,” he said as he struggled to unlock the padlock he'd placed on the front door the day before.

She snorted in derision.

“Yeah, okay. Stupid thing to say.”

He motioned her to go ahead of him into the darkened room but not surprisingly she seemed
afraid of the menacing black void awaiting her. "It's all right," he said gently, "I'll put on a light once we're inside."

She did not move.

"Please, I'm not going to hurt you. Honestly."

Still she did not move.

He was almost as scared as she was but, forcing himself to stay calm, he said, "Look, I'm sorry about the ghillie. I didn't mean to hurt him. It was an accident." Trying not to think of the noise the ghillie's neck had made when his head had hit the riverbank he reached out and took her arm and pushed her gently but firmly into the cottage.

It took several seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Once he could see sufficiently to make out the layout of the room he opened the holdall and took out the old paraffin lamp which he lit and placed upon the mantelpiece. A myriad unfamiliar shadows immediately danced around the room like witches round a midnight campfire, their eerie outlines casting a morbid spell upon the room. Almost at once the smell of paraffin filled the room. At that moment a scuttling noise came from the kitchen and he jumped, almost knocking over the lamp. She heard it too. "What was that?" she whispered, the first time he had heard her speak, her voice dark and throaty and well-educated.

He avoided her terrified gaze. "It's nothing," he said, bending down to take the length of chain from the holdall.

Her eyes widened even further as she watched him. "What are you going to do with me?"
"Nothing. I promise. I've just got to keep you safe for a few hours, a day at most. As long as you co-operate nothing will happen to you, I promise."

"Something already has happened."

He felt himself turning red with shame and embarrassment at the recollection of his behaviour back at the car. “I know, I know, I ‘m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what happened. It was completely out of character. Nothing like that will ever happen again I promise. You’re safe now. Please, kneel down."

She didn't move. He was so on edge that for a second he thought he might hit her again but with an effort he restrained himself. Glaring at her he said, "If you don't co-operate then I promise something bad WILL happen to you. I've already killed one person today so I've got nothing to lose. It’s up to you."

She stared straight back into his eyes and this time he did not look away. She must have seen then just how desperate he was because she suddenly knelt down, obediently, albeit reluctantly, at his feet. He placed the chain around her neck and fastened it with a small Yale padlock.
"Stand up, please," he said.

He led her towards the kitchen by the chain. "Stand there." He went into the kitchen and, using a second padlock, secured the other end of the chain, which was about fifteen feet long, to the old Aga. "Okay. You can sit down now."

She looked around for a chair.

"On the floor," he said, fetching the paraffin lamp across to the corner of the room. As she lowered herself awkwardly onto the floor he said, "Stay there and I'll bring you a blanket."
This time she did exactly as she was told, sitting with the chain fixed around her neck, her hands handcuffed behind her back, only her eyes moving as they tracked him across the room. He could sense the expression of pure hatred on her face and when he turned his back on her he felt her eyes boring into him. No one had ever looked at him that way before.

As well as the blanket he brought the rest of the food from the holdall and laid the little bundle down beside her. “Food,” he muttered, gesticulating towards the modest pile of tins with some embarrassment.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she croaked, her voice barely audible in the dark stillness of the musty room.

"Jesus, can't you wait?" he snapped back. Even as he spoke he realised it was an incredibly cruel way to react. His nerves were on edge. He hated this place already, felt as much a captive as she did. All he wanted to do was to get away as quickly as possible.

"I've wet myself," she whispered, her head bowed in shame.

He was shocked. He hadn't meant to scare her that much. He stared helplessly at her, once again overcome with pity. No one should have to go through the kind of ordeal he was subjecting her to. "I'm sorry...I..."

She started crying, her head slumped on her chest, her shoulders heaving. “Please don’t kill me,” she sobbed, “Please don’t.”

“Don’t cry, please. I’m not going to kill you. This wasn’t how I planned it. It’s all gone totally wrong.”

“Why are you holding me here? What are you going to do with me?"

He shifted uneasily. He hadn't exposed his scheme to scrutiny before and suddenly the whole idea seemed childish and stupid and impracticable.

“What do you want with me?”

He cleared his throat. "I know who you are. I’ve been watching you. I brought you here because I want a ransom for your safe return, that's why." His self-consciousness had caused him to blurt out the explanation far too quickly. To make matters worse even to his ears the explanation sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud. He felt embarrassed, even stupid, at the naiveté of his scheme.

She looked at him in disbelief. “A ransom?”

"That’s right.”

“A ransom?” She shook her head. "You can’t be serious. How much for God’s sake?"
He lowered his eyes. The figures he had in his head now seemed wildly unrealistic, even to him. "Well, I was going to ask for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds." Mentally he heard himself adding, in a whisper that echoed around inside his head, "If that's all right."
She suddenly started laughing, an unexpected sound that to his ears quickly turned into a loud unpleasant braying. He regarded her helplessly, mentally pleading with her to stop. As the humiliating sound grew louder, as she became increasingly hysterical, he was reminded of the fits Maureen used to throw whenever they had a major argument. "What's so funny?” he muttered, anger giving his voice a rough edge, “Don’t you think it's enough? Or are you insulted by the low valuation I’ve placed on you?"

A long time passed before she finally spoke again, in a voice so low he had to lean forward to hear. “I don’t know what papers you’ve been reading but the fact is I don’t have any personal wealth.”

“Come off it, you’re loaded.”

“That’s a common misconception. The accumulation of personal wealth is against my principles.”

“That’s crap. You floated the company on the stock market. You’re worth millions.”

“There is a small trust I’ve set up for the children but that’s not my money. The rest of my shares I’ve donated to various charities round the world.”

“What about your salary? You’re the MD aren’t you? What about stock options and dividends and bonuses and all that stuff? I bet you’re earning a fortune.”

“I take out of the company only what I need to live on and I live a very simple life.”

“You must be fucking unique then.”

“I came into the world with nothing and that’s the way I intend to leave it.”

“I don’t believe it. Are you telling me you’re not one of the wealthiest women in Britain?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. As a matter of fact I take home less than the average wage.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear but it’s the truth.”

He couldn’t immediately comprehend the full implications of what she was saying. He had read in the papers about her success lots of times over the years. He was certain she was worth a fortune, one of the biggest in the country. She seemed to have discovered the knack of making money out of exotic formulas that promised beauty and health and eternal youth. She had discovered the Midas touch by plundering the Third World for ideas which she then commercialised in the West, making a fortune in the process. What she was claiming now was the exact opposite. "What you’re saying can’t be true,” he protested, “I read the FT. Your company's shares have gone up like a rocket in the last couple of years. You must be worth millions."

"You’re not listening. The shares belong to the various charities I support.”

“You’ve given all your money away to charity?”

“That and a research foundation I set up in India. They’re developing sustainable business models for third world countries.”

“This is incredible.”

“In the final analysis, when it comes to material possessions, you’re probably better off than I am."

He looked aghast. If what she was saying really was the case then he was in deep trouble. “Are you saying that you can’t raise any money at all?”

“A few thousand at most. I have some endowment policies. We all grow old.”

He felt dizzy. Everything was slipping away from him again, spinning out of control. He said slowly, “Even if I threatened to kill you?”

She drew her knees up to her chin and buried her head, her whole body slowly convulsing as she burst into tears.

“I’m serious. I’ll kill you if I don’t get the money. You better face up to facts.”

Eventually she stopped sobbing. He held out a tissue and she blew her nose into it. “I’m desperate,” he explained, “You’re my only hope. Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Why are you desperate?”

“It’s a long story. I had my own business. It went bust. I’ve got personal guarantees. They’re going to take my house…we’re going to be out on the street.”

“The bank?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you come to an arrangement with them? Pay them off over a number of years? They’re usually quite amenable.”

“I’m too old. I can’t get a job. We’re fucking penniless.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes.”

“Does your wife know about this? About what you’re doing?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Would she approve?”

“Of course not.”

“She’d rather be evicted?”

The conversation was making Nick feel extremely uncomfortable. He was only too aware that what he was doing did not bear scrutiny. “Look, I don’t want to talk about all this. All you need to know is that I’m desperate for the money. Fifty thousand minimum. Now.”

She raised her head slowly, the faintest glimmer of hope flickering in her eyes. “Maybe I could raise the money somehow. But it would take time.”

He glared at her, furious at the way she was trying to thwart him. “I don’t have time,” he snarled, “Either I get the money right away or you’re in serious trouble. And I mean serious.”
She shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry but I just can’t raise that kind of money in under a week. There’s a lot of legal stuff to sort out. I couldn’t just write a cheque for a quarter of a million despite what you might think.”

“What about your husband?”

“I’m not married. I haven’t been for some time.”

“Who was that man you were with down at the river?”

“Robert? He’s a colleague. He looks after my PR. It’s strictly professional, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Gradually it dawned on Nick that she was telling the truth. He felt his heart sinking so rapidly it almost sucked the breath out of his lungs. He leaned back against the dusty mantelpiece for support. Time was absolutely of the essence. "Jesus," he whispered. It was his turn to feel his insides turning to water, to feel the immediate and desperate need to go to the toilet. "Jesus, things just get worse and worse."

The woman seemed to gain some sort of grim satisfaction from the look of dismay on his face. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," she muttered, “But you haven’t exactly been good news for me either .

He tried to think. First there was the ghillie, that had been a tragic disaster. Now her. A penniless philanthropist. He didn't seem to be able to do anything right. All he’d done was to dig himself deeper and deeper into trouble. The situation was now critical. He said quietly,
"You have to understand I’m running out of time.”

“How long have you got?”

“That depends. I’d have to convince the bank manager that I really could come up with something substantial. Two or three days at most.”

“I could probably raise five thousand immediately. If I could get to a bank.”

“It’s not enough. I need fifty thousand in cash minimum.”

“That’s impossible.”

“In that case I’ve got a real problem. And you better get it into your head that my problems are now your problems."

She replied, in a tone of voice that left her sincerity in no doubt, "I'm sorry, really I am. I just can’t do anything that big in under a week. If that means I’m of no use to you all I can do is beg for my release.”

“You’re not leaving here until I get the money.”

“I promise that if you let me go I'll tell the police that what happened on the river to Sandy McGregor was an accident. I'll tell them you didn't hurt me either. I'll do whatever I can for you."

It was his turn to feel contemptuous. "If only it was that simple. I must have that money right away or the whole fucking lot comes tumbling down."

"Please. Do yourself a favour. Don’t make things worse than they are. Just let me go. Please."
He suddenly felt exhausted. Everything in his life seemed so difficult these days. None of his problems seemed to have any solutions, on the contrary they just seemed to multiply, to breed almost, like a cancer, getting bigger and bigger, eating him alive. Without thinking he pulled off his balaclava and sat down a few feet from her, resting the back of his head against the damp peeling wallpaper and letting out a long low groan.

She said, in a voice that hinted at sympathy, "Is the money really that important?"

He snorted. "Money is always important when you don’t have it." He lowered his head and began fingering the balaclava, its synthetic fibres feeling soft and warm to his touch, the sensation reminding him of a soft toy he'd been given by his mother, a rare gift from her, one he hadn't thought about for years. He rubbed the balaclava against his cheek the way he used to do when he was a kid alone in his bedroom where he felt safe and warm and happy. "I didn't think it was all going to turn out like this," he muttered, “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t mean to assault you. It just went wrong like everything else recently. Ever since I was a kid I’ve tried to do the right thing but now it’s all just turned to shit. No wonder I’m just about cracking up.”

She said softly, "In my experience things are never as bad as they seem."

"In my experience they're a whole lot bloody worse.”

He lapsed into a morose silence. The sound of rain splattering against the corrugated roof punctuated the stillness. The wind had risen too and every now and again the ceiling clattered as the corrugated sheets rippled in the stronger gusts.

As the minutes ticked by they both tried to think of a way out of the impasse. The temperature inside the cottage was growing noticeably cooler. Rainwater started to drip through the cracks in the roof, exploding all over the dusty floor like a field of tiny landmines going off. The cold from the earthen floor began to seep into the woman’s bones. Where she had wet herself her sodden jeans clung to her like cold wet rags. Despite the thin blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders she began shivering with cold. "I'm freezing," she muttered through noisily chattering teeth, "I need to get out of these wet clothes into something dry."

“I’m sorry but I didn’t bring any spare clothes.” Seeing the look she gave him he said, “It’s not possible to plan for every eventuality.”

“I’m going to get pneumonia like this.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, "This whole thing has been a fiasco. I know that. If it’s any consolation I’m especially sorry for what I’ve put you through.”

“What about poor old Robbie McGregor?” A note of anger had crept into her voice.

“Him too. Of course him too. That was a horrible thing to happen. A nightmare. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. I’m sorry, truly I am.”

“Your sorrow won’t do him much good now.”

“I know, I know. Please don’t go on about it. Look, I’ll take you through to the toilet now.” He picked up the paraffin lamp. “Let me help you up.” He hauled her to her feet and lead her through to the toilet at the rear of the kitchen. There were more scratching noises as they passed the old Aga and he saw her stiffen.

“I'll bring you some dry clothes when I come back," he muttered as she pulled the toilet door shut behind her.

He sat staring at the Aga while she finished her business, praying that none of the rats would have the temerity to put in an appearance before he departed. When the woman re-emerged he picked up the lamp and led her back through to the sitting-room. He replaced the lamp on the mantelpiece.

She sat down on the bare floor just inside the sitting room with her back propped against the wall, the chain almost at full stretch. She regarded him with an anxious expression on her face. “I heard something scratching about in the kitchen just now. What’s in there?”

“It’s just mice,” he lied.

She shivered at the thought. “God, I hate mice. Just the idea of them being in the same room makes me feel ill.”

He hesitated, wondering whether he should warn her about the rats. He wasn’t sure how dangerous they really were, whether they might actually attack her or not. Praying that they wouldn’t bother her during the night he said, “You’ll be all right. They won’t come near you.”
Something in the tone of his voice made her suspicious. “You’ll be here too, won’t you?”

He looked away guiltily. “I can’t. I’ve got things to organise.”

"You’re not going to leave me alone here all night are you?"

“I’m sorry. I’ve got no choice. I’ll be back tomorrow to see that you’re all right.”

“What time tomorrow?”

"I'm not sure. It depends how I get on. I'll have to work out what I'm going to do about the ransom. Tomorrow sometime."

“You’re leaving me all on my own?”

“You’ll be all right.”

“I’m scared.”

“Well, the sooner you can get the ransom paid the sooner you’ll be set free.”

She had gone pale as she contemplated the possibility of spending several days alone in the company of mice and other creepy crawlies. Close to tears she said, “What about food and water?”

“You’ve got those tins. There’s a tin opener. You can eat them cold or I’ll heat them up for you when I come back. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“You can help yourself when you feel peckish.”

“What am I supposed to do to pass the time while you’re away?”

He was beginning to feel a little pressurised by all her demands and he had to fight to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Well, you could try thinking up ways to get me that money as quickly as possible for a start.”

“Are you going to leave me something to read?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Just something to pass the time. Surely it’s not too much to ask? Anything. Please.”

She looked miserable. Nick bit his lip. “You don’t understand. The light. I can’t leave you the light. You could set the place on fire. Trying to attract attention. I can’t take the risk. I’m sorry.”

As she looked up at him tears welled up in her eyes. “You’re not going to leave me in the dark? Oh no, please don’t. Please. Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

Several minutes elapsed before she stopped sobbing. Eventually she said softly, "Wouldn't it be better if you just let me go?"

He stared at her, his eyes burning with resentment. He shook his head firmly. "I can't do that. It’s all gone too far. You're my last chance. One way or another I've got to make enough money out of you in the next twenty-four hours to clear my debts."

She uttered a short, bitter laugh. "You haven't been listening, have you. A week maybe but twenty-four hours is impossible."

He stared unblinkingly at her. "It’s your funeral."

She turned white. "I told you...What are you going to do? You’re not going to kill me are you?"
He shrugged. "Right now I don’t know what’s going to happen to you. All I know is you're not leaving here unless I get enough money to pay off my debts. And you’ve got twenty-four hours to do it. So maybe you better put your thinking cap on."

"What if I don't find a way to come up with the money on time?"

He considered the question for a long time, nodding his head slowly as he examined his mud-caked boots. He coughed, clearing his throat carefully before he replied, "If I don't raise some money quickly I'll be better off dead." He looked across to where she was staring intently back at him. "And the same applies to you."

The woman started to cry again. Turning her face to one side, her eyes screwed tightly shut, she began sobbing uncontrollably. He felt helpless in the face of such abject misery. He wanted desperately to let her go, to put an end to her ordeal, to pretend none of this had ever happened, but he knew that was impossible. She had become an integral part of his problem, the only way out was for her to somehow become part of the solution. He reached into his bag for the thermos and poured out two cups of coffee. He handed one to her but she refused, curling up and rolling over onto her side in the foetal position, her face pressed against the bare earth floor, her legs pulled up to her chin, her arms behind her back, withdrawing deeper and deeper into herself, sobbing uncontrollably.

He sat and watched her, feeling increasingly helpless, even sharing her pain. Almost half an hour passed before she eventually stopped crying. When he considered that she had regained some semblance of equanimity he got up and gently hauled her back into a sitting position. He poured another coffee and held it to her lips. This time she accepted it grudgingly, taking short, breathless sips from the white plastic cup. He said softly, "I'm sure if we put our heads together we can come up with an answer."

She sipped the coffee in silence.

"Think about who you need to contact to release the money. I’ll take you to a public phone box to make the call. I’ll give you the instructions about where to leave the money. Fifty grand. Cheap at the price.”

She shook her head in disbelief. "I've already told I can’t put my hands on that sort of money."
Nick stood up. It was time to go. He tossed the dregs of the coffee onto the earth floor. “All right, don’t worry about it. Do your best. I’ll think of something if you don’t. Everything will turn out all right.” He paused in the doorway before he blew out the lamp. “I want you to understand that I wouldn’t have done any of this if I wasn’t desperate,” he muttered eventually.

She stared dully at his flickering silhouette, a barely human outline in her living nightmare. “That doesn’t make it right.”

He didn’t try to argue. He knew in his heart she was right. He tugged the door open. A pile of sodden leaves swirled into the room as the wind howled in. Outside thick sheets of mist and rain lashed the cottage. He shivered as he peered up at the dead, grey sky. It was cold enough for snow. He felt exhausted, his head hurt, he was emotionally drained. He surveyed the horizon to make sure that the coast was clear. There was no sign of life. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said as he tugged the door closed behind him, “Don’t worry, everything will turn out all right. Goodbye.”

With great difficulty she manoeuvred the thin blanket up around her chin and curled into a tight ball as the door on the outside world slammed shut with the dread finality of a coffin lid shutting over her, plunging her world into total darkness, a kind of living death.She was too scared even to cry out.

Chapter 16

It was three o' clock in the afternoon by the time he finally got back to the house. He was so tired he could hardly climb out of the car. His headache had worsened with the effort of driving safely without attracting attention. The pain was intense, a sharp metallic pain, as though he had been hit over the head with an iron bar. As soon as he got inside the house he took two aspirins and lay down on the settee in the living-room and fell asleep almost at once, a deep, dreamless sleep, as if he had been drugged.

He woke up with a start, aroused by the sound of his own voice screaming for mercy. He had dreamt that he was on the gallows surrounded by a baying crowd. An old man had placed a noose around his neck. Maureen was lying at his feet prostrate with grief. Outside the light was fading fast and the room was almost in darkness. Confused, for a second he thought he was back in the derelict cottage. Gradually the familiar shapes of the old dressing table and the half-empty bookcase emerged from the gloom. He rubbed his eyes and peered at his watch. He couldn’t believe the time. He thought he’d only been dozing for a few minutes but it was already six forty-five. Maureen and Martin would be arriving at the village on the bus any time now and he hadn’t even started their tea. With an enormous effort he dragged himself through to the kitchen - he still felt exhausted, as if he'd been out on a fifteen mile hike - and wearily began peeling potatoes.

While he worked he tried to recall some of the extraordinary events that had taken place earlier in the day. He was confused about what exactly had occurred down at the river. Already it all seemed unreal, almost dreamlike. The stuff with the old man…he wasn’t sure but looking back he thought maybe…it was possible…that it was an accident. Maybe the guy had stumbled. He’d used hardly any force. It was hard to say. He shook his head. It was better not to think about it. What was done was done. His thoughts turned to the hostage safely locked up in her remote hideaway. He immediately became suffused with a sense of almost mystical well-being the like of which he hadn’t felt for years, not since he’d last smoked dope in fact. After months of vacillation he had finally taken an enormous step towards solving his financial problems. He was aware that he still had lots to figure out before he got his hands on the money. There undoubtedly remained a number of loose ends still to tie up to ensure a successful conclusion to his scheme. But there was no denying the fact that with the hostage safely hidden away it was just like having money in the bank. Rather a lot of money in fact. He smiled to himself at the thought. In all the years they had been married this would be the first time they’d ever had a nest egg of their own. Indeed, it was the first time in his life when he had been solvent and without money worries and it was an intoxicating feeling after being crushed so long beneath the weight of a lifetime’s accumulation of debt. His euphoria was heightened by the fact that he was intensely proud of what he had done, of the way he had finally confronted their problems head on, of the courage and bravery he had shown in implementing his daring plan. Most people would have caved in before such overwhelming odds, the vast majority of poor wretches would have let their creditors barge in and walk all over them. But not him. In the final analysis he had kept his nerve and gambled everything and won. What he had done had taken real courage and it was a fantastic feeling and just at that moment he felt like he could do absolutely anything he put his mind to. Would do anything too, just as soon as he got his hands on the money and began a new life at the ripe old age of fifty. As John Lennon had once said, it would be just like starting over. And this time he would avoid all the mistakes of the past. He took a deep breath as he felt himself tingling all over with excitement. There was no doubt about it…the future had been transformed into something wonderful.

When he had peeled enough potatoes for the three of them he put them into a pan of salted water and placed them over a medium heat on the stove. He checked his watch. He was running five minutes late. They were probably already standing in the bus shelter opposite the post office wondering what the hell had happened to him. He smiled at the thought. They had no way of knowing that their little inconvenience would be compensated a thousand times over. He hurried out to the car and drove down to the bus shelter at high speed singing at the top of his voice.

They were waiting in the bus shelter when he arrived. Martin threw his schoolbag into the back seat and dived in after it. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded angrily, “We’ve been waiting ages.”

Maureen climbed into the front seat beside him without saying a word. She looked tired.
“How was your day?” he asked as they headed at a more sedate pace back to the cottage.

“The usual I suppose. I didn’t manage to do half the things I intended. I’ve still got a load of exam papers to mark tonight.”

“They work you too hard, Maureen.”

“It’s my job.”

“Even so,” Nick glanced into the rear-view mirror to see if they were being followed. He suddenly felt nervous driving the car. He should have hoovered it out as soon as he got home. At the moment it was a forensic time bomb. He forced himself to stay calm. “What about you, Martin, how was your day?”

“Fine.”

Nick was desperate to tell them about his own glorious, exhilarating, fantastic day but for the time being he knew it was prudent to contain his excitement. In a few more days, once he had safely collected the ransom, then he would be able to astonish them with the brilliant news that was going to change all their lives for ever.

“Any more word from the bank?” asked Maureen, looking anxious.

“The bank? I don’t know. I’ve been out most of the day.”

“Oh yes of course I forgot. How did your interview go?”

For his part Nick had forgotten about the pretext he had invented in order to borrow the car but he hardly even hesitated as he fabricated an answer. “Pretty good. I should know in a week.” Which was just about the right timescale, he thought with satisfaction. Things were slotting into place nicely.

“Do you think you’ll get the job?”

“I do, yes. In fact I’m certain. Don’t worry, love, we’ll soon be back on the gravy train.”
Maureen said nothing. She had learned from bitter experience to take nothing Nick said on trust.

They ate their meal on their laps while half watching the evening news on television in the usual silence. The national news was very gloomy. There had been renewed fighting in Bosnia with the inevitable civilian casualties. Yet another sectarian murder had been perpetrated in Northern Ireland. A young girl had been abducted and murdered in Kent. Unemployment had risen for the third month in a row. Frost was predicted overnight in the north. Nothing much of interest. Nick pushed the inedible remains of a gristly pork sausage to the side of his plate.
Then it was the turn of the local news. The third item in. Something about an accident on Deeside. Two people feared drowned. A man’s body recovered from the river. A woman still missing. A big police search.

"Hey," shouted Martin, suddenly sitting up, "That's near us."

It was the longest speech he had made for years.

"It's that woman," said Maureen, her eyes widening, "The millionairess woman. The one with the chain of beauty shops. She bought an estate over on Deeside. Mrs McKillock in the village does for her. Says she’s loaded. I wouldn't mind a fraction of her money."

“It sounds like a fishing accident,” muttered Martin, his mouth full of potato, “They should have been wearing life jackets or something.”

Nick stared at the screen in dismay. Somehow he’d hoped that what had happened down at the river would go unnoticed. Seeing it on the television was a shock, somehow made it all much more serious. No longer something that existed in his mind only. Now that the genie was out of the bottle the world seemed a much more dangerous place.

The news presenter went on to say that police divers were still looking for the body of the businesswoman but that flood levels due to the rain and melting snow were hampering their search. At that point a police inspector appeared, framed against the backdrop of the fast-flowing river. Speaking to camera he said, “At the moment we are treating this tragic incident as an accident. Due to the high river levels our diving team is unable to carry out a thorough search. There are some very deep pools downstream of where the incident is believed to have occurred and with the current so strong it could be some time before we find anything further.”
Nick stood up, unable to watch any more. "Can I get anybody anything else?"

Maureen asked for tea. Martin, having already lost interest in the news as soon as the weather forecast came on, jumped up and bounded off to his room saying that it was all right for some but that he had a mountain of homework to do. For the time being at least it seemed as if nothing had happened, nothing had really changed. Nick was momentarily nonplussed. It appeared that even after you go on the rampage murdering and kidnapping, as soon as you get home everything returns to normal, nothing has really changed. He thought that was extraordinary. Depressing too in a way. It made you wonder what you had to do round here to make things change for the better, to get out of the rut, even just to get people’s attention. Maybe if they knew what he had been up to that day they might have treated him with a little more respect instead of taking him for granted as they always did.

After he had done the dishes he sat watching Coronation Street with Maureen, her favourite programme. He hadn't watched it for ages but he soon picked up the storyline again. He managed to watch about ten minutes before his attention started to wander.
He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about his hostage.

Mundane thoughts at first. He would have to remember to take her a pair of clean knickers and some jeans. Maybe another jumper as well- the weather forecast said they were in for a spell of cold weather and he didn’t want her catching a cold. He could easily steal some of Maureen's warmer clothes that would do, even if they were a bit big (and not very fashionable). If he was any kind of a gentleman of course he would deliver them tonight. The only thing was, he just didn't fancy going back to the cottage in the dark. Stumbling around in the forest in the middle of the night. All those skulls and things. Creepy. Besides, it would be difficult to explain away if anyone spotted him. Very suspicious. Although he could say something like he was out poaching, looking for something for the pot. Then again, there were other possible risks too. There could be roadblocks for a start. Anyway, he never normally went out in the car at night and it was vital that he didn’t vary from his routine in order not to arouse suspicion. He could just imagine Maureen’s likely reaction if he was to casually announce that he was going out for a run in the car without a damned good excuse. These weren't the only reasons for his reluctance though. The fact was he simply couldn't face the sight of that poor woman in his present state of mind. It was just too soon. All the bad things that had happened today. She was a too solid reminder of his evil actions. The personification of his wickedness. His still-living penance. She represented something he preferred not to think about. He focused his attention back on Coronation Street.

Suddenly Maureen picked up the remote and turned off the sound.

Nick frowned. “What you doing?”

“I was talking to one of my colleagues at school today. Robert Fleming. You remember him?”

“Vaguely.”

“His wife’s a lawyer. She’s been looking into the bank taking the house from us.”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, she doesn’t think they will.”

“That’s not what my lawyer says.”

“She was told by one of the senior partners that the bank won’t want the bad publicity. She says that we should be able to come to a scheme of arrangement to pay off the loan in part over the rest of our working lives and then when we die they’ll sell it and pay off the debt. By then there might even be something left for Martin.”

“I don’t believe it. The bank are going to toss us out on our ears.”

“She spoke to the bank.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She drawing up some kind of deed. We’ll have to sign it next week.”

“And they’ll leave us enough to live on?”

“If we’re careful.”

“Maureen, I haven’t even got a job.”

“You seem confident about this latest one. As long as you make a contribution. With you working we should even be able to put Martin through university.”

“So we’re not going to be turfed out.”

“Nick, I think you should understand that I’ve been deeply hurt by what has happened. I put my trust in you and you betrayed it. I’m not sure I can ever forgive you. If you want to regain that trust you’ll have to earn it back. Which means getting a job. Any job. Even if it is stacking shelves in ASDA.”

“I’ll get a job. I promise.”

“And don’t ask me to sign anything ever again. Ever.”

Nick watched the rest of Coronation Street without taking anything in. Maureen had solved their most pressing problem at a stroke. Which meant that everything he had done had been rendered unnecessary. In solving one problem she had created another for him. A problem that would sooner or later come home to roost unless he could think of some way of getting a quick ransom in return for her freedom. Or even some way of letting her go. Except that she had seen his face and she knew what he had done. Far from being money in the bank she had turned into a bloody great millstone round his neck. Or even a noose.

Whatever he did with her at the moment he still had a moral obligation concerning her welfare which he absolutely felt obliged to fulfil. He pictured her huddled up alone in the cold and dark. Surrounded by rats. Bound in chains on a rough earth floor not knowing what her fate might be. The thought of the terrible suffering that she must be going through at that moment made him feel slightly ill. He could feel the blood draining from his face. He closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers through his hair, desperately trying to massage the images out of his brain. He felt so guilty neglecting her this way. The fact that there was no one he could talk to about his anguish just made it a hundred times worse.

At that moment the phone rang. He froze. It had to be the police. This was the beginning of the end. He knew it. He could see it in the policeman’s eyes on the television. They were coming to get him. The game was up. Any minute now he would hear the police car pulling into the drive. Eventually Maureen got up from the settee and answered it. Filled with trepidation he could hardly bear to watch her as she placed the phone to her ear. His heart sank when he saw her frown. He waited with baited breath. She listened for a minute and her eyes narrowed and her expression became very grave. “Just a minute, I’ll get him for you,” she said, holding the receiver out to him.

He got up slowly, his legs shaking.

"It's the man from the garage," she muttered, her face ashen, "He wants to speak to you. He's being really abusive."

Nick looked up helplessly at his wife, all thoughts of his hostage’s discomfort instantly vanishing as he tried desperately to think of yet another excuse that would give him the breathing space he needed to execute his plan.

Chapter 17

Nick woke up just after seven. A dysfunctional choir of overexcited blackbirds, song thrushes and assorted finches packed the branches of the trees around the house, creating a deafening dawn chorus. He sat up wearily after a restless night that had been punctuated by the usual dreams in which his creditors had lain siege to the house in a variety of guises. Everything from a murderous band of armed bandits from a cartoon South American republic to an angry congregation from the local church . The bed beside him was empty. Maureen and Martin had already left for town. He went through to the bathroom and looked out onto the drive. The car had gone. Which meant that he would have to visit his hostage on bicycle, a not inconsiderable inconvenience. He looked up at the clear blue sky. At least it had stopped raining and it didn’t look like it was too windy. Under different circumstances he might have looked forward to a pleasant trip on his bike.

Fortunately Maureen had done some shopping the day before and there was enough bread to make cheddar and tomato sandwiches for two. He added an apple and a carton of organic blackcurrant yoghurt which he thought his hostage might like. A pint of milk, a thermos of Nescafe and a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut completed the rations. It wasn’t exactly a healthy, balanced diet but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. He packed everything carefully into his old rucksack.

His next task was to go back upstairs and search through Maureen’s chest of drawers for a suitable pair of jeans and a thick woollen jumper. Maureen had plenty of old clothes which she never wore so he was pretty sure she wouldn’t notice they had gone. He selected a blue polo necked jumper from BHS and a pair of Levi’s. From the bathroom he collected a toothbrush, a small tube of Macleans, a flannel, a bar of Fairy soap and a clean towel.

He was about to set off down the hill when it occurred to him that, despite his earlier misgivings, perhaps he could safely leave the paraffin lamp with his hostage after all. When all was said and done she was hardly likely to risk burning herself alive in an attempt to escape. Convinced that this humanitarian gesture would be worth the risk if it made her confinement more bearable he dismounted and leaned the bike against the wall at the back door while he retrieved the lamp from the shed. Having taken this decision he immediately felt better. The thing was he couldn’t bear the thought of her spending any more time locked up in complete darkness. It just wasn’t right. Suddenly feeling more positive about the situation he further resolved to improve the conditions of her incarceration by providing her with something to read. He went back into the house and collected a Woman's Own, a Trout and Salmon magazine and a book, Black Mischief by Evelyn Waugh, one of two copies he had been given as a kid. He made sure that it was the one without any kind of dedication that might be traced back to him. Not knowing anything about the woman’s tastes in literature he just had to hope that it was the sort of material that would help her to pass the time reasonably happily. He considered adding a bible to the collection but after a certain amount of vacillation he rejected the idea. Apart from anything else it would send out the wrong signals and might lead her to think her situation was worse than it really was. There was no point in her brooding. Light reading to pass the time was all that was required.

To pass the time until what, was of course the question. A question that overnight had become a lot more complicated. Maureen’s revelation that they were no longer going to lose the house completely undermined the justification for his action. On the other hand, their creditors were still pressing hard. A ransom would go a long way to solving their problems. Then there was the practicalities of how he was going to get his hands on the money and free the hostage safely. Despite wrestling with the problems half the night he was no nearer a solution about how he could safely extract a quick ransom out of her. The situation was further complicated by the fact that after listening to the morning news on the radio it was apparent that as yet the police had no suspicion that she had been abducted. From what he had heard it appeared that the authorities were still treating the whole thing as a tragic accident. Which meant, paradoxically, that he was perfectly safe, at least until he contacted someone with his demands. Safe as long as he did nothing in other words. Although describing himself as safe, it struck him, was a purely relative term. He was only safe in the same sense that a bomb disposal expert is safe until the bomb goes off.

He sighed. No matter how he looked at the problem it seemed impossible that he could quickly transform his captive into the money he so desperately wanted. To get the full amount was undoubtedly going to take time. Maybe as long as a fortnight. He could of course settle for much less but it seemed crazy to take such a huge risk for so little reward. A quarter of a million really was the bottom line if he wanted to change his life and engineer a fresh start for him and his family. Asking for anything less would only be a short-term compromise that would almost certainly end in unhappiness and ultimately even failure. Jesus, any middle ranking company director would expect at least half a million just for having his contract terminated early. You didn’t get much for a quarter of a million nowadays. It was hardly extortionate. If that was the correct word.

As he remounted his bike he made up his mind that when he reached the cottage he would get her to write out a ransom demand – addressed to the young man he had seen her with on the riverbank probably – saying that if the money wasn’t left somewhere safe within seven days the hostage would die. Naturally he would explain to her that he was really only bluffing and that she was perfectly safe as long as she didn’t do anything stupid. The question of what he would do if they refused to co-operate or take him seriously was one he would address only if the need arose. The thought of having to cut off her ear and send it to them, that sort of thing, filled him with revulsion, but in the end he believed he would have the courage to take whatever measures that might prove necessary to ensure compliance with his instructions. Hopefully everything would be resolved in a civilised fashion and it wouldn’t come to that. He set off from the house feeling reasonably optimistic.

The heat on his back from the late March sun was unexpectedly fierce as he pedalled up the first gentle incline on the main road leading to the cottage and he was soon sweating freely and panting heavily. He was obliged to stand up on the pedals when the bike threatened to stall going up even the gentlest inclines. Nevertheless, despite the effort required by his age-wasted muscles it was great to be out in the countryside again when Spring was in the air. It was definitely his favourite time of the year, a period of optimistic re-birthing after all the doom and gloom of a long, hard Winter. Looking up through the bud-bursting hedgerows he could see Morven Hill in the distance, still with a mantle of glistening snow shrouding its dark, powerful shoulders. When this was all over he vowed that he would climb it again, a twelve mile round trip, one of his favourite walks. Maybe Maureen would come too, even Martin. It would be like a family day out. They could have a picnic. They hadn’t had one together for years. It would be something to look forward to after the quiet desperation of recent months.

He had been cycling for twenty minutes or so when he came to a particularly steep gradient on the road where he was obliged to dismount and push his bike up the hill. At the summit he stopped to get his breath back. All morning he’d been brooding upon a safe way to collect the ransom, and gradually the solution was starting to take shape in his mind. The trick, he decided, would be to use his extensive knowledge of the local topography to his advantage, in particular the fact that the hills around the cottage formed a natural amphitheatre where any movement in the valley floor would be easy to monitor. He could lay a paper trail based on map references for the person who brought the ransom money to follow. A series of instructions leading to pre-determined locations which he could observe from the safety of the higher ground. He would be able to see without being seen. Once the money was left in the designated spot the person would then have to follow another series of directives before he finally found out where the hostage was being held captive, giving Nick plenty of time to make his escape. It was perfect. He would study the map later and work out the best route. Tomorrow, while he waited for the ransom demand to be delivered, he would lay the paper trail. He rubbed his hands with glee. The scheme was simple but effective, like all the best plans. The only issue still to be resolved was the time it would take to get his hands on the money. If what the woman said was true – and he had no reason to doubt her - he couldn’t see any way it would take less than four to five days. He would just have to live with the delay, relying on his smooth tongue to buy more time from his creditors, just as he had done with that bastard garage owner last night. He leaned on the handlebars of the bike and let out a long sigh of relief. Light was finally chasing the shadows from his soul. It was funny, but even in the darkest hours there was always hope. Somebody up there still loved him after all.

Time, of course, was still of the essence in more ways than one. For a start he certainly couldn't keep his hostage locked up for much longer. With every passing day the risk of being found out increased. To make matters worse, he was worried about what the dreadful experience must be doing to her. He couldn't bear to think what it must have been like for her in that awful place last night with rats crawling all over her in the darkness. Talk about traumatic. He felt his neck turning red with shame. He should never have left her there alone. Come to that, he should never have kidnapped her in the first place. However justified his motives had seemed at the time, the truth was there was no excuse for the pain and the anguish he was now putting her through. Prolonging her agony would amount to wickedness on his part. And yet he still hadn’t worked out how it was all going to end. He should have had it all planned down to the smallest detail before he started. For the umpteenth time he regretted embarking on such a half-arsed scheme.

Half an hour later he arrived at the disused track leading off into the woods. He hid the bike in the place where he had parked the car the day before and set off through the birch woods towards the cottage. When he emerged into the open he took a slightly more circuitous route to avoid the field of skulls which had unnerved him so badly the day before. The sky had remained cloudless and now that the sun was almost directly overhead the landscape shimmered in the heat. The still air was alive with millions of insects dancing and buzzing and swooping and diving in a dizzying spectacle. He ducked as a brilliant blue dragonfly the size of a wren shot past his left shoulder like a helicopter out of control. Almost overnight the undergrowth seemed to have cast off its wintry lethargy and thickened up so that forcing his way through the heather and knee-high grasses that fringed the broad peat bog was surprisingly hard going. By the time he finally came within sight of the cottage he was panting heavily from his exertions. To add to his discomfort blood was trickling into his right eye from a cut on his forehead where he had stumbled over an ancient field drainage system and ended up tumbling into a bramble bush.

He paused about fifty yards from the front of the cottage, leaning against a tall pine while he regained his composure. He was experiencing a growing sense of unease at what he might find within the derelict building. Seeing the woman again meant confronting the true enormity of his evil actions. There was no way the reunion could be anything other than unpleasant and he hated unpleasantness. He lingered beneath the shade of the tree for as long as he could but eventually he felt obliged to make a move. Bending double he scuttled across to the shelter of a thicket of rhododendron bushes less than twenty yards from the cottage. In order to make absolutely certain that there was no one about he sat and surveyed the scene for a further ten minutes or so. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to walk into a trap. Anything could have happened to his hostage overnight. There was no way he could even be sure that she was still in the cottage. She might have escaped and called the police. He scanned the horizon all around with his binoculars. In the distance a squawking buzzard circled lazily overhead. There was no other sign of movement anywhere else in his field of vision. He swallowed nervously. The truth was that there could be a whole army of policemen hidden in the undergrowth and he probably wouldn't spot anything. He turned his attention towards the cottage itself. The sight of a red deer grazing contentedly on the hedge at the end of the garden was immensely reassuring. As was the large flock of chaffinches squabbling noisily amongst the branches of the two ancient apple trees at the side of the house.

He lingered for another five minutes in his hiding place just to be on the safe side. Waiting was no hardship. To tell the truth he was in no hurry to confront the woman again. For a start he didn't know what kind of condition she might be in. What if she had a fever or was hysterical or something? What if she had indeed been attacked by rats and needed a doctor? At the very least she would be cold and miserable, an abject sight for which he alone was entirely responsible. Then there was the question of what he was going to say to her. How on earth do you talk to a hostage you have terrorised and humiliated in that way? And what if she asked about what was going to happen to her next? She must have realised by now that the whole thing so far had been a complete balls-up. She probably thought he was the village idiot. It seemed absurd but he was actually terrified at the prospect of confronting her again.

Eventually, when he was as certain as he could be that it was safe to approach, he began to creep closer to the front of the cottage. Despite his attempt at stealth he still managed to disturb the flock of birds in the apple trees and they flew off into the woods squawking noisily. The silence that followed was unnerving. There were no insects buzzing, no leaves rustling, even the squawking buzzard had flown off over the hill into the next valley. Indeed, the only sound was the pounding of his heart echoing painfully in his ears. Forcing himself to remain calm he tiptoed across the weed-infested granite cobblestones at the front of the cottage and pressed his ear against the door like a midwife listening to a pregnant belly for sounds of life.
At first he heard nothing. He held his breath and pressed his ear closer. He frowned. Gradually he could just make out what sounded like a low hum. It wasn’t what he had expected. The sound wasn’t really human at all. It sounded like a swarm of bees buzzing angrily inside a hive, the sound rising and falling irregularly, but continuously. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. What on earth was going on in there? He tried to peer through the keyhole but the inside of the cottage was pitch black.

As he knelt there wondering what to do next the sound rose to a new pitch of intensity that was now quite clearly audible from outside the cottage. He stepped back in alarm. It sounded like the bees might be attacking something. And yet, he felt sure she was the one making that awful sound. But why? What exactly was she doing in there? Maybe she was being attacked by something. Being eaten alive. By the rats perhaps. The thought horrified him. Shit, the picture conjured up in his mind was like something out of a horror film. But if she was being attacked why wasn’t she screaming or shouting out for help? The sound really was just like a swarm of angry bees, and yet that didn’t make any sense. He suddenly felt very scared. Anything could be happening inside that nightmarish world. There was no way he was going in there right now, whatever it was. No way on earth.

He crept back towards the safety of the rhododendron bush. Wrapped in the protective cover of the dense leafy branches he sat listening to the awful humming sound. Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, the noise subsided, until eventually it was barely audible, no louder than the hum from a distant electricity generator or standing beneath the faint drone of an overhead power line. Except that the soundwaves were almost tangible, as if a warm gentle breeze was caressing his ears. Several more minutes passed before everything went completely quiet as if the swarm of bees had been dozed with smoke by an unseen hand, someone dropping a smoke canister down the chimney perhaps. While he sat there in a quandary, puzzling over what to do next the finches gradually flitted back in twos and threes to the apple trees. Within a few minutes the sound of their angry squabbling filled the air. He breathed a sigh of relief. Out of sound out of mind.

He hauled himself to his feet and took an unsteady step towards the cottage. A dry twigged snapped beneath his feet and he jumped in alarm. Once again the birds in the apple trees flew off in panic. He hesitated, his heart pounding. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. He listened carefully. This time there was no sound of any kind emanating from the cottage, it was a dead world, even if something unimaginably awful was taking place inside. He sat down again on the damp earth, too scared to go any closer. He closed his eyes and immediately drifted off into a light, exhausted sleep. He began dreaming almost at once. It was an old dream, based on a true atrocity he’d read about years before in Idi Amin’s Uganda. In a stockade a group of soldiers had lined up dozens of prisoners. The man second from the end was handed a club and told to kill the man on his left. Then he passed the club to the man next to him, who killed him. And so on, down the line. This way everyone was a murderer and died in a state of mortal sin. The soldiers stood around grinning and cheering with the enthusiasm of a crowd at a baseball game, expertly evaluating the effectiveness of the blows. Nick always woke up before the end so he never found out what happened to the last man. He woke up again on this occasion, covered in sweat as usual.

He sat where he was for a long time. Clouds began to gather over Morven Hill, clustering round the summit like a halo. The sun slowly disappeared behind the mountain. It was growing colder as the afternoon wore on. Cold enough for snow. He felt stiff and sore from squatting for so long but he no longer had the energy to stand up. The light began to fade. Soon it would be dark in the forest. Dark and terrifying. Not for the first time that day he felt uncomfortable at being out alone in the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly he felt incredibly weary. The battle to save himself and his family had been going on for so long that it now seemed unwinnable. He had made too may mistakes to hope for victory. To make matters worse he was no longer convinced of the justice of his cause. It wasn’t just soldiers who suffered from battle-fatigue. He was sick of fighting for his life. Slowly he stood up and brushed the leaves and twigs from his trousers. At that moment he realised that for him the war was over. He had lost. It was time to go home and face the consequences. He glanced across one last time at the derelict cottage with its rusty tin roof and fissured granite walls and then turned and wearily set off on his last journey across the louring moor and into the murky forest, a refugee in a foreign country.

Chapter 18

The way back home was mostly downhill and he pedalled flat out, the wind streaming through his hair. He paused at the foot of the road leading up to the house to see if there was any sign of visitors. When he was certain the coast was clear he remounted and cycled up to the house. Once inside he discovered that the postman had been while he was out. The sight of the little pile of letters on the floor inside the back door made his heart beat even faster.

He circled the pile warily before he picked it up. He scanned each letter with a practised, circumspect eye like a security guard checking for letter bombs. The bills and the threatening letters which were easy to identify from their postmarks (one from the Inland Revenue, one from his lawyers, yet another from the bank, one from the credit card company) he hid unopened behind the breadbin. The free offers and the junk mail he perused only peremptorily before binning them. At the end of the sorting process only one letter remained. A plain white envelope with a typewritten address whose ordinariness made it stand out from the rest.
Gingerly he placed it on top of the television and sat down opposite on the settee where he ate some of the sandwiches he had made that morning and drank a lukewarm coffee from the thermos while he debated with himself whether or not to open it. There was always the chance, he reasoned, that it might actually be good news, although it was months, maybe even years, since he had had any of that through the post. Odd things did happen of course. Maybe a distant relative had died and left him millions. Fat chance. As far as he knew he had no relatives of any kind, living or dead, near or distant, rich or poor. There were other possibilities of course. Perhaps one of his three premium bonds had come up and he had won first prize. He didn’t know what the odds of winning were but so far the results had not been encouraging. In thirty years as a patient investor he had won nothing. The same went for the lottery. The football pools were an even longer shot – particularly since he had stopped doing them years ago, not long after he got married. On the other hand the innocuous looking letter might well be a trick, a metaphorical letter bomb from any one of his numerous creditors and pursuers. That was the real danger. At least it was unlikely to be a summons. He wasn’t certain, but he had a hazy idea that such a legal missive had to be handed to him in person. He was pretty sure the same thing applied to a warrant. He hesitated for many minutes. In the end he came to the obvious, if uncomfortable, conclusion that there was only one way to find out. He rose from the settee, strode across the carpet and picked up the envelope with a reckless, shaky hand. When he tore it open it didn't explode but the effect was just as earth-shattering.

As he read the contents he couldn't believe his eyes. He felt giddy. The print swam in front of his eyes. It was a job offer. A. Job. Offer. A JOB OFFER. A BLOODY MIRACLE. He read and re-read the letter. It was from the local area enterprise agency. An interview he had apparently attended six months before, of which he had no recollection whatsoever, had been successful and due to a re-organisation in the way the government-funded organisation was tackling economic development they were pleased to offer him the post of DEVELOPMENT OFFICER with special responsibility for High-Growth Start-Ups in which position, they felt sure, his EXPERIENCE of running his OWN small business would prove invaluable. They apologised for the DELAY in making the offer but this had been caused by a NATIONAL STRATEGY REVIEW and they hoped he was still in a position to ACCEPT the post. Would he, in fact, be in a position to START RIGHT AWAY? Would he? WOULD HE!

He couldn't believe it. It was truly a miracle. Someone up there had finally taken pity on him. He read the letter for the sixth time. A three year contract (equivalent to a lifetime). A salary that made his eyes water. Six weeks holiday a year. A generous (their words – but true) mileage allowance. Pension provision. Reasonable expenses. A thirty-seven hour week. Please phone back at your earliest opportunity and confirm on receipt of letter. Yours sincerely etc.
His brain whirled, a kaleidoscope of random, glorious thoughts. With one bound he was free. The queen's pardon. Life after redundancy. Work his balls off for them in gratitude. Tell the bank manager to call off his hounds. Pay off that garage bill. Keep a roof over their heads. Send Martin to university. Save his marriage. Resume his sex life. Presents for all. A new shirt and tie. Shoes that don't let in rain. Buy chocolate and cream cakes. Eat meat. A weight lifted from his shoulders. Sleep no longer murdered. Look the world in the eye. Say a prayer of thanks. Joy unbounded. Hark the herald angels sing. Self respect. Bursting. Literally bursting. Bursting with fucking happiness.

He read the letter once again and this time the tears welled up in his eyes. Had anyone ever received such wonderful news? He looked slowly around the room. For the last six months it had been his prison, now it was about to become paradise once more. He felt an absurd twinge of regret. He was about to lose that peculiar form of freedom that comes with being unemployed. The freedom to do what you want, to get up when you want, to do nothing if you felt like it, to sit at the window and count every second of every day. The freedom to go mad with boredom, the freedom to feel totally useless. He bit his lip. No, the letter had arrived just in the nick of time. Another week and he would either be dead or completely round the bend.
He was half way through dialling the number on the letter heading when he realised there was a fly in the ointment. He hesitated then put down the receiver. Mrs Roberts. His hostage. The latest millstone round his neck. Could he set her free without risking getting caught? He couldn’t see how. She had seen his face after all. They would be on to him in no time. The only alternative he could think of was to keep her as a long-term captive. He closed his eyes and shook his head. That was downright silly. How could he possibly look after her and hold down a full time job? There was no way he could do both. Apart from anything else he was determined to give one hundred per cent to the new job to make it a success. There was no way on earth he was going to allow himself to fail at that. It was too important. His last chance. A lifeline.

He didn't hesitate for long. He picked up the phone again and dialled the number on the letterhead. It took him ages to get through to the right person, he must have been transferred to at least four different departments, and even when he spoke to the person named in the letter she didn't seem to know what he was talking about. For a moment he thought it was all a mistake, a final cruel joke by Him up there, perhaps even the start of the retribution which would be exacted on him for all the dreadful sins he had committed recently. And then he discovered, to his enormous relief, that it just seemed to be the way the organisation always operated. "No one tells me nothing round here," sniffed the woman on the other end of the line. "What? Tomorrow? Yeah, all right, if that's what you want. I’ll have to get your ID card ordered and get someone from IT to come in and hook your workstation up to the network. Who signed the letter? I might have known. She’s gone home already, you won’t catch her working late. Okay. Don’t worry. Leave it to me I’ll organise it for you. You just come to reception tomorrow at, say, ten and we’ll have everything ready for you. Don’t worry, you can rely on us. We always end up organising everything round here, the so-called executives in charge haven’t got a clue. Okey dokey then, see you at ten. Byee."

So he had got the job. He was employed once more. No longer a second class citizen. No longer inferior, a lost soul without hope. All the old certainties that went with being a valued member of society would soon return. The freedom from fear, no more hourly dramas, a good night’s sleep, the post and the telephone friends once more. All the things that made life worth living. Even the littleness of life, the humdrum grind, would be welcome after the heightened drama of the past six months. It would be easy to be ordinary once again. He punched the air with delight. This miraculous development called for a celebration. No, wait. Don't go overboard. Buy a few cans of beer when Maureen came home, then an early night. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. Raring to go. Start the new life with a bang.

And Maureen. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he told her the news. She'd always had faith in him though, he had to give her credit for that. She'd always said he would come up trumps in the end. She was right too. As always. He should never have doubted her. So in the final analysis he hadn't let her down. That was the most important thing. He’d lived up to his half of the bargain that was enshrined in the marriage vows they had taken all those years ago. For better or for worse. Over the years there had been plenty of times when it had very definitely been for worse. But from now on it was going to be for better. No doubt about it. No way on earth was he going to screw up this opportunity of a lifetime.

He stood up and looked out of the window. The bird table at the foot of the garden was devoid of food. A few chaffinches sat forlornly in the lifeless branches of the old apple tree. He smiled. Their future too was now assured.

Chapter 19

It was hot. Very hot. During a rare lull between appointments Nick Dowty stared out of the first floor window of his office upon the parched lawn and recalled some of the innocent people he had played a part in killing during a lifetime of ruthless propriety.

Without a doubt the death that caused him most remorse and anguish was the one he had perpetrated while he was still a child. Hardly a day had passed during the last thirty years when he hadn’t recalled how he had failed his father as he lay upstairs on his deathbed, a virtual skeleton weighing less than five stone. He had been sent to summons a doctor but acute shyness had overcome him as he approached the surgery. Wriggling out of filial responsibility he had betrayed the only person in the world he had ever truly loved. The only person who had ever really loved him in return.

Almost as bad, because he played an active role in condoning her euthanasia, was the death of his mother many years later. His motive then was simple. He hated her. In the catalogue of his crimes against humanity this was the one act for which he felt no remorse. On the contrary, he had felt nothing but relief as he sat at her bedside solicitously holding her hand during the five long days and nights it took her to drown so indecorously in her own saliva.

And then there was last year. When the fortunes of his business took such a vertiginous turn for the worse that he had embarked upon a desperate scheme to avert bankruptcy and with it the ruination of his family. That ludicrous episode had claimed two more innocent lives, the first with no blood connections. Whichever way he looked at it the scale of the slaughter seemed totally disproportionate to the modesty, not to say mundanity of his moral ambitions. He felt his neck reddening with shame. What atrocities might he have committed, he wondered, if he had been a truly evil man? He bit his lip. Well, it was too late now. He knew only too well that no useful purpose could be served by dwelling upon the collateral damage that had resulted from his pursuit of goodness. Not even goodness. Just the desire to be ordinary. An ordinary, regular guy, loved by his nearest and dearest, respected and liked by all who knew him. Jesus, liked by anybody, anybody at all. He swivelled away from the window and stared down with fierce concentration at the pile of notes strewn across his desk. Thank God he was busy. Blanketing the unpleasant memories of the past beneath the humdrum problems of his everyday working life was the only chance he had of staying sane.

There was no mistaking how busy he was. Although it was only three in the afternoon he had already conducted meetings with six client groups. And all of them demanded the same intensive brain-mangling support and guidance. Brilliant though they all undoubtedly were without his input they hadn’t the remotest possibility of developing their high-growth business concepts to the point of even modest profitability. Experts in their respective fields they were invariably commercially naïve. None was even remotely streetwise. The constant intellectual challenge he faced in deconstructing and remoulding their half-formed ideas into schemes that would eventually turn a profit was stimulating but exhausting. It didn’t help that every group demanded instant answers, as if he was in some way omniscient. He was sure that they believed he could somehow guarantee them success in their mostly half-baked ventures. They simply couldn’t grasp the point that no one could predict the way the market would react to their propositions.

“What do you think of our idea?” was the earnest chorus they all repeatedly bleated like sheep released into an unfamiliar field. He always gave the same reply. The verdict of the market was the only opinion that mattered, not his. He wasn’t sure whether they actually listened but they invariably wrote down everything he said. Indeed, he found it scary the way they hung onto his every utterance, as if his they were catching pearls of wisdom scattered by Richard Branson himself. Despite the fact that they knew nothing more about him than they did about a stranger they had just bumped into in the pub they trusted his judgement absolutely.

Their blind faith placed an enormous burden on his shoulders, subtly transferring much of the responsibility for the success or, more likely failure, of their ventures onto him. Sometimes he felt as if he was the one gambling everything, not them. Except of course that in reality if their projects took off they would gain all the rewards. Not that he resented this unequal risk/reward ratio. Anyone who was brave, or foolhardy, enough to start their own business deserved everything they got. With the benefit of hindsight he knew only too well how they risked losing everything, as he had almost done a year before.

Satisfied that he was properly briefed he folded shut his file and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was so weary, completely worn out with the demands of the job. It didn’t help that he was no longer sleeping at night. So many nightmares recently, the inevitable outcome of his growing awareness of how far his life had gone off the rails. Looking back it was extraordinary how subtly this moral degeneration had developed. On the face of it he had led a perfectly ordinary existence, yet his time on this earth failed to stand up to even the most cursory forensic examination. That it had all started with the death of his own father was particularly shocking, a tragedy of almost Shakespearean proportions. Even sleeping tablets couldn’t prevent him dreaming about that fateful morning when his mother had appeared wild-eyed and ashen-faced at his bedroom door, her tatty pink nightdress hanging from her fleshy shoulders. “You’ll have to go and fetch the doctor,” she had gasped, the characteristic bitterness in her voice tinged with fear, making her voice hoarse.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s him.”

His father had been lying ill in bed for the past six weeks, tossing and turning continuously. His constant groaning kept them awake at night. Because she hated his father and was terrified of her own impotence his mum maintained at first he was just putting it on. As the days turned into weeks they both knew that this couldn’t be true. When he stopped eating altogether his mum began to panic. Because of her guilt she hadn’t let Nick in to see his father for more than a week. Nick loved his father more than anything in the whole world and he prayed continually for him, getting down on his red raw knees on the linoleum in his bedroom, pleading with God for a miracle.

“Can’t you go?” he replied, terrified by the responsibility.

“You know fine I can’t leave the house.”

“Why can’t you?”

“You know I’m not well.”

His mother never went out. She suffered from depression. She always had done, ever since he had been born. He hated his mother.

“Please, mum, you go.”

“Don’t be damned so lazy. And wipe that stupid look off your face. Get dressed and go and fetch the damned doctor otherwise it’ll all be your fault. “

He ran all the way to the doctor’s surgery but when he got there it was packed and everyone turned and stared at him like he was something the cat had brought in and he panicked and turned round and fled back across the playing fields. He stayed overnight at his best friend Billy Beckworth’s house until a man in a black raincoat he didn’t know came for him the next morning. “Your father’s dead,” the stranger told him without preamble, glaring at him in such an accusatory way that Nick figured that his mother had already blamed him, while at the same time absolving herself from all responsibility, as she always did. The sense of loss stayed with Nick all his life. So did the remorse. If he hadn’t been such a coward his dad might still be alive. When he got home the house smelled of burnt mince and they had taken his father away. The realisation that he would never see his father again almost drove him mad.

He spent the next few months being looked after by old Mrs O’Brien next door, a devout Catholic. His mother got back out of hospital six months later and they fled to Scotland on the train because his mum couldn’t cope. They lived with his aunt and uncle on a farm in the middle of nowhere. After they had been there a few weeks and there had been lots of rows his mother threw some plates and was taken back into hospital where she stayed for the next six years. His aunt hated him because he was clever and lazy, lurking up in his room all the time, his head forever buried in books about goodness knows what. When he grew into adolescence she scolded him constantly. She referred to him as “six foot of nothing”. She made him scrub his neck until it bled but still his shirt collars got filthy, giving her more work to do because they didn’t have a washing machine like other people. She hated him, the cuckoo that had been dumped in her nest. Nick was sorry for the trouble he was causing her just by his very existence. After a while he came to believe that the way she treated him was his punishment for killing his father.

The recent killing of his mother had none of the drama surrounding his father’s death He recalled the brief, pious discussion with the family doctor on the telephone three months before. He had agreed, without a hint of remorse, to the discontinuation of his mother’s treatment for pneumonia, thereby ensuring the termination of an existence almost unique in its total pointlessness. The deaths of his father and mother created a strange symmetry in the family history, matching bookends of familial slaughter. In between the two incestuous killings, separated by the forty hard, fraught years when he had struggled to survive, another three people had died at his hands, two of them violently, innocent victims all. During his frenzied pursuit of middle-class respectability he had lied, cheated, bullied, sweated blood, neglected his family, manipulated and killed as he had clambered up the social ladder, and all the while, such was his desperate desire to be liked, he had adopted a pleasant and solicitous air, even towards those he had crushed and, ultimately, sacrificed. Nothing had been allowed to stand in the way of his desperate need to attain society’s approbation.

Amazingly, despite his lifetime of lawless conformity, no-one had ever suspected him of committing any crime. That was the most extraordinary thing of all. Never an inkling. Not his wife nor his son nor his closest friends, nor even his long-neglected priest Canon Murphy, the last person to hear his carefully sanitized confession. His catalogue of death remained securely tucked out of sight, its pages turned only behind the unscaleably high walls that protected his innermost thoughts. Which begged the rather terrifying question: what did the other “respectable” people all around him have to hide? What dirty little secrets were hidden in their apparently spotless closets? Or was it just him? Was he the only one? It was impossible to know, but it certainly made him wonder. If his own experience was anything to go by the world was a far more dangerous place than anyone imagined.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He wouldn’t finish work much before nine for the third night in a row. He was dead tired, his brain hurt, every meeting was a brush with failure, every new client represented a leap into the unknown. Despite what people thought, being a business adviser was a tough occupation.

And yet, despite all the pressures of his job, he loved every minute of it. The world might be in recession but at least in his own small way he was doing something positive to help turn things round. Some of the guys he advised would surely go on to create companies that would become world leaders in their fields. Companies that would expand beyond their parochial Scottish base and go on to develop lucrative niche markets around the world. Replicating the achievements of Marconi and Dunlop and Carnegie they would once more reclaim Scotland’s place as an industrial powerhouse in the developed world. In the process too they would established political influence far beyond the country’s tiny size, creating yet more opportunities. He smiled to himself at the thought. There was no doubt about it, the Scots held a special place in the annals of innovation and industry. A brief glance at the history of commerce, especially in the nineteenth century, proved as much. If the application of his vision succeeded in helping to recreate the country’s entrepreneurial spirit that might be the catalyst that could unleash forces that would challenge even the industrial might of America. This dream of regaining his country’s trading pre-eminence was an exciting prospect, one that drove him to work as hard as he did. A vision that culminated in nothing less than the creation of an all-powerful mittelstand, the group of world-class medium-sized companies upon which Germany had built its industrial might. His mission to transform the country was heady stuff, especially since the reality of his daily meetings with his coterie of aspiring entrepreneurs was very different. He sighed. They were for the most part a sad succession of tiny minds and timid aspirations, of failures waiting to happen. Nevertheless, although he knew in his heart that he had an enormous task on his hands to turn his vision into reality, he gladly accepted the challenge. After years in the spiritual wilderness during which his only dream had been to build up his own company he knew he had finally found a vocation that might offer him some hope of redemption.

He studied the notes for his next scheduled meeting. The proposal, which he had already been working upon for several weeks, seemed like a good idea to him. The business plan had a decent pedigree for a start, being based upon a research project which had originated in the local university. He didn’t think it was too far fetched to say that the proposal, which was based upon the ability to alter certain genes relating to an individual’s susceptibility to various malarial-type diseases, even had the potential to alter the future of the Third World. His confidence was underpinned by a growing belief that the country’s industrial renaissance was most likely to emanate from the universities as they increasingly recognised the benefits that could accrue from the commercialisation of their research. This one was all about re-mapping the human genome. Cloning. Eugenics. Eugenics? He wondered if that was the correct term. It didn’t sound quite right somehow, with its sinister historical overtones. A shadowy legacy that might scare off potential investors. He would address that problem when he came to write up their business plan. Not that the ethics of the underlying science mattered to him. Nor did he need to know anything about the detailed science behind the proposal. Given that there was bound to be a market for such a product, what really mattered to him was the presence of the essential commercial framework that underpins every successful company launch. Innovation, differentiation, cash flow, time to profitability. Morality didn’t come into it. All that was important was the presence of the vital ingredients that could be melded into a sustainable competitive advantage. That and getting the right people to implement the strategy. Indeed, that was the most important - and most difficult - challenge. Success was all about the people. With the right people in place almost any idea could be made to work, whereas in the wrong hands even the most brilliant scheme was doomed to failure. He knew only too well that in life there were only winners and losers. In his short time in the job he had already learned that it was almost impossible to pick winners. The trick, he had rapidly discovered, was to screen out the obvious losers. The dim, the feeble, the indolent, the weak, the strange, the downtrodden. No vegetarians need apply. He sought out entrepreneurs red in tooth and claw. Tough, visionary, dedicated, utterly calculating. He was ruthless in his suppression of those who lacked the necessary attributes.

He wolfed a tiny tuna sandwich, a recurring metaphor for lunch, as he punched the latest figures from the group’s business plan into a spreadsheet. Sarah, his young PA, waltzed into the office holding his revised daily meetings schedule. He gazed in dismay at the crowded printout. “Jesus, Sarah,” he grunted, “How about just occasionally you schedule me a proper lunch break for pity’s sake?”

She laughed, her wide smile lighting up the office. “You don’t have time to eat, you know that. Everybody wants a piece of you these days. How does it feel to be wanted by the way?”

“You know what, I feel like the only thing these people are interested in is my brain.”

“Stop complaining. I’m sure they admire you as a person too, just like the rest of us.” She had a facetious grin on her face as she spoke.

He enjoyed it immensely whenever they embarked on one of their mildly combative dialogues. It was part of his special relationship with her, their private language, almost like lovers. Dangerously like lovers. “Don’t give me your pretend sympathy. The truth is you collude with them. Keeping me here on a caffeine drip while these guys come by and expect me to solve all their problems for them.”

“You know you love it really.”

“Do I? For your information most of the time I feel like a my brain is being squeezed in a vice.”

Sarah laughed again. She was only twenty-five, tall, elegant, short blonde hair that exposed a long slim neck that was almost swanlike. She had worked for him for nearly a year and he knew he was falling in love with her. Which was hardly surprising. It wasn’t just that he was an emotional accident waiting to happen. There really was something special about her. Bright, confident, beautiful, she didn’t give a damn what anybody thought, she laughed at the world, for her life was a ball. Recently he found himself thinking about her more and more. Because you only see one dimension of a colleague at work you have to invent the rest, leaving the imagination free to construct the person of your dreams. And what dreams they were. And of course it didn’t help that she was twenty years younger than he was. Naturally. Or that he was already married. To Maureen, the still-beautiful student he had met at university twenty years before. Happily married. Sort of. Trapped in a happy marriage to be more exact. Fortunately, up until now he had kept his feelings about Sarah to himself and under firm control. The trick would be to keep them that way. And that wouldn’t be easy even though he had been faithful throughout his married life. In deed at least, if not in thought. Definitely not in thought where Sarah was concerned. Every second she was out of his sight was agony for him now. At that moment, as if she had been reading his thoughts from afar and had sensed the looming danger, his wife phoned. Nick switched instantly into loving husband mode, not a pretence, more a way of being. Like most people who lead busy lives he was a man of many guises, not all of them entirely fake. “Hi, dear, how are you?” he said, with genuine affection in his voice. Sarah meanwhile hovered nearby, busily re-arranging papers on an adjacent desk.

“Nick, I’m afraid I’m going to be late again tonight. Had to call a staff meeting about another new set of guidelines we’ve been issued from on high. It means I won’t get finished much before nine.”

“That’s a bummer. I’m working late too. Why don’t you come round here when you’re finished and we’ll go out for a meal.” He didn’t really want to go out to eat but it felt like the decent thing to do. Some sort of penance for his adulterous thoughts. Besides, it wasn’t fair to expect Maureen to cook after a hard day’s work, and he couldn’t be bothered.

“That’s a lovely idea, love. I could murder an Indian. Oh, by the way I got an e-mail from Martin.”

Martin was in his first year at University studying mechanical engineering. “Oh yes. How is he getting on?”

“He got top marks in his essay.”

“That’s good.”

“I always said he was bright.”

“You did.”

“Nick, you might sound a bit more pleased. You know how much he worries about trying to please you.”

Nick sighed. He loved his son but…but the truth was he wasn’t convinced that the boy worked as hard as he should. These days getting a degree was essential to survival in a world where everyone had some sort of qualifications after their name and full employment was rapidly becoming a distant memory. Martin was so laid back about everything, he made it all seem so easy. Which it wasn’t. “I am pleased, Maureen. As long as he passes his exams it’s money well spent. We’re the ones making the sacrifices after all. I just wish he would acknowledge that fact occasionally.”

“But he does, Nick. Maybe not to you. He has his pride too. But he’s often told me how grateful he is for what we’re doing.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not argue, I’m too tired. I’m sure he’s working hard. I’ll see you later.”

“All right then. I’ll come round to your office about nine.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, love.”

“Nick?”

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound…preoccupied.”

Nick was watching Sarah out of the corner of his eye as she leaned over a desk with her back to him. Her slim silhouette made him feel faint with desire. “I’ve had a tough day, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry. You work far too hard and they take you for granted.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Just don’t take it so seriously, Nick. It’s only a job after all.”

“You’re right. Take it easy yourself. You’re the one who really works hard. I’ll see you later.”
Sarah came back to his desk holding out his revised diary printout. “You’re going to be working late again you poor thing.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair and looked up at her. The way her eyes twinkled with laughter made him feel light-headed as he breathed in her beauty. “As usual,” he sighed, mock heroically.

She laughed. “No rest for the wicked.”

“When have I ever been wicked?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering.” She gave him a bold, meaningful look that set his pulse racing. “Anyway, I don’t think you really want to go home that badly.”

He immediately wondered what was behind this last observation. She regularly quizzed him about his home life, his marriage, how happy he really was. Once when they were having a drink together after work he had told her that his marriage was not a happy one, which was actually only true in a very particular way. The relationship was, in fact, no more unhappy than the average marriage where longevity had dulled romance, where familiarity had bred a thousand irritations, where a once-exciting future had faded into the dull certainties of the present. The proof, perhaps, that the only thing worse than a marriage that fails is one that succeeds. As Oscar Wilde might have said. Probably did say. “What middle-aged man does?” he responded eventually, chancing his arm.

“It’s not about being middle-aged, though, is it?”

“Aren’t you dying to rush off home?”

“That depends, doesn’t it.”

She laughed coquettishly. This time her laugh disturbed him, made his stomach churn with apprehension. There were limits to their flirting beyond which he daren’t go, at least not yet. One day, he knew, he would break her heart. At the moment though, if their relationship became serious it would raise difficult moral questions that he wasn’t sure he wanted to confront. Not just moral questions either, all sorts of questions that a middle-aged man is not equipped to answer. Although he was addicted to the thrill of flirting with her, in his heart he knew it was all too dangerous, even, he had to admit, scary. He preferred the status quo where at least he enjoyed the illusion that he was always in control of the situation, the wise old uncle expertly taking the lead, a role in which he felt safe. Besides, there was something vaguely shocking in her forwardness, a brazenness which dimmed the aura of innocence he preferred her to radiate. To lower the temperature, which he knew from experience could easily become febrile, he said sternly, “How about doing something useful and making me a fresh coffee before YOU go home.”

She made a face. “Alrighty, keep your shirt on. I’ll be your slave as usual.”

As he waited in Meeting Room Three for his next clients to be shown in he stared out of the window across at the row of copper beech trees shimmering in the autumn breeze and reflected once more upon the remarkable change that had taken place in his circumstances. It was only eighteen months since his business had gone bust and his world had collapsed around him. He had found himself unemployed for the first time in his life, up to his ears in debt, at the end of his tether, beaten, fearful, broken. Now he was gainfully employed once again, a respected member of the business community, had even been able to put his harrowing commercial experience to good use. Even more amazingly, as he had grown into his new job his crushed spirit had become revitalised, his depleted energy reserves had increased by leaps and bounds. His rehabilitation had been so remarkable that within a matter of weeks of starting his new job he started to galvanise everyone around him. His brain hummed continually with brilliant initiatives designed to enhance his department’s performance. He soon became the star of their weekly team meetings, the catalyst for a dozen new initiatives. As a result it was no surprise that in a short time he was promoted to head of department. Although, to keep things in perspective, he frequently reminded himself that it was easy to float to the top in a sea of mediocrity. Nevertheless, nothing like it had ever happened to him before. For the first time in his life he felt appreciated and he responded with a superhuman effort on behalf of both his clients and the organisation that had unexpectedly given him a second, maybe a last, chance.
He smiled to himself. Equally amazingly, things just kept getting better. Only last month, following an external appraisal by an international firm of consultants shortly after his promotion, his department had been singled out for praise. He had been told that his ideas on nurturing high growth start-ups were being evaluated at the highest level. Already in the past six months he had twice been summoned to an audience with the Industry Minister in Edinburgh. His department’s budget was about to be doubled. Almost overnight he found himself in a position of influence in the business community. Suddenly he had an entrée into the world of politics too. In particular, his paper advocating the creation of an elite cross-network team of successful businessmen to promote the development of ultra high-growth companies capable of becoming world-class players had been adopted as official policy.

Looking back on his life, of course, he could see that it was axiomatic that all great leaders throughout history experienced periods of extreme adversity in their lives. Like Churchill, for example in his wilderness years. You had to pay the price to join the club. And he was confident that he would join the club when he revealed his next big idea. The one that he had been nurturing for years. Thanks to his recent forays into the political sphere he now knew the right people to help him get the scheme off the ground. He smiled as he ran his cherished idea through his mind for the millionth time. Climate change. Water shortages. Droughts. Polluted water supplies. Creeping desertification. Scotland a wet country, getting wetter. Leith a major port. Fleets of supertankers laden with pure Scottish water sailing around the clock to arid countries all over the world. Water the new oil. Scotland the next Saudi Arabia. It was more than a dream. Once he had finished the business plan he intended to use it to leverage his new-found influence with the country’s movers and shakers to make sure he got a share of the action. Without a doubt the future was looking bright. Hardly a cloud in the sky. Except that there was a cloud, even if it was floating above a distant horizon.

He shivered. He’d thought about it a million times.

What lay decomposing in that isolated cottage could still bring his world tumbling down. He tugged at his shirt collar, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. It was a mistake to dwell on the dreadful events of just over a year ago. He had to put them behind him. So far he had successfully re-built his life out of the rubble of the past. All the same, just the thought of how close he had come to disaster was enough to make him break out into a cold sweat. Even now he wasn’t sure he was safe. DNA was a potential time bomb, carbon dating could destroy any alibi. What was the half life of a corpse? How long would he be haunted by the ghostly traces he had left behind at the scene of the crime? His past lay dormant like a fossil waiting to be discovered.
At that moment the door opened and his star clients, the quartet of exuberant biologists in their early thirties who were going to rid the world of malaria, bounced into the room. He immediately switched into professional mode as he greeted them warmly. “At last,” he enthused, “A chance to study some cash flow forecasts that aren’t based on complete fantasy.”

His clients laughed, deprecatingly. Their leader, an earnest young man with a long curly ginger beard and a faintly unwashed appearance, coughed nervously.

“What’s wrong?” said Nick.

“The cash flows…”

“I can’t wait to drool over them.”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t do them.”

Nick couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Why ever not? I showed you how to do them when you were here the last time.”

“It’s too complex. The market. The competitive forces at play. All that stuff you told us about. We’re scientists. We couldn’t figure out the rate at which the company will grow its market share?”

Nick shook his head, a wry smile on his face. These guys were so out of touch with commercial reality which was mostly based on fiction anyway. “Guys, you’re making it way too complicated. Listen, let me tell you a story. I’ve been having the same dream for a while now. A really strange dream. It’s so vivid. I don’t know what it means though. I keep dreaming that I’m in a room with Jane Fonda. We’re sitting together on a couch. I keep putting my arm around her and pulling her head towards me, trying to bend her double. She struggles a bit but she doesn’t really protest. Before I can find out what happens next I always wake up. Always. What does it all mean I ask myself? Is it symbolic? What is the earth-shattering significance of that dream?”

The group looked blank. “I’ve no idea,” admitted their bearded leader.

“A friend of mine’s a Freudian psychoanalyst. I told him about my dream. You know what he said? What the deep significance of it all meant? What my unconscious was telling me? You know what he said?”

More blank looks.

“He said it meant I wanted Jane Fonda to give me a blow job.” Nick stared at the group expecting them to burst out laughing but they gazed back at him in bewilderment, their eyes troubled, deeply worried. “You don’t get it. Not exactly complicated was it? The point being that the answer is often staring you in the bleeding face.”

“I don’t understand,” said the bearded leader, eventually. “Who is Jane Fonda?”

And suddenly Nick thought, maybe the woman in the cottage hadn’t died after all. Maybe her story had a happy ending too. Except that such an outcome would defy logic. Couldn’t miracles happen? Please, God, make the miracle happen.

The group were watching him expectantly, waiting for him to break the lengthening silence. He looked back and smiled. They didn’t understand what was going on in his head. No-one did. No one understood the way his childhood dreams had decayed, the half life he had led, the new beginning he was trying to build out of the contaminated, radioactive debris of the past. Which was why he would help them now. To atone for his sins. That was all he could do. There was no point pretending otherwise. The others were dead and he had killed them. There was no doubt about it. None at all. Salvation was beyond him, all that was left was penance, the washing of his sins.

 

- The End -