S.I.R chapter 4

Lost Amongst Equals.

What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. Oscar Wilde

Jonesy was having a very good day. He loved his life, mostly because he loved his job. He was the sheriff of a corrupt and black hearted town where only he could bring back the light to the parish he called home. Well not his actual home, he wouldn’t dream of actually living there, what with all these small people getting up to whatever small people do behind their closed doors. Mostly illegal things, thought Jonesy as he walked up his garden path to get changed. Out of character he began to whistle, it was a cheery if not in tune little ditty which repeated itself after a few bars because Jonesy didn’t know many songs. Music was for intellectual degenerates who didn’t have a good book to read, and Jonesy had the best. The Police Training Manual for Laws of the United Kingdom, edition 10. It beat edition 8 with the addition of new laws and regulations for dealing with the new wave of crime generated from cyber criminals and other online weirdos but not quite as interesting as edition 2 which gave advice on restraining with maximum force. But as books goes it was as errotic to Jonesy as fifty shades of any colour you can name.

Oh what a life and to be so alive to enjoy it. Today alone he had stopped three drivers operating mobile handsets whilst driving, an old lady for reversing along a path, a bus driver who threw a crisp packet out of his window, a lady applying make-up behind the wheel and three speeders, one of which was fabulously attractive and gushed over his fine uniform and policing skills. She had even agreed with him that he was wasted on the streets and, just as Jonesy believed, should have been promoted to detective years before. He almost got away with issuing a ticket to an LGV driver who blocked a road for 45 minutes with his red lorry, but his Sergeant said ticketing a fire engine whilst it was displaying its blues at a house fire wasn’t his best decision to date. But what did he know? That birdshit on his shoulder didn’t make him a better officer than Jonesy, he hadn’t even known there was a tenth edition to the Police Manual and the fire engine was causing a major disruption to the greasy spoon where Jonesy got his lunch.

No time to dwell on any of that now, Jonesy had himself a date which he wasn’t going to be late for it. He prided himself on never being late for anything in his life, far from it, he was always a few minutes early in every circumstance. He was even born just before midnight the day before his due date and as his proud mother would often say to him, at the stroke of midnight, on the day they predicted you would be born, they cut the cord and you started your first real day. They, his doting parents, had named him Punctuality for its virtue. Originally they had intended to lay upon him the old family name of Steadfast, so Jonesy considered himself fortunate in the extreme but still insisted even in his youth the teachers called him Jonesy - to his face anyway.

With a playful flip of his keys powered through the nervous energy of anticipation, Jonesy opened the car door and headed off to meet the beautiful woman of his dreams. Those special late night dreams, where women like this were, for reasons unknown, always fated to fall into his arms in desperate need or being chased by gun wielding thugs where each shot they fired removed yet more clothing of their already scant wardrobe until Jonesy’s justice fuelled fist resolved it all and she would, with all her friends, start kissing him in a jacuzzi while their breasts floated amongst the bubbles. He could no more let her down than cut off his favourite testicle - which was his right, based on its aesthetic beauty. -  This ravishing wonder of womanhood had asked for his assistance and he would arrest the entire underworld to come to her aid.

Stanley’s car was alone in the clearing and had remained unmolested. It was, Stanley thought to himself, the only thing in these woods not to have been. The curiously cold stranger was not around, which to Stanley was sterling but then neither was Cassandra. The internal lights were on but there was definitely no one at home.

The passenger door was as open as it could be, only stopping short of its full distance because of the location of a wide, rough tree. Stanley ran the last few footsteps to the door and partially closed it, inspecting the paintwork for damage. There were a couple of scuff marks and a greenish brown stain on the paintwork.

“What am I doing?” he said out loud as the absence of a bodily presence in the front seat nearest him regained prominence amongst his thoughts. Stanley shone the torch around on the dirt floor remembering his training.

He had only lasted three weeks in the scouts before the Scout Leader politely yet firmly asked, ney insisted, his parents not to bring him anymore. They had asked for a campfire to be lit and Stanley, who had researched the assignment just like he did with every new task before he performed it, proved to be exceptionally good. He carefully collected fine powder from the wooden spindle which he bowed at the most efficient speed to cause friction for the tree it had come from. He had feathered dried sticks to aid in retention of the flame and collected smuts and other excellent natural fuels from his family gardens during the week and carefully dried them on the Aga. Stanley was so proficient with the campfire task that the campfire was a campfire. Stanley’s thus limited skills and book learned practical knowledge of tracking jumped to several conclusions.

There were tracks on the floor, not footprints but two shallow ruts leading away from the car. Did this mean Cassandra had woken and had set off to follow him? Buoyed up with excitement that everything was going to be resolved but with the guillotine of knowledge that whatever state he found her in there would be a discussion over it and the terrible mess she was now in. The president stated only a diamond as big as her declared love for her husband, who clearly held no love for her, would make this a happy relationship once more.

He was a little concerned over any potential discussion arising about her lack of adequate undergarments but, as Stanley remembered, she had sometimes returned home after a long day in the office without any about her person stating sometimes women needed to get a little air and as it was a woman’s thing he, being a man - or the closest thing to it in their relationship anatomically speaking - shouldn’t worry about, before disappearing off for a shower. So maybe it would be alright after all.

If Stanley had been allowed to stay longer at the Scouts, he may have been more concerned with the tracks themselves. Cassandra had on very expensive but all together very pointy stilettos which would have easily applied enough force to easily push through the dusty surface of the coppice, or any small vertebrate unfortunate enough to run in front of her path. If he had spent more time looking he may have seen another set of tracks leading to and then from the passenger door of his car. But this was a busy place, there were tracks, cycle trails and dog messages everywhere. What Stanley completely failed to appreciate was he had always left the child locks on. They had been set before he bought the car and he never did learn how to take them off, after all Cassandra had always insisted that he run around to open the door for her after every journey. So the question that completely failed to materialise within Stanley’s head was, if Cassandra could not have opened the door from the inside, who on the outside did?

“Fire up the Quattro.” quoted Jonesy as he bounced down the steps between his front door and the garden path. He pushed the button on his key and a satisfying double beep followed by the sound of a shotgun being cocked sang out from his car. It wasn’t an Aldi or anything even remotely like the classic 1980’s four wheel drive racing classic but instead a fairly basic silver BMW, but to its owner it was a Beast, a three litre, six cylinder rocket on four wheels. It had everything including a completely illegal set of blue flashing lights hidden behind the front grill. Jonesy would never have dreamed about using them in public or remotely hint he had them in front of his work colleagues - he’d never dream of referring to them as friends - but there were times late at night and he was driving through the draped forest roads or sat in a deserted layby closely veiled by trees where he would allow his thumb to find the catch hidden within his gear knob and depress the little red button secreted beneath. The reflections of the strobing lights off the dark trees gave him such a thrill in a way none of his other previous experiences ever had, not since his failed attempt to pass his emergency response blue light driving course. He dreamt of using them to chase down international drug barons as they smuggled their ruinous wears on his patch or charging to the rescue of a kidnapped princess who was being held against her will by whoever were the prefered stereotypes for terrorists this week and he was the only man to save her.

There was a pub, a little further out than he would normally have travelled to to meet someone, but she wanted to be discreet. The walking siren - and he loved sirens of all kinds - had insisted on out of town so none of her friends could accidentally bump into them, not that she’d suggested staying there long enough to be caught.

Jonesy read the text again. It was perfectly spelled which was something he admired. He loathed the teenage text fuc-affle as much as he hated  teenagers themselves. Those grotty creatures who befouled the language by using it so poorly by infusing numbers or symbols were perfectly good words already existed. It also implied strongly that they would become very good friends very quickly. He was big, strong, intelligent, educated and had a good head of hair, the text went on. Jonesy didn’t know why she wrote it as a list of preferred attributes, but reading it again it was like the shopping list of his ego. Whatever her reason for sending it was was unclear but what was clear was what he would be getting from this meeting tonight. Hell, he thought as he turned his key and the car revved into life, if she’s half as good in bed as she is unimaginably beautiful, I might just drive across the lanes with the blues flashing on the way home after.

He opened the cap and ran his thumb over the secret button. No, he mustn’t be tempted now, he had a fair way to go and not much time to get there if he wanted to be early so he can hide around the corner and watch her arrive. Later, yes later he might press it once more.

Jonesy whistled his tune the whole way, stopping only momentarily as a slow dithering old fart was slowing traffic in front of him.

“Warp speed Mr Sulu.” he said to himself as he pushed his foot hard to the floor and took the BMW racing along the road easily catching and overtaking the pathetic driver. He had to pull the car sharply back to the left as another vehicle came the other way so he sounded his enlarged horn - one of many custom jobs he had performed on the vehicle - to alert them to his presence and disatisfaction of their impatience for not letting him, the obviously more important driver, over take. Then he was away, mentally noting down the licence plate of the slow driving weirdo to check in the morning if he had valid tax and MOT.

The Old Forester was a public house built to the traditional necessities of a rural clientele. On its tax return forms it was known as the Bold Forester, but an accumulation of poor maintenance, a freak storm three decades ago and a long series of lackluster landlords resulted in its now well known title. It sold beer, had a dart board and served food that could easily be warmed up in a microwave or deep fried to within an inch of being turned to charcoal. It was warm, dimly lit and filled with an assortment of toothless old men and posing young ones. It was not, and Jonesy was very sure of this, a place the beautiful young lady he had arranged to meet should ever set foot in.

The Beast drew to a stop within the beam of a spotlight fitted to the side of the pub. It wasn’t the designated pub car park - a cracked earth space with tufts of grasses clinging onto life under rusting cars that looked worse than those they towed away from accidents - but instead formed part of the tarmaced driveway to the accompanying property where, he assumed, the landlord lived with his family.

There was a window on this side of the public house and a bench, Jonesy could see two people sat on it but he had in his pocket his warrant card so he’d quickly move them on and sit there himself with a good view to make sure no one approached his precious vehicle with any ill intentions.

Arriving less than five minutes before the arranged rendezvous didn’t leave him a lot of time. Jonesy quickly surveyed the customers within the bar and found a suitable place outside where he could observe the driveway and carpark to watch the lady approach. He loved this part, knowing things about people that they didn’t know he knew. Hiding in bushes outside his past girlfriends’ houses had taught him amazing ways of remaining undetected for hours on end.

Time ticked on. More cars arrived and parked up but none of them contained the woman of his dreams - well the dreams that didn’t include heroically chasing criminals across rooftops. He would allow her a little more time, if she tasted as good as she smelled she would sate his appetite like a fine dinner from a Michelin Star chef or the first kill of the day and still warm in a lion’s maw. It wasn’t often Jonesy could taste such finery and often as not he would be forced to enjoy a greasy takeout for one. There came a point when, no matter what was on the menu, he couldn’t stay squatting in shrubbery. Jonesy took out his phone and rang the number she had given him. It rang for a few seconds and he was going to speak when he heard her silky voice but he soon realised it was only an answer machine.

“....I would love to speak to you but as you can see I am very busy right now, so please leave a message after the beep.” the phone gave a sharp tone.

“Where are you you fucking bitch? No one stands me up do you hear me? Answer the damn phone! I’m standing here like a third nipple on a virgin waiting for you.”

Jonesy hung up with a harsh press which attracted unwanted attention from a couple of lads who were smoking outside the pub. Jonesy quickly dispersed them by flashing his badge.

Jonesy had a change of heart, she was beautiful after all and there was a chance heavy traffic had delayed her and she didn’t answer because using a mobile whilst driving is illegal, he could appreciate that. Or maybe a flat tyre or any number of other small inconveniences that could have befallen her and being out here, where everything including the locals shit in the woods, she might not have a phone signal.

The phone automatically re-dialled the number when Jonesy touched a button. He waited impatiently for the answer machine again. “Look, I left a message just now, delete it without listening to it. I didn’t mean what I said, it's just that I was really looking forward to this and you were late and... I’m not sure what else to say apart from standing in these bushes is wearing thin. I’ll hang around for a little while longer and hopefully you’ll get here and we can have a drink or something. Okay, see you soon. Bye.”

There passed a time, time enough for some of the regulars to finish their evening gathering and head off home to milk sheep or sow cornflakes or whatever they did. Time for the clouds to slowly sail majestically across the bright moon lit sky. Time for Jonesy to leave another five messages on the answer phone, each more direct in their explanations of his displeasure. He didn’t mean any of what he said, not entirely, it was just sometimes he did things without thinking or in the heat of the moment usually when he was angry. Deep down he saw himself as a gentle and thoughtful soul, it was those twats and imbeciles that festered within this world that made him act differently. Jonesy definitely didn’t mean to say he was going to track her down as soon as he got to work and call at her house to have it out with her. He was less than impressed with himself ten minutes later when he sternly told her he would hunt her down, wherever she was, and show her exactly what he thought of her in no uncertain terms. On a positive note his romantic heart briefly fluttered back into life and he ran to his Beemer to get a uniform shirt, he wouldn’t need the trousers, and sent her a hurriedly staged photo of himself standing fully to attention stating in full capitals in the subject bar, skilled in the use of an 11 inch truncheon for your personal protection and satisfaction. If that didn’t win her over he didn’t know what would.

When it failed to get a response after a further fifteen minutes he decided to go hide in the woods to play with his flashing lights and if he found a master criminal plotting to destroy his patch - which to Jonesy was far more important than the world - then all the better.

Stanley was dithering. He had got about three paces in front of his car and had suffered a personal crisis. Not only was he battling inner demons which drenched him in angst and guilt but also in the very real need to take control of the situation and be a man. If he could save his woman and right all the wrongs all the better. These things were difficult because he had no idea what he was doing, which direction Cassandra had gone off in and probably the most important even if he was trying to play it down, his torch had stopped working.

There was mud, there was dog muck and there were wild animals in the woods, was there also his beautiful wife? What animals live wild in the woods? He thought walking along trying to keep the moon in front of him so he could use it as a guide upon his return. Do rudely awoken squirrels bite? Could a hedgehog eat him? Are badgers really as cuddly as they look? Hopefully none of these questions will be answered tonight.

If only there were people to stop and ask if they had seen her. It was another of those perfectly sensible thoughts that Stanley had that didn’t quite mesh with real life. He’d had a really positive afternoon with a literary agent one Summer’s afternoon a few years back. The plan was to drink heavily and pitch ideas until something stuck - just like the mud on his trouser legs tonight. They had became lost looking for a car park but did find two well sprung women who were amazingly talented at chatting on mobile phones, talking to each other, smoking mechanical cigarettes things that produced green tinged raspberry vapors and touching up their make up all whilst pushing a highly decorated pram apiece. Stanley had gingerly opened his car window and politely asked them for directions.

“It’s over there init.” said one pointing in a direction neither of the men knew or could follow.

“Past the tanning shop and left at Brazilian World.” said the other whilst chewing gum.

“Um, excuse me.” asked Stanley from the passenger seat. “Is Brazil a world now?”

“Nah love. It's where they can turn a mutton-chopped muff of an overgrown growler into a perfect landing strip in no time love.”

“Ah,” said Stanley. “That explains it.” although in his mind it didn’t at all.

“I got an arrow last time to show my man where to go.” laughed the other of the girls. “My Robin, when he’s ‘ad a can or two can’t find Sherwood Forest with his Merry Man. Not without a lot of help from Maid Marian, I can tell ya!”

At this point the literary agent had energetically thanked them both and they set off in roughly the direction they had been pointed in. When dinner had come and gone including three bottles of wine that neither of them could recall drinking, they walked back to the car. Their only problem was neither could remember where they had left it. Thirty drunken minutes later - anything from five minutes to eighty - they were hopelessly lost.

“I know.” said Stanley having a drunken brainwave. “Let’s phone those girls, ask them where we parked it.” and they tried to do this, both dialling numbers at random but for some unknown reason to his alcohol soaked brain, neither of the women answered.

They found it an hour later after stumbling across a carpark pay and display machine and pressing the help button. The woman who answered nearly laughed her false teeth out as they explained their sorry story and through CCTV use she found for them their car.

“It's a 20 minute walk away chaps.” She said through the tinny speaker. “But it's a direct route. Bad news is in 15 minutes you click over to the day rate and that’s an extra £10. Good luck.”

Breaking all laws of physics and current relative time theory the two men ran flat out, or as flat out as two men who dine out a little too often and work out a little too infrequently could. They covered the 20 minute walk in a time that would have you amazed. They did it in 45 minutes proving an inability of speed and vector, arriving at their car in a red, sweat stained state. By the time they had recovered enough to unlock and sit within the vehicle they had added another hour to their parking charge.

No parking charges here but a number of possible routes to follow. She would head towards people, Stanley thought confidently. When you’re lost in the woods you need to head where you can find help. There were off-white lights flashing on and off between the trees giving the impression of strobe lighting at a very respectable acid house rave.

PC Annabel Nightly was sat at her desk typing away in a poorly lit room on a keyboard so old most of the letters had worn away causing her to misspell more words than she got right. It wasn’t so bad, she had to keep telling herself, she was only typing up her daily notes and checking the facts. When autocorrect checked her spelling, it resulted in her catching what would have been embarrassing mistakes if her superiors had read through them.

As only 30% of her cognitive functioning was utilised on her work she used the rest to check her reflection in the monitor screen. She felt she was small for her size and, to her mind at least, athletic in appearance, especially sucking her tummy in and pulling her shirt tight. Not athletic like those lean bodied olympians with their stick like physiques a man wouldn’t know if he were on her or not, she, on the other hand had the physique to stop any man rolling off. Annabel always got a little attention wherever she went and ‘fit’ was a word used to describe her, which belied the amount of effort she didn’t put in to keeping it that way. Why toil away in the gym when a brisk walk to the local takeaway would suffice. Men always loved the bits that wobbled. She was also a police officer of some ten years standing, although she preferred sitting.

Annabel turned her eyes back to her work and riffled through her notebook, looking over at all the petty crimes that liberally littered its pages. She longed for something she could get her teeth into and demonstrate her abilities to herself and her managers or anything that would get her out of this rut she was in.

An email popped up in the corner of her screen so Annabel, thankful for the mild distraction, quickly clicked on it hoping this time it would be the summons to respond as an adviser to a tropical island in need of experienced officers to aid with a devilishly difficult murder within a locked room and a whole hotel full of shady characters with motives and secrets. It, in actual fact, was from one of the local neighbourhood warden groups. On closer examination it was from the worst one. Not worst as in highest crime rate or roughest residents, far from it, nothing ever happened on those streets that were home to businessmen, bankers, two somewhat professional footballers and an MP. She regarded it so lowly because of the amount of time it took dealing with the jumped up busy bodies that vigorously patrolled the streets in their over starched utilitarian uniforms.

PC Nightly took a deep breath followed by a long sigh. There was nothing else going on and she really shouldn’t open that other packet of chocolate digestives so Annabel gingerly took up her phone, dialed the number and waited the three rings she knew the warden on the other end waited before answering.

“Good evening Sir or Madam, you have reached The Community Coalition Patrol. Senior Peacekeeper Maurice Fredwatton speaking. How may we make your life safer today?” came the voice.

“It’s me Maurice, PC Nightly. Calling after the email you’ve just sent.” she braced herself for the following conversation knowing it may go on well past her tea break and be the cause of her breaking into the biscuits for support. “It says you have concerns over the inappropriate actions of an individual or individuals unknown, working against the common good in Bridge Street and surrounding environs. What is an environ and what do you mean? I’ve got the reports here and there hasn’t been a single complaint from that area for weeks. Even the issues with parked cars and dog poop have stopped coming in. There’s nothing going on along there, so what could you be complaining about?”

“Exactly! My point entirely.” trusted Maurice eagerly. “Whoever it is is being heavy handed and using powers not granted to them by the people, They have lawlessly stopped all the bad and dangerous activities. I mean it's not on is it? It’s us who the public turn to in times of need in this war against anti-social behaviour, graffiti, dog mess and international terrorism. We can’t have someone without official authority going around sorting all the problems out now can we?”

Annabel sighed again and was deeply thankful that the frustrating little man couldn’t see her on the other end of the phone, as she had been making hand gestures throughout the conversation. She had cycled through all the old favourites and had, over the months of dealing with Maurice Fredwatton and the CCP, invented quite a few of her own.

“At the end of the day the community is looking out for themselves. There have been no complaints and no one has, as far as we know, broken the law.” this was delivered in her best soft voice, the one that got her dinner at her parents if she turned up drunk.

“That’s not the point.” came the disgruntled response leaving Annabel wondering what a gruntle was but whatever it is would fit Maurice to a tea. If a gruntle was an animal, she mused, it would always be in a foul mood and drag it’s belly along the ground.

“Look Maurice, I really have to go out on patrol, so I’ll make a few notes and put it on the agenda for the next community meeting.” Annabel went to hang up but the voice on the other end continued unrelenting. She listened for a moment and reaffirmed her desire to do her job, when Maurice added one last request that shocked her into answering.

“So why don’t we discuss it in my Tactical Command Suite? It has all the modern technologies you would expect and a breakout room if you require somewhere... more private to talk.”

“Sounds good. We’ll have the meeting there,” said Annabel who knew it was just his garden shed converted with an extension cable and a lick of paint to hold a TV and table. “Just email me the address and anything you want to put on the list to talk about and I’ll get back to you with a date.”

“Yes, it’s a date.”

The two hung up, or at least Annabel did before she could say anything else that could get her into trouble.

A semi-circle of vehicles looked on at a middle aged couple trapped in the brightness of their headlights. It would have been more impressive if out of the eight cars hastily parked to provide the arena there had been more than 11 working bulbs. The lights grandly shone over a gladiatorial battle of epic proportions which, due to the live streaming of several mobile phones, had already become legendary online.

A ring of onlookers, some in and others standing around, were cheering, jeering and laying bets on the outcome.

“What’s going on?” enquired Stanley moving up to a man holding a fistful of ten pound notes. “Why is he hitting his wife?”

There was a pause before the man could reply as the excitement in front of them crescendoed as a meaty right hook connected sending as glob of blood tinged spit into the night. The stronger fighter informed the other that yes, he may look at other women but under no circumstances was he ever allowed to touch anyone without her joining in too.

“That’s not his wife, it’s mine.” said the man conversationally and with some pride. “Do you want to put a tenner on the fight or what?”

“Um, no. I don’t have any money on me right now but shouldn’t you be doing something to stop them if she’s your wife?”

“Not on your nelly, it’ll be me in there getting the beating if I were to try something stupid like that. It was Nev’s fault, first he asked her to shit in a Tesco bag.”

“Why?” asked Stanley not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

“So he could freeze it and use it later. But he really upset her when he found an unconscious drunk girl out there in the woods and copped himself a feel. Besides it looks like she’s having fun, burning off a few calories. She’ll sleep well tonight I know that for sure.” he said with a chuckle although Stanley couldn’t see the joke.

The conversation hung there while the focus adjusted back to the fight which was now looking completely one sided. Those that were expecting a different outcome were shaking their heads feeling the shame of the broken man. Someone called out that he knew people who would pay a lot of money to get what he was getting for free in a club back in town.

“Besides,” continued the bookie taking back Stanley’s attention. “He deserves it well enough for cheating on my Misses no matter how posh the totty looked. Go look for yourself she’s asleep over there.” a finger was pointed but no more than a brief gesture as the fight had been won, or lost depending on your point of view.

Stanley trundled off puzzled by this evening's events and by his fellow man in general. He felt he had missed a vital memo about how some people conduct themselves while wondering if it were he and not his new acquaintances that had got something wrong.

Away from the distractions and the bright lights Stanley was lost. Lost in space but not in purpose as he now felt very aware of his singularity and desperately wanted to be part of a couple again. To hold on to someone normal in the madness of the world. It initially seemed impossible, to find a single person within the great expanse of woodland but a clue presented itself almost as a gift.

Stanley stooped and retrieved from the moist earth a very expensive shoe. There was only one pair like it, he should know, he had paid a very handsome price to ensure the creator - for shoes as exquisite as these, he had been informed by the opulently attired gentleman in pink rhinestoned glasses, who was graced with the pleasure of selecting a deserving owner for them, were never made nor manufactured but brought forth through intense imaginatorary inspiration and creativity.

He brushed the clinging soil from them with a sleeve only to leave a track of ground in dirt across the surface. He swore under his breath and wondered if he could put this small but incredibly expensive Italian silk through a washing machine - and fleetingly ruminated whether their replacements could be added to his tax return as a business expense. The thought of evading domestic disharmony over soiled footwear evaporated as he saw the continuing drag marks leading away and shortly after following them he found Cassandra.

What he actually found was a bare pair of legs, bent at the knees so the feet sat flat on the woodland floor with the rest of his wife and her clothes hidden within somewhere in the leafy, spiky things of wild nature. Stanley wasn’t the first to find her like this as person or persons unknown had left little notes with ‘impressive site of outstanding natural beauty’ and ‘a bird in the hand needs two for the bush’ scribbles on the card ripped from the insides of condom or cigarette packets. He didn’t know exactly what the authors had been trying to imply but he knew enough to guess at what they were suggesting as his wife was currently displayed in a pose normally associated with childbirth.

“Oh dear, what a state we’re in.” he said as he knelt by Cassandra’s side and followed her perfectly tones thighs into the bush to find the rest of her. She looked peaceful even if her hair was wilder than Medusa’s after a tax demand. He reached up and pulled down the hem of her dress and then moved back to reposition her other clothes into positions where the bush would remain free of any birds or bird watchers.

He didn’t complete this simple task as a crack retorted off to his side and a portion of darkness removed itself from the deepest gloom. Somewhere a voice cast aspersions over his parents matrimonial situation at point of his conception.

“Bastard!” said with great passion was all he heard as two white hot pains stabbed him in the side. Bolts of white hot lightning coursed through his body sending it into a rigid spasm. Mercifully Stanley didn't get to fully experience this new range of sensations as consciousness departed him moments later. The feeling that initially surprised him the most was one he hadn’t felt in years, so when he hit face first into the soil between his wife’s legs he did so with an enormous smile.