Chapter Eight

A fortnight had passed since the fire.

Bracken was staying in a grotty hostel up town until she could get somewhere else to live, but because she no longer had any dependants she seemed to have been pushed quite far down the list. This was annoying, but was not her primary grievance.

The morning after the fire, Bracken’s aunt had been found sound asleep on her own couch. She had apparently been evacuated by the bomb disposal people and just gone home, without stopping to think about the baby or her brother in law.

To add insult to injury, she was unable to recall any of the events after Bracken and Nigella had left for their night out. She was deeply apologetic, but no idea where Nicky or the baby were. Bracken, furious, assumed she had been so pissed she forgot all about them. As such, she the two had had a series of blazing rows, and now they weren’t talking to one another.

Her aunt maintained she had not been that pissed, but she couldn't explain what had happened to leave a black hole in her memory where a grown man and a child should have been. She was so worried about the potential for early onset alzheimers that it seemed easier to feud with her niece than to face the problem head on, and of course she felt terribly guilty, which makes people get quite defensive.

Nigella had sided with her mum out of a vague sense of family loyalty, so she too had stopped talking to Bracken. Bracken blustered that was fine by her because at least she didn't have to watch Nige throw herself at Jimmy Bob at every available opportunity, but when she was alone it was one of the things she cried about.

Never being one to read between the lines, Nige believed that Bracken was being very unreasonable expecting her to choose between her mum and her cousin. Her response to this was straightforward, with deviant tendencies. You see reader; Nigella was the only person other than themselves who knew that Aloysius and Esmeralda were not really a couple. She had witnessed a heated argument between them in the car on the night of the fire, when Bracken was investigating and they thought she was out for the count. As a result, she had decided that the best revenge for angry words (and of course her wronged mother) would be to take a crack at the beloved Al. And because Esmerelda was still hanging around like a bad smell, bracken would never know until it was too late.

In addition, the recording of Jeremy Kyle loomed large in Bracken's consciousness. She wondered if she'd get any sympathy for the vanished baby. Probably not. He'd say it was her own fault for going out and leaving him. But at least her aunt might get denounced as unfit to look after kids on national telly.

"Have you found anything yet," she said into the phone.

The police had launched a missing persons search for Nicky and the baby, and Bracken had been phoning for updates several times a day, sometimes going in to the station and waiting round for hours till someone took pity and talked to her for a bit.

As far as she could gather, they were looking with the assumption that Uncle Nicky had gone a bit brain wrong and taken off with his young nephew, for some as yet unknown end. Bracken didn't think that was it, but had been told that hunches didn't mean anything unless you were a fully trained police officer.

"It's not a hunch," she had said, "I know Nicky. He's not the kidnapping type."

"Well," the attending officer willfully misunderstood, "maybe your son went with him willingly, but if it was without your permission we have to treat it as kidnapping."

"Went with him willingly? He's sixteen months old!"

"They're often easily led at that age. You need to be teaching stranger danger from birth, in my view."

"But it's his uncle you're saying he's with! He looks after him every day!"

"Gosh," said the officer, who was actually an undercover actor doing research for a bit part in River City, "it's actually the perfect crime, isn't it?"

"Anyway," Bracken continued abrasively, "Nicky doesn’t have any money, and he’s feart of his ain shaow. Where would he go?"

"Oh I dunno," the police-actor replied airily, "there's all kinds of jolly free things to do in Edinburgh during the day. Maybe they've gone to the Museum of Childhood, or the Brass Rubbing Centre, or the National Gallery. Or maybe they're playing 'I spy' on the meadows. Or they could be at one of the libraries for Rhymetime."

Bracken balked at the mention of the library. She hadn't been back in since the fire. It wouldn’t be the same without the buggy as a kind of shield. And she didn't think she could cope with seeing Al all loved up, as he no doubt was.

"You're a muppet," she said to the police-actor, "they've been gone for two weeks, I doubt they're just wandering round various Edinburgh tourist attractions. Do you not think someone would have seen them?"

"Hm. I see what you mean."

There was a pause.

"Maybe they went to Glasgow. There's all animals and stuff at the Kelvingrove museum. Kids love that sort of thing."

"Right," said Bracken, "well if you get on to investigating that and let me know how you do. What was your name again?"

"Officer Moriarty," said the police-actor, with pride. He had spent ages trying to come up with a good fake name.

"Riiiiiight," Bracken said, wondering whether maybe she had dialled the wrong number.

She wrote down the name so she could ask not to speak to him next time she called.

“Good luck thwarting Sherlock Holmes,” she said, and hung up.

At the other end of the phone, the police-actor felt foolish.

“So that’s where I’ve heard that name before,” he said to no-one in particular. “And he’s not even one of the good guys.”

“Y’know, Jimmy Bob,” said the officer at the next desk, “there’s this thing called the internet, which might help you out with some of your research. Shall I show it to you?”

“I know how to do the internet,” Jimmy Bob said, “I’ll have you know I’ve got 807 facebook friends.”

“Is that so,” his companion remarked dryly. “The middle of a crowd is one of the loneliest places to be.”

“How does that work?”

“Ach, forget it.”

Bracken left the payphone and stared up at the sky.

It was overcast, and looked like rain. But then it always did these days. It was as though the weather was making an effort to reflect her mood, she thought sometimes. There would be something offensive about waking up to glorious sunshine.

A flock of geese honked over in their V-formation. She hadn’t seen them do that over the centre of town before. Maybe they were lost. Or opting for a city break instead of flying south…

‘I’m spending too much time on my own,’ she thought, ‘I nearly laughed at that.’ She shoved her hands into her pockets and began the four-mile trudge from the hostel to work. She did have change for the bus, but walking it was one way to fill in the time now that she had nobody to talk to look after.

As she walked, she watched the crowds with an intensity that made anyone who caught her eye give her a wide berth. Every time she saw a man with a small child, she stared at them extra hard to check… but it was never Nicky, and by extension never the wean. She couldn’t decide whether she liked the way her heart jumped whenever it looked like this time, it might actually be them… it was sort of like getting butterflies, and that had to be better than feeling nothing at all.

The rain came on with an onomatopoeic sound of your choosing, and she pulled up her hood around her ears. Her mood, like the last couple of chapters, was decidedly mopey.

Just ahead of her a car pulled in to the side of the road, and she grimaced unattractively when she recognized it as the one Esmeralda had given her a lift in just a couple of weeks previously. It seemed like it had been months.

“Bracken,” Esmeralda called as she leaned over to wind down the passenger window, “can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“Nah, that’s OK,” she said, “I’ll be mega early if you do that, so…”

“Well that’s better than getting drenched surely? Come on, we can sit in the library whilst we’re waiting for your shift to start. I’m sure I can persuade Al to give us some coffee…”

Her brain melted a little at the mention of his name. She wondered what he was wearing today. Something from Marks and Spencer, maybe.

“How is Al doing,” she asked, her voice a picture of concern.

“Oh, he’s a little bit up and down, as you might expect,” Esmeralda said vaguely. “Come on, get in the car and I’ll tell you more.”

As she suspected, this promise of information about Aloysius sealed the deal, and Bracken reluctantly opened the car door.

“So,” said Esmeralda, “any word on your uncle and your little boy?”

“Nothing,” Bracken said miserably, “and I think the polis who are working on the case might be retarded.”

“Oh dear,” Esmeralda replied in a tone that sounded 96% like real sympathy and almost completely masked the note of amusement underneath, “that’s no good at all. What makes you say that?”

“Well I don’t mean actually retarded, like special needs,” she qualified, “I just mean like a bit dozy.”

“I’m sure they’ll come good in the end,” Esmeralda said, although she had good reason to believe that this was not the case.

“I hope so. Anyway, you were saying about Al?”

“Well, he’s a bit moody,” Esmeralda said, “more so than usual I mean. But he’s settled in well at his job, and started running the rhyme sessions with the mummies and the lickle babies.”

“Aw,” said Bracken wistfully, “there’s nice.”

“Yes, he’s very good,” she gushed, “he plays harmonica and ukulele so he gets a bit of live music in there.”

“Sounds good,” Bracken said. “The wean likes harmonica. Always gurgles away tae ‘eeself when we’re up town and he hears a tramp playing one to get money for methylated spirits.”

“Lovely.”

“I miss him.”

“I know you do, sweetie. But maybe its not such a bad thing.”

“Come again?”

“Well, think about it. This is a chance for you to start again, be who you always wanted to be, before motherhood got in the way. You didn’t plan to get pregnant when you did, did you?”

“Well no, I guess not.”

“So maybe this is the opportunity to do what you did plan on doing. What did you want to be when you were seventeen?”

“A bus driver.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They ran a campaign to get more drivers and they said they paid them 26k a year and I thought, ‘that’ll dae.’ I’d drive a bus for that money, wouldn’t you?”

Esmeralda thought of the small private fortune she had amassed over the past few years through nefarious wheelings and dealings.

“Yeah,” she said, “wow, I didn’t know they made so much cash!”

“Mmm,” Bracken continued, “but I kind of went off the idea after a while. Sitting down all the time, you probably get piles and stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah,” Esmeralda agreed, “I hadn’t thought of that.” Which was true, she hadn’t.

They turned down the road where the library and school sat next to one another, listening to the rain drumming on the car roof.

“Bracken, I’ll level with you,” Esmeralda said as she pulled into the library car park, “there’s a reason why I was asking you those probing questions about your future ambitions from the past.”

She suppressed a groan.

“Really, Esmeralda? What’s that?”

An almighty clap of thunder drowned out the other woman’s answer, and they high-tailed it into the building before the rain took out one of their eyes.

Once inside, the looks on the faces of Adric and Aloysius put it out of her mind.

“What’s the matter with you two,” she asked, “except for the obvious of course – sorry to be insensitive at this difficult time.”

Aloysius smiled sadly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“The matter,” boomed Adric, who lost all sense of volume control in times of stress, “is everything and a half.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replied, this time in a quarter of a whisper, which is the most dramatic level it’s possible to whisper at, “that they are closing the library.”

Chapter Seven

“I’m not taking her in my cab,” the driver said flatly. “The smell lingers for days, and I’ve just had it cleaned.”

“Please,” Bracken pleaded, “I don’t know how else to get her home.”

“Get her cleaned up and try another firm, maybe,” she was told. “But I wouldnae hold my breath if I were you. Unless it was to stop myself from smelling the sick, in which case, fire on.”

“Thanks,” Bracken said, “I think.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” someone said, and Bracken suppressed a groan as she recognized the dulcet tones of the Good Samaritan.

“As I mentioned earlier, I gave my boyfriend a lift here. Do you two live far away? Maybe I could drive you?”

“It’s only a couple of miles,” Bracken said, “but I don’t want to put you out. And she might be sick in your car.”

“I’m sure she won’t be,” the Samaritan said brightly. “She can’t have very much left, probably.”

“I can just wait till she sobers up a bit and then we can walk,” Bracken said, “it’ll be a good lesson for her in not taking me out to that stupit club.”

The Good Samaritan laughed effervescently.

“Really, it’s OK. I think a little drive would do my boyfriend some good. He’s finding this place a bit oppressive.”

Bracken’s cheeks flushed. A ride in what was no doubt a fancy car, with a guy she fancied and his impossibly attractive and generous girlfriend. And her blootered, sick covered cousin. What a treat.

“Honestly, it’s OK Miss – what is your name, actually?”

“Oh how rude. Esmeralda Francesca MacGregor Di Saatchi Von Rollo.”

She smiled at Bracken’s awed expression.

“It’s an old European name, cobbled together out of lots of bits of families.”

“It’s very nice,” Bracken said. “I’m-”

“Bracken Lee McCracken. I know.”

“But how? Have we met? You do look familiar, somehow, but I thought maybe I’d seen you on television or something…”

“So full of questions, little one,” Esmeralda said in a deeply patronizing manner. “All in good time.”

“Bleurgh,” Nigella said quietly to herself, but no bodily fluids escaped.

“See,” Esmeralda said triumphantly, “she’s sounding better already.”

Bracken looked doubtful.

“Al, tell her won’t you,” Esmeralda said as the stud himself emerged from the hospital.

“Tell who? What?”

“Tell Bracken here that it’s not bother for us to give her a lift.”

Aloysius was bewildered.

“Hello, Miss McCracken,” he managed eventually, “how are you?”

“Oh braw aye,” she said with the automatic sarcasm of the woman scorned, “I love hingin about hospitals in the middle of the night cuz ma idiot cousin got herself attacked and then the nurse gave her medicine withoot considerin’ how it might react wi alcohol.”

It was only then that she remembered his own reasons for being there.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “it’s been a long night. How’s your mother doing?”

He looked pained. Something in Bracken’s chest plate echoed the sentiment.

“She’s not so good,” he said stiffly. “Well, she’s dead, in fact. Which is about as bad as you can get, I think.”

“Oh my god,” Bracken said, instinctively putting an arm around his shoulders, “I’m so sorry.”

Almost as swiftly as she’d made contact she pulled away to catch Nige’s wheelchair as it slowly rolled away.

“I still think a wee late night drive is what is needed here,” Esmeralda piped up through narrowed eyes. She had seen the look on Aloysius’s face as Bracken tried to comfort him, and she was shaken by it.

“Let us take you and your girlfriend home, Bracken.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my cousin,” Bracken said, forgetting that Esmeralda had previously alluded to the fact that she already knew this, and therefore not realizing that she was rattled.

“Well, we’re more like pals really. Or sisters, maybe. Anyway, Nigella McCracken, this is Esmeralda Francesca MacGregor Di Saatchi Von Rollo, and… what is your name, library assistant guy?”

“Aloysius Anthony Bertrand Hunkington-Smythe III,” he replied, “but you can call me Al.”

“Oh,” Esmeralda said, “you work in the library too?”

“No, I’m a lollipop lady,” Bracken explained, “but I go in there every day.”

“You must be an avid reader.”

“I am,” she said, “and I’m also just really enthusiastic about trying new books.”

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow.

“That was a joke,” Bracken explained, “because obviously avid means eager, dedicated to or enthusiastic about something.”

Esmeralda laughed unenthusiastically.

“Very good,” she said. “You must have had them rolling in the aisles at lollipop college.”

“Well I tried, but with hindsight that was probably a bad idea. Most of our training involved standing in busy roads, so you don’t want to have people on the floor laughing really. And what is it you do, Esmeralda?”

“Oh, I’m a jack of all trades,” she said evasively.

“But mostly scientific and psychological research for private clients on a freelance basis.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It pays the bills.”

“I want a sangwich,” Nigella interjected loudly.

“Right,” Esmeralda decided, “time to get this one home I think.”

They bundled into the car, Bracken taking a moment to fold up the broken wheelchair and lean it against a wheelie bin.

“Are we going to the party,” Nigella asked woozily as Bracked strapped her in.

“No sweetheart,” she said soothingly, “we’re going to go and have a wee sleep. We’ve been to the party already.”

“Was I the prettiest?” Nigella asked hopefully.

“Yes you were, you were the prettiest girl in the whole room. All of the boys there made up their minds to marry you, but you wouldn’t have any of them.”

“Your knees are green,” Nigella informed her. “A really bright, vibrant green. And mine are purple.”

“OK then pal,” Bracken said, patting her hand supportively.

“That’s not usual, is it?” Nigella seemed worried. “Maybe we should go to the doctor?”

“We’ll make an appointment tomorrow hen, OK? The doctor’s in bed just now.”

“OK Bracken,” she said, yawning.

“Alright back there?” Esmeralda asked, barely concealing her disinterest.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Next left is it?”

“No, second left, where the trees are. Thank you.”

They were driving slowly down one of several roads that appeared identical to Esmeralda. How people ever found their way home whilst under the influence was a mystery. She thought of her own city flat, and the family pad in the country, and the villa in Greece. Those were buildings with character, and class. These ones looked like toy houses.

“Hoi Bracken,” Nigella said, with a giggle in her throat, “who’s that man in the front? He looks like that guy you fancy-“

“-shut it, Nige,” Bracken cut in quickly, but her cousin continued,

“the posh one fae the libray that offended you the other day.”

Aloysius turned around.

“Sorry pal,” Nigella said, “but you do really look like him.”

“I think I am him,” Aloysius said pleasantly. “And it was only today, believe it or not. A lot has happened since then. But listen, Bracken, I want to apologize. I honestly never meant to upset you.”

“What,” Bracken said, not really listening.

This was primarily because she was staring over his shoulder at the place where her block of flats ought to be.

It was still there, or at least part of it was. But the rest of the building was decidedly engulfed by thick orange flames and black swirls of acrid smoke.

“Is that where you stay,” asked Esmeralda.

“Aye,” Bracken said, “or it was…”

“Ooh, pretty,” observed Nigella, “is it bonfire night?”

“Nah mate.”

“So who’s having the random barbeque?”

“Think it might be your maw and Uncle Nicky, actually hen.”

Her voice cracked a little.

“Does that mean we can go?”

“Eh,” Bracken said, bravely fighting the rising urge to be sick, “no sure. I’ll go and find out what’s going on, if you just stay here in the warm for two minutes OK?”

“Ooh, wi the hunky libray guy eh,” Nigella said, attempting a saucy wink in Aloysius’s direction. “Sounds awright.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Aloysius asked Bracken, “For moral support?”

Of course she did, with every fibre of her being, but for some reason said, “Oh no, that’s fine. But thanks though, Al.”

‘Why did I say that,’ she wondered miserably as she hauled herself out of the car and moved in the direction of the team of firefighters who were attempting to douse the flames.

‘She’s still upset with me about before,’ he thought to himself inaccurately as he watched her small frame advance towards the carnage.

“I think she’s got bigger things on her mind than your little spat,” Esmeralda said.

“Was I thinking out loud?” he asked, shocked.

“Fraid so,” she said.

He failed to notice the relief in her voice at having not been caught out. In some ways he really was too self-centred for his own good. But there again his mother had just died so maybe we can forgive him a certain level of introspection.

Meanwhile outside the car in the cold November air, one of the firefighters was shouting at Bracken to get out of the way for gods sake, could she not see how dangerous it was.

“But the people,” she said desperately, “the people inside…”

“There are no people inside, Miss,” he said impatiently, “they’ve all been rescued.”

“So where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see my aunt and uncle? Did you see my baby?”

“I saw lots of people,” he replied, “but there was no baby though. Youngest kid was a toddler of about three.”

“Charlie Sinclair,” she said, “he’s a wee shite. His mother’s no much better. But what do you mean, no baby? That means my wee boy is still in there! You huv tae to something!”

“Impossible,” he said flatly, “we got everyone out.”

“Is there a chance someone could have found him and you not seen?”

“Not really,” he said, “given I’ve overseen the entire operation.”

Bracken tried to fight back the tears, but this was too much. To lose her hope of true love with a hunky library assistant was bad enough, but to lose her aunt, uncle, flat, and baby in the same evening was just too much.

Wracked with sobs she fell to the ground, paying little heed to the delicate knees of her cat suit, which got all icky and muddy.

“Could someone move this grieving lassie to a safe distance,” the fireman said thoughtfully into his coms device. “I’m worried she’ll get hurt.”

A police officer appeared with a blanket and a cup of sweet tea and gently led Bracken away, but she barely noticed.

‘How am I going to tell Nigella,’ she wondered, knowing that even now her cousin, blissfully unaware, was trying to chat up Aloysius in front of his own girlfriend.

‘Although, maybe if she gets herself in another cat fight I can delay it a bit,’ she thought.

“Feeling better, pet?” The police officer asked kindly. Bracken realized that she had stopped crying and was now rocking silently back and forth.

“No really,” she admitted. “I’ve naewhere tae go, and I’m scared youse’ll make me identify the bodies, and I dinnae ken if I’ve got it in me.”

“What bodies?”

“Ma uncle n’ aunt n’ the bairn.”

“You must be mistaken, we got everyone out of there before the bomb went off.”

“The what now?”

“The bomb. The terrorists phoned it in in time for us to get everyone out, but not in time for it to be diffused.”

“That fireman said there was nae babies got rescued but,” Bracken said.

“Pfft,” said the police officer, “he says a lot of stuff. Lets just see if I can’t find out what’s gone on.”

As she marched off into the darkness, Bracken turned her attention back to the dying embers of the block of flats she had called home since the age of eight. What would Mary-Doll Mahoney make of this, she wondered. And why did she feel so emotionally detached? It was almost as if she was watching a film that was happening to someone else.

“I’m sorry pet,” the police officer said, “the fireman was right. There’s no record of any babies pulled out of the building tonight.”

“What about my aunt and uncle?”

“No sign.”

Bracken pulled the blanket closer round her shoulders, and tried to work out how she felt.

Mostly, she concluded as the last of the flames died out and the crowd of spectators began to disperse, she felt empty. Numb, and cold, and emptier than she had ever felt in her life.

She felt like it was time to write a poem.

Chapter Six

Bracken sat in the hospital waiting room with Nigella propped up against her shoulder. A cursory glance by an attending paramedic had determined that the injury looked worse than it actually was, and so they had been told to sit and wait their turn. The police hadn’t been very interested in bringing charges, so had given them all a warning not to be so bloody stupid and then gone off to attend a stand off with a lone gunman in Dalry.

Nige had a damp bar towel pressed against the welt in her side, and was mainly conscious, but she wasn’t giving much good chat. It felt to Bracken as though they had been sitting there for an eternity before eventually they were summoned through to see a doctor.

“Needs stitches,” the aforementioned doctor said, “about five of ‘em.”

He was a big burly ex-colonel of a man, with twinkling blue eyes and an enormous auburn moustache that curled out at the ends. His doctor coat was made of tweed, which Bracken was fairly sure was not the norm, and he wore a deerstalker hat, which she felt could not have been regulation doctor-wear. He looked at her, suddenly serious.

“Will it take long,” she asked, disconcerted. “The stitching?”

“Well that depends,” he replied, “how good’s your sewing?”

“My – aren’t you going to do it?” she queried, as he burst into peals of raucous belly laughter. The tweed trembled like an ocean in the breeze.

“Of course I’m not old gel,” he said, “the nurse will manage. Honestly, the look on your face. That joke always works on children but it’s much better when I get an adult with it. How’s your sewing, heh heh. Funny every time.”

The nurse who was silently cleaning Nigella’s wound with alcoholic swabs grimaced and shook her head.

“Geeta always finds it funny, don’t you Geeta,” he continued, apparently having not seen the face.

“Every time, Doctor Maxwell,” she said pleasantly. “It’s the-“

“-Looks on their faces that does it, eh?”

Bracken got the impression that Geeta was rather accustomed to being interrupted by the tweedy behemoth. He looked about six foot five, and that was in his stockinged feet. Again, Bracken was compelled to fight what she assumed must be her ignorant, stereotypical view of how doctors dressed.

“Righty ho,” he said, “terribly nice to meet you but I must trot on. There’s a rather ill lady I must go and visit over on one of the wards. I used to know her husband back in the day so I wish to ensure she is being well looked after. No ruddy hospital food, for a start.”

Geeta looked at him strangely, but did not voice whatever she was thinking, presumably in the interests of patient confidentiality.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Geeta told Bracken, after he was gone, “he literally does that to everyone. Some of us were thinking about buying him a joke book for secret Santa last Christmas but somehow his wife got wind of it and banned us. Apparently he’d had one before and it was nearly the end of their marriage. He kept mixing up the punch lines and offending their posh friends.”

“How the other half live,” groaned Nigella from the trolley she had been bleeding on till Geeta sorted her out.

“You need to be quiet and have lots of rest,” Geeta informed her, slipping out of gossip mode and into calm professionalism without a fuss.

“I feel sick,” Nigella mumbled in response.

“That’s probably the pain killers. Here,” she said, producing a cardboard tray, “you can do it in this. And you can lie down here for a while but we don’t have any beds so I think your pal is going to have to try and organize you a lift somehow.”

“Thanks,” she said, vomiting politely.

“No problem,” Geeta said, removing herself to go and rescue other patients from the unwanted humour of Doctor Maxwell.

“Right well I’ll go and see about getting us hame, will I,” Bracken said brightly.

“Nah, stay with me a bit.”

Bracken perched awkwardly on the trolley, holding her cousin’s hand.

“Wasn’t quite the night you had in mind eh Nige,” she said softly.

“Not quite,” she agreed, “but at least I never went hame wi Jimmy Bob.”

“I so knew you were going to do that! That’s pure shan by the way Nige, he’s no worth it.”

“Aye ah ken,” she said sleepily. “Just sometimes ah get lonely, but.”

Her dark eyes closed.

“Aye,” Bracken said wistfully, “ken wit ye mean.”

Nigella gave a long, throaty snore.

“Right,” Bracken whispered, creeping slowly out of the room, “lets see about getting a lift.”

There didn’t seem to be any pay phones about, so she went outside and switched on her mobile. There was no reception.

“Sake,” she cursed, her mind racing to think of a back up plan.

“No reception?” Asked a voice from the shadows.

Bracken turned to see that it belonged to a woman, with long wavy hair and intelligent eyes.

“Nut,” she replied, “have you noticed whether there’s any payphones in there?”

“They’re out of order,” the woman said, “but here, you can use mine. I get free minutes anyway.”

“Oh, I couldn’t use up your minutes,” Bracken said, coming over all Miss Jean Brodie in the presence of such a classy bird.

“Not at all,” the benevolent stranger replied, “I insist.”

“Thanks,” Bracken said gratefully, punching in her aunt’s mobile number.

The aunt was asleep in front of late night poker, having had a bottle and a half of wine to herself, and failed to hear her phone singing Justin Bieber’s modern classic, the one that goes ‘Baby, Baby, Baby, Oh!’

“Nae answer,” she said, as her aunt dreamed she was on a date with Bieber’s older, talented brother, “I’ll have tae try a cab.”

“Go ahead,” the Samaritan replied.

Bracken duly used the woman’s free minutes to book a taxi, then handed her phone back awkwardly.

“Thank you so much,” she said, “I dunno what I would have done.”

“No problem,” the woman said.

“So, what are you in for?” Bracken asked. “Are you visiting someone?”

“Yeah,” the woman said after a pause that was just slightly too long. “My… boyfriend’s mother just took ill suddenly so I brought them to the hospital. He can’t drive, and I can, so it made sense. She’s just with the doctor now but I didn’t want to crowd them.”

“That’s awful,” Bracken said, “do you think she’ll be alright?”

“Hard to say, really,” the stranger said, somewhat strangely. There was a lump in her voice, Bracken assumed because she was upset, and yet… there was a metallic tang to it, as though the emotion was a little less visceral than it was calculated.

“I should go and find them really. Hope your cousin is OK.”

“Thanks,” Bracken said, “and thanks again for letting me use your phone. Life saver!”

The Samaritan smiled thinly, and shimmied back into the hospital.

Bracken crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders, which had gone goosepimply in the November air. She looked up, and was pleased to be able to see stars from this part of the city. Usually clouds, or reflections from street lamps blocked them from view around where Bracken lived. Or other times, the ceiling got in the way.

‘Better go and get Nige,’ she thought to herself with a sigh. Then, ‘how did that lassie ken I was here wi ma cousin?’

She shivered. There was something not quite right about that beautiful stranger. She said the right things but it was as though her heart was separate from the process. Bracken, an altogether more emotional being, found this hard to relate to.

But it hardly mattered, she thought. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to see the girl again. Although, she had seemed sort of familiar, now she came to think of it. She thought that she recognized the eyes in particular, hard and cold, observing her strangely. Maybe she was on telly or something.

Bracken walked back through the automatic doors, and was blinded momentarily by the lights.

“You alright love,” a passing man in a nurse’s uniform enquired.

“Yeah thanks,” Bracken replied. “Just going to pick up my friend.”

“Mr Nightingale,” Geeta squeaked, appearing at his shoulder, “just why are you wearing one of our uniforms? You’re supposed to be visiting your wife, not stealing hospital supplies.”

“She was asleep,” he said, “all that labour stuff tired her out, and someone took the baby off me and put it elsewhere. I got bored waiting for her to wake up, and when I went to look for the baby I got told to go back and sit with her. So I thought I’d do some investigating, but first I had to find a cunning disguise.”

“Someone’s been watching too much Diagnosis Murder,” Geeta said, meaning Mr Nightingale. “I’m going to write a strongly worded email to Dick Van Dyke about encouraging farcical detective shenanigans in a medical environment. It’s deeply annoying and very unprofessional.”

“I’m going to get Nige now,” Bracken excused herself. “Thanks for all your help, Geeta. Good luck with your shenanigans, Mr Nightingale.”

“What a nice girl,” Mr Nightingale observed as she clopped off down the corridor, dressed as she still was in her tallest clubbing heels.

“Yes,” said Geeta, “although something of a tragic figure I feel. Hope things turn out alright for her in the end.”

“Well, there’s just under forty thousand words to go before we find that out,” he replied. “So I’d better carry on my investigations, just in case she needs me for a subplot?”

Geeta shook her head.

“This is high romance, not Scooby Doo. Go back to your wife, she’ll be livid if she wakes up and you’re not there.”

“Fair point.”

“And take off that uniform,” she added, “I don’t want you getting yourself into a comedy situation where you have to treat someone. This is an NHS hospital, not Carry On Doctor.”

Meanwhile, Bracken was trying to wake Nigella, who was out cold.

“I can’t believe they went ahead and gave you painkillers knowing you’d been drinking,” Bracken said.

“Urg,” went Nigella, incoherently.

Bracken looked about her, hands on hips, thinking.

In the corner of the room, there was a fold up wheelchair with no seat and a yellow post-it note inscribed ‘goosed – do not use’.

She considered for a moment.

“Sod it,” she decided, “we’re only going to the door.”

She unfolded the chair, and laid the bloody bar towel across where the seat should be, knotting it around the frame. She then put it as close to the trolley as possible and tried to maneuver her cousin on to it. Nigella unhelpfully flopped about like an enormous rag doll the whole time, which made the operation a lot more difficult.

“Wish I had someone here to help,” Bracken wished out loud, impotently. Nobody came.

Eventually she managed to get Nigella into a sitting position, and with one arm under her legs and another around her back, she lifted from the knees and finally got her cousin into the chair. Nige’s head lolled dangerously.

‘Hope her neck’s alright,’ Bracken thought. She had seen medical dramas, and was vaguely aware that you had to be careful of people’s necks.

Then she carefully took the brake off, and wheeled her sleeping cousin towards the door.

Up ahead in the waiting area she could see the voluptuous hair of the phone Samaritan, who was trying to console a companion whose face Bracken could not make out. It tumbled down her slim line back like a shiny waterfall, just as if she was in a herbal essences advert.

As they got closer, Bracken was about to say hello, when two things happened.

First, Nigella woke up for just long enough to be sick all down herself, which meant that the taxi driver was not going to allow them into his cab.

Second, Bracken managed to identify the beautiful stranger’s companion – presumably the boyfriend whose mother was ill.

It was Aloysius Hunkington-Smythe.

Chapter Five

"You need a night out," pronounced Bracken's cousin, Nigella. "I'll be round in two minutes."

"I don't think that's such a great idea, Nige. I just want tae curl up in bed and never come out again, to be honest."

"That's because you're stressed," Nigella told her, walking in through the front door.

Bracken put the phone down.

"A night on the tiles is just what the doctor ordered."

"But what aboot the bairn?"

"Nicky'll look after him."

"It's poker night."

"Weans are allowed at poker night."

"No anymair," Bracken said, "since that time he was looking after you and me and took us along. He's only just been allowed back after that little incident."

"Pfft," Nigella said dismissively, "it was only one hamster."

"But quite a lot of vodka though eh."

"I didnae ken it would be as flammable as that. How could ah? I skived science classes at scale. It was borin'."

"Anyway," Bracken said, "he's awready left. And the bairn's gone doon fur the night. So."

"Nae worries," Nigella said, "I'll text maw."

Seconds later, Bracken's aunt, Nigella's mother, came in the door.

She was a formidable woman, with peroxide blonde hair and a voice that was husky with years of chain smoking. Today she was dressed in leopard print leggings, a fake fur gilet, and a shiny new pair of reeboks. Her eye makeup was a vibrant, kingfisher blue, right up to the brows, and her nails were fluorescent orange.

"Does naebiddy buzz anymair," Bracken complained, more to herself than anything else.

"It dusnae work," Nigella explained.

"It was a rhetorical question," she mumbled.

"Ooooooh, rhetorical eh. Check oot captain vocabulary ower there," the aunt piped up, lighting a cigarette.

"Shup, mum. It's an achievement that Bracken's such a guid reader."

"We've got hereditary dyslexia," she said, "s'no anybiddy's fault. And ‘shutup’ has a ‘t’, thank you."

"Dyslexia doesn't stop you doing stuff," said Bracken, "you just have to work at it a bit more. You dinnae get suhin' fur nuhin' in this life."

"How d'ye explain the wean then," her aunt cackled.

Bracken flushed, remembering the earlier conversation with the pinstripe woman. How did she explain the wean? She hadn't told her cousin that part and Nige hadn't pried, although she was well curious about the paternity of Bracken's kiddy.

"Well ladies, you cannae go out lookin like that," Bracken's aunt declared, producing a cheap bottle of white wine from her sleeve and pouring them each a glass. "Go and make yourselves beautiful while I catch up on Eastenders."

They shuffled through to the bedroom to examine Bracken's wardrobe.

"No got much in the way of going out stuff, do ye?"

Nigella plucked a little silver number off a hanger.

"This is nice though."

"That was a costume fae a Halloween disco at scale," Bracken said. “I was trying to impress Mr Holly. Think he was a gayer though.”

Nigella pulled the dress on over her head. It clung to her like a second skin.

She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed, "well I canny wear any underwear with this anyway."

She turned her attention to Bracken, who was gazing into the middle distance, apparently lost in thought.

"C'mon ya big tramp," she said gently, "try this one."

She had picked out a blue cat suit with diamanté trim. The v-neck plunged almost to the pelvis.

"Although," Nigella said thoughtfully, you canny wear a bra wi that, and what wi having had a baby..."

She stopped and stared as Bracken donned the outfit without a word.

"Where are your stretch marks," Nigella queried, "from the pregnancy?"

"Don’t have any," said bracken, who didn't.

"Well, lucky old you. And why, may I ask, are you still so pert in the boobal arena?"

"Well I'm only twenty," Bracken laughed, “they don't go south just yet do they? Or are you feelin’ past it, at the ripe old age of 22?"

"Did you not breast feed?"

"Aye," Bracken said, "but only for the first few months. I got ill, remember?"

Nigella did not. Now she came to think of it, she didn't remember anything at all about her cousin's pregnancy. And as Bracken thought about it, neither could she. She had a vague sense she had breast-fed the wean for a bit, but for the life of her couldn't remember when or where she was supposed to have done it, or how it felt.

"How do I look?" she changed the subject, taking a gulp of wine.

"Lovely. Gie's a twirl."

Bracken obeyed. The cat suit clung about her curves, and because it was made of velour like her tracksuit, she didn't feel uncomfortable or overdressed.

"Ooh, classy," Nigella approved. This was at least in part because the word classy was emblazoned upon the seat of the cat suit in more diamanté.

"You think?" Bracken asked anxiously.

"I do."

"Cab's here girls," called Nigella's mum from the living room.

"But I haven't done my make up," they chorused.

"Take it wi yese, dae it in the bogs when ye get up town."

They exchanged grimaces.

"She's suhin else, your mum."

"She's an embarrassment, that's what," Nigella said, sweeping all of Bracken's makeup from the top of the chest of drawers into her bag. "And what if we get a cute taxi driver? He'll run for the hills."

"It’s a lassie," her mum said, "and she says to hurry up or she's away."

Barely pausing to grab some more scrunchies for their hair, Bracken and Nigella bombed it down the stairs and scrambled into the taxi.

"Where to, ladies?"

"Eh," said Bracken, "dinnae ken. We hadn't really got that far, to be honest."

"Up toon," Nigella said, "and we'll think of something more specific on the way."

The something more specific ended up being a club that Nigella always took them to, which Bracken suspected had been the plan all along. Walking in she had to slow down because her feet were sticking to the floor, and almost instantly she was hit by the unmistakable aroma of sick.

"Oh look," Nigella said casually, "there's Jimmy Bob."

Nigella had had her eye on Jimmy Bob for a number of months now, but had never been sure if he was interested. Then last week he had shared a poke of chips with her, and when they had both put their hands in at the same time he had left his fingers touching hers for slightly longer than you would if you didn't fancy the person. It wasn't an exact science, Nigella admitted, but it was totally romantic.

Bracken was unconvinced by this tale at the time, and there was little about Jimmy Bob's general demeanor now to prove her wrong.

"Isn't that Rachel Henderson?"

"Aye."

"Sitting on Jimmy Bob's knee?"

"Aye."

"Sucking his tonsils?"

"Fucksake Bracken," Nigella said, "you dinnae huv tae rub it in."

"Sorry hen,” she said sincerely, “but he's no good enough fur ye. Ah’ve aiways said it."

"Shut up," Nigella said, annoyed, "if anything he's too good. Ah'm never going to get any better anyway. No livin round here."

"You don't have to live round here forever," Bracken pointed out, surprising herself slightly. She’d never thought about moving away herself.

"Aye, ma glittering career working part time in the coop could take me anywhere hen. Maybe even as far afield as Oxgangs."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

Nige looked blank. "Nah mate. D’you no mind how Jean got moved over that way last year? Two buses there and two back. She wusnae happy likes."

"Nah, I just meant... Are you ok?"

"Fine aye,” Nigella said cheerfully. “It's like you say, plenty mair fish in the sea."

"And your no going to take Rachel's sloppy seconds when she goes hame and Jimmy Bob tries his luck wi you?"

"Nut," she said, slightly too insistently, "as if."

"Good."

"Sorted. Now… flaming sambuca?"

"I'm no sure that's such a good idea," Bracken started to say, but her cousin was gone.

She leaned against a pillar and looked about her. The place was such a dive, she thought, maybe a couple of shots wasn't such a bad idea. Just to take the edge off.

In the far corner there were a group of lads on a stag do. She made a mental note to avoid them, knowing as she did so that her cousin would make a beeline straight in that direction as soon as she clocked them. They were good for getting free drinks out of, she maintained, and got so drunk so fast that it was easy to lose them later on. Bracken felt this was immoral, but Nigella thought she was just being a prude.

"There's worse things in this life than having a one night stand," she would say on the mornings after she had woken without quite managing to shake whichever one had stayed the course. "Like, some folk have no legs. And not by choice either."

"Here we go," Nigella reappeared with a tray of drinks. "These should get you in the mood for a bit of a fandango in the cowgate."

"Is that a euphemism," Bracken asked, "or do you genuinely want to go clubbing in the cowgate?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B," Nigella said with a wink.

The drinks went down quickly, but although Bracken felt light headed she was still fairly lucid. She even started to relax a bit.

"Who does that Keremy Jyle think he is anyway," she said suddenly, in the middle of one of Nigella's work anecdotes. "Blackmailing young mums to go on his show. I've done nothing wrong, just by having a baby."

"Totally."

"So what if ah'm no wi the dad," she continued, "that's naebiddy's business except for mine and the wee man's, when he's big enough for me to explain."

"What are you going to tell him," Nigella asked interestedly. "Have you planned it all out?"

"Not yet," Bracken said, "but all this has made me think about it. I guess I'll say that his dad loves him just as much as I do, but he had to go away."

"Bracken," Nige said earnestly, looking her cousin directly in the eyes, "who is the wean's dad? Ya ken I wouldnae grass."

Bracken sighed.

"Well the thing is," she started, "the dad is... Well he's..."

"Nae pressure," Nigella said. "I just wonder sometimes if it might help you to tell someone. You act like you've got the weight of the world on your shudders when you hink naebiddy's looking."

"OK. The father of ma bairn is - DUCK!"

"Doug who?" Nigella asked, thus failing to duck as a barstool came hurtling out of nowhere within a working inch of her left ear.

Slowly and deliberately, she turned in the direction from whence the stool had come. The couple responsible (newlyweds) let go of each other's throats and looked sheepish.

"Eh," the woman said, "sorry hen."

"Aye, sorry hen," the man echoed. "We got a bit carried away."

"WE?!" the wife began, but when she saw the look on Nigella's face she stopped sort.

"Apology accepted-"

Then a girl with pretty dodgy eyesight who was stood in a completely different area of the bar shrieked, "what are you looking at, ya tramp?!" and took a running jump at Nige.

Nobody moved for a fraction of a second, then the whole place descended into chaos.

"FIIIIIIIGHT," yelled the dude who had just tried to brain his wife.

The random girl pulled out a clump of Nigella's hair.

The stag party started whooping and cheering and taking bets on who would win and how severe the other’s injuries would be.

Nigella sank her teeth into the girl’s cheek.

An older gentleman, who had been the manager of the place till comparatively recently, began to conduct a commentary of the fight in the inimitable style of John Motson.

Bracken could barely make out who was who in the flailing mass of arms and legs and shrieking and stilettos.

One of the bar staff called the police.

The random girl pulled off one of her spike heels and rammed it into Nigella’s side.

Bracken called an ambulance.

Chapter Four

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here," Aloysius said, "what are YOU doing here?"

She smiled like an infection, lips curling back to reveal her forlorn looking teeth one by one.

"Fine, don't tell me," he said nonchalantly, "I don't care, anyway."

He tried to look away from her, into the middle distance, all enigmatic and broody like. But his eyes didn't seem to be under the control of his brain. They kept coming back to the golden curls of her chestnut hair, the perfect circle of her aubergine lips, and the sensible curve of her gargantuan norks.

"They're new," she explained with a sparkle as she caught him looking. "I had a brief stint as a glamour model in darkest Peru."

"I didn't think the glamour industry was thriving in Peru."

"It isn't," she said bitterly, "but I had to fund my top secret research somehow."

Aloysius frowned in the manner of someone remembering something.

"Weren't you struck off, though?"

She narrowed her eyes, and sniffed,

"Wasn't your face struck off?"

"Oh yes, that's very mature isn't it. For someone with a triple masters in medicine, psychology and international law, you can be very childish."

"Well I've got to cater to my audience," she pointed out. "And you aren't exactly the brightest button on the woolen boater."

"Isn't that a type of hat?"

"Exactly."

“Made of straw?”

She said nothing.

They stood a long time like that in the thickening moonlight, shadows collecting about their elbows like moths.

Eventually Esmeralda broke the silence, which was just like her, he thought bitterly. Always ruining perfectly good moments like silence, and holidays, and scones.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" she was saying, not very originally.

"No,” he said grumpily, “cause then you'll be able to come in whenever you want, and you'll slaughter my loved ones and leave roses about the place."

She laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal smashing into a thousand totty little pieces on a kitchen floor.

"This isn't an episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer," she pointed out, truthfully.

"And you're not coming in," he retorted, also truthfully. There was a lot of honesty going on in that garden.

"But Al," she pouted silkily, "I promise to be good. I have missed your dear mama awfully you know. I take it you two are still living together?"

"Actually, Aloysius is just on his way to the flat he shares with his new girlfriend," came the voice of Mrs Hunkington-Smythe from the doorway of the house. "He was just kind enough to pop by to see me after work, that's all. Such a good son."

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Esmeralda drawled disinterestedly, licking her thumb. "I've never met a more self involved man than him. And the three of us know better than anyone exactly how much of a 'good son' he's been to you."

"I can't believe you just used air quotes," said Mrs Hunkington-Smyte disbelievingly. "What do you think this is, 1997?"

Esmeralda glared, her soupy eyes flashing with hidden steel and scary wombats.

"Shall we dance?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Don't be absurd," said Aloysius, "why would we do that?"

"You always used to enjoy a bit of a dance after a few beers. How about one more, just for old time's sake?"

"I haven't had a few beers," he said, irritated, "and I wouldn't dance with you if you were the last woman on earth."

She smiled the sinister smile of a shark with above average intelligence that's just hit upon a plan.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I was you," she said, clapping her hands together in the rhythm of 'clappity clap'.

Aloysius's mother was alarmed to see that upon this signal, a cloud seemed to cover her son’s violet eyes, and he moved towards Esmeralda wearing a smile that was seemingly not quite his own.

"You dancin'?" he asked, placing a hand on her waist.

"You askin'?" she replied coquettishly.

"Ah'm askin'," Aloysius said, in a (very) rough approximation of a Glaswegian accent.

"Ah'm dancin," Esmerelda concurred, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand to embark upon a strange waltz around the moonlit garden.

"What have you done to him," Mrs Hunkington-Smythe wondered aloud as they nimbly dodged around plant pots and snail trails. "There isn't even any music. He needs an accompaniment when he dances.."

Esmeralda laughed, and without warning did the 'clappity clap' move with her feet on the patio. 'Stampitty stamp', she went.

"Urgh," Aloysius exclaimed, pulling away in disgust. It seemed to his mother that he was back to his normal self.

"What happened," he asked, "one minute I'm refusing to dance and then all of a sudden I'm dancing?"

"And you asked her, too," his mother said sadly.

"The hell I did," he spat.

"It’s true, my petal," Esmeralda cooed "you did. But it’s not altogether your fault. Shall I tell you about my little secret?"

"Tell me, and then get out of my life forever," he said, impassioned.

"Oh, I think this revelation is going to require you to be sitting down."

Aloysius's face looked murderous, which was probably because he wanted to kill her.

"So," she ignored him breezily, "Who's for a cup of tea?"

Mrs Hunkington-Smythe reluctantly moved back from the doorway, and they retired to the kitchen to discover THE TRUTH.

“It’s like this,” Esmerelda began, placing the teapot on the table and removing a packet of lemon puffs from her coat pocket.

“I’m allergic to those,” said Aloysius.

“No you’re not,” said his mother, surprised.

“Yes I am. They bring me out in spots. Don’t you remember when I was small and I had one of those at Auntie Vivica’s house and then I broke out in spots?”

“That was measles.”

“Anyway,” Esmeralda interjected in the manner of one who had thought her audience might be a tad more receptive to what she had to tell it, “it’s like this.”

They gazed at her, expectant but preoccupied by the fact she had got into their house again.

“…. Basically I learned hypnotherapy and practiced on you.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, yeah, in a nutshell. Sorry, it sounded more dramatic than that in my head. I guess its because I’ve been carrying it about for years, never telling a living soul, and the guilt has weighed heavy on my mind and made the crime seem disproportionately large.”

“Well no, its still a huge invasion of privacy,” said Mrs Hunkington-Smythe, “I just thought there would be a lot more preamble than that.”

“Yeah,” said Aloysius, “I was banking on another six hundred words or so, for my part.”

“Meh,” she said, sipping her tea.

“So have you programmed him to do other things as well,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe asked slowly.

“Course I have,” Esmeralda grinned, “but nothing bad. I wouldn’t make him rob a bank or punch a granny.”

“Undo it,” Aloysius said angrily, “un-hypnotise me at once or I’ll call the police.”

“I wouldn’t trust her to do it,” said his mother, “what if she just conditions you to react to something else?”

“Fair point,” Esmeralda admitted, “I’m entirely capable of doing that. And given I’m not really sure how to undo it, I’m more inclined to have a bit of fun with you whilst you’re under my total control.”

Aloysius shivered, and not with the cold. It was because he was anxious and freaked out and stuff. Which you would be, if your ex girlfriend – or boyfriend – had access to your brain.

“What can you make me do?”

“Well, there’s the dance. Aaaaand… I can make you buy me cocktails. Aaaaaand… turn off Match of the Day because you think you’re having an allergic reaction to it.”

“Are all of these going to be things that make him a more attentive boyfriend?” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe enquired, interested in spite of herself.

Esmeralda looked at her feet.

“Yeah, totally,” she said.

And she seemed to get away with it, for the time being at any rate.

“This could be a huge money maker you know,” Aloysius’s mother said thoughtfully. “If you marketed it right. Ooh, you could be the saviour of celebrity relationships – charge them extortionate amounts to condition them into doing little things that make them stay the course.”

“I know, right? But then the magazines would be gunning for me because they’d have nothing to print.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a point.”

“Get out,” said Aloysius.

“But I haven’t finished my tea,” she said, pointing at the cup somewhat needlessly to illustrate the fact.

“Take it with you then.”

“That’s my good china – never mind,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe protested.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Moira,” Esmeralda expostulated extravagantly, I’m not stealing your china. And I won’t be hanging around either.”

“Why did you bother to come in the first place?” Aloysius asked bitterly. “If you hadn’t, I’d never have known there was a problem. And now I do know, its like I can never escape you.”

Esmeralda smiled.

“Oh,” he said, in realization. “That is why you came.”

“Well done,” she said, getting up to leave. Her pockets squeaked as she moved. “That’s basically it. Well, there was one other, little thing.”

“I actually couldn’t care right now,” he said, “get out.”

“I think you’ll be interested though, genuinely.”

“Send me a postcard.”

She nodded her assent. “I might just do that. Unless you want to swap email addresses…”

He snorted derisively, and a bit of snot came out. It wasn’t hugely attractive, but sometimes people aren’t when they’re angry. That’s just a fact of life, which you’ve probably observed yourself when you’re just a hundred or so words shy of your target daily word count and are finding it difficult to concentrate on what you’re doing.

Esmeralda wrinkled her own nose like a rabbit - not a cute one, but equally not a snottery one. Definitely an evil one though, with fangs instead of claws, and a canon for a tail, and laser eyes.

“Oh well… nice seeing you,” she lied.

“Mmm.”

“Take care of yourselves.”

And off she went, walking out of his life into the night for the second time.

“Al,” Moira Hunkington-Smythe said weakly, “I don’t feel very well.”

Her body convulsed uncomfortably for a few unimaginably lengthy seconds, then all of a sudden, she flopped in her wheel chair, and lay deathly still.