Shopping 2021

by Rosemary Clarke

My mask is on, my gloves are too
I'm all ready how about you?
I board the bus my mask on face
I'm going to a different place.
I'm going shopping in Southend
And Covid rules I will not bend!
When I get off mask stays in place
To keep all safe it's on my face.
I reach the store where I will shop
On footprints orange, I will stop.
I pay by card I leave and then
I take the bus back home again.
Open the door, spray my boot's soles
Efficient cleaning is my goal.
Take off outerwear, bish, bash bosh
And throw the lot into the wash.
I dress in old clothes then I spray
The shopping, and put it away.
I spray the trolley, especially wheels
I love how clean everything feels.
I feed the cats then brew some tea
I'll have a good rest now you see.
Then up I get to find some wood
To mend the doorstep, looking good!
Watch TV and when cats are fed
I yawn and stretch and go to bed.

Copyright Rosemary Clark

 

Early

By Phil Miller

There may be a time when she wants to

Open the door to solitude

And close it quietly behind her

So that only she can hear her heart beating.

She will want to feel the comfort of a hug

From a familiar armchair as she wriggles

Childlike into its well-worn woollen

Structure, like slipping into the arms of her

Fathers oversized cardigan.

And facing the frosty wall of glass that

knows the January storm will keep its

Promise, she will want to be still.

And there she will wait with saint-like

Patience, listening intently for the

Euphonious calls of her beloved birds,

Whose flights she will never see.

Copyright Phil Miller.

 

THE MESSENGER

By Jane Scoggins

     When, in November 1916, Mrs Wilson suggested that Jack be a messenger for the Army, some of her friends and neighbours thought it a bit strange.

     ''Why', they asked, would a woman who had lost both her husband and her son to the war, want to give up her closest companion and comfort to a war that may not see his return? But Mrs Wilson had thought long and hard about this, and was sure it was the right thing to do. Not just for King and Country, but in memory of her husband, John, and son, Billy. Jack had no say in the matter, no say at all, but he would have done anything for Mrs Wilson; laid down his life for her if need be, which is probably what he would have to do if sent to the Western Front and enemy lines.

   The war was now in its second year and losses of life just across the English Channel were more horrendous than anyone could have ever imagined. The women at home in Britain were terrified on a daily basis that news would arrive at their doors about the death or maiming of one of their menfolk fighting in France. A few old men, sick younger men and boys of fifteen or under were all that was left in the towns and villages.

    The womenfolk held things together in tightly knit communities. Their sons, husbands, brothers and uncles, acquainted or related to one another, and closely linked through work, church, hobbies, streets and towns. The custom of drawing the curtains when news that a soldier had been killed at war had become the traditional sign to the surrounding neighbours that mourning for a dead family member was taking place. Sometimes several houses in a single street had curtains drawn at any one time, and the silence was very noticeable. Children temporarily stayed out of sight, despite cramped conditions indoors, and dogs sat dolefully beside their front steps, aware that something was very wrong, and that this was no time for play or barking.

   Jack, being of a sensitive nature, had been very aware of the sadness surrounding the Wilson household when first, the big, solid Mr Wilson, and then the cheerful son, Billy had not returned home. Mrs Wilson had wept and remained intermittently morose for some time. Mrs Wilson was, however, very comforted by Jack’s close proximity. She appreciated his gentle attentiveness and his empathy in the sharing of her sorrow.

    When Sergeant Clegg came to visit Mrs Wilson, he wiped his big army boots on her front doormat and respectfully removed his green serge army cap before stepping over the threshold of her terraced house. He waited to be offered a seat when she showed him into her tiny front parlour. When Mrs Wilson called his name, Jack came straight away from where he had been waiting in the kitchen. After introductions, Jack sat attentively beside Mrs Wilson.

    Sergeant Clegg explained the work of dogs as messengers in the Army, and their specific role on the Front Line. Sergeant Clegg was himself a dog handler and trainer. Mrs Wilson had told him about Jack’s abilities and temperament, and from his own observations of the dog’s intelligence and breed he was prompt in telling her that he thought it very possible that Jack would be accepted to join his regiment. A period of training would ensue before a commitment would be given. If Jack did not show aptitude he would be returned to her

    Sergeant Clegg, a kindly man, was keen to tell Mrs Wilson that messenger dogs were highly trained, highly respected, well cared for, and well-fed. Although sad at the thought of being without Jack, she felt comforted by Sergeant Clegg’s assurances.

    Jack had been Billy's dog, and she knew in her heart that her son would be proud to know that his mother was putting him forward for important military service, work that could save the lives of many men serving in the Army,

     When Sergeant Clegg had left the house, Mrs Wilson told Jack that he was a good boy and would do very well in the Army. She did not say more as she found herself reaching in her cardigan pocket for her handkerchief, and shedding a few tears.

    A week later Sergeant Clegg came back to collect Jack, and for Mrs Wilson to sign the paperwork. People from the street came out to wish Jack farewell, and to stand with Edna Wilson as she watched Sergeant Clegg’s van disappear around the corner, carrying the canine conscript. Aileen Thompson invited Edna back to her house for a cup of tea. It was a gesture in recognition of her sadness and courage and intended to soften the blow of separation. Another neighbour, Rosa Croft, commented that she thought Edna a heroine for giving up her beloved dog for such a good cause and that Jack would no doubt prove to be a real hero.

    Sergeant Clegg was as good as his word. He sent Mrs Wilson regular updates, in his own strong, clear handwriting on army stationery, telling of Jack’s progress in training for the Front. He reported that he had proved to be a quick learner, a fast runner and a determined achiever in the tasks set at training school. Sergeant Clegg also remarked on Jack’s intelligence and affection. Mrs Wilson had a slight pang of jealousy at the thought of Jack transferring his affections from herself to Sergeant Clegg but understood that this was absolutely necessary to enable Jack to take instruction willingly. It also indicated to her that by being willing, Jack was being well treated. She remembered how Jack had pined when Billy had gone off to war. For many weeks he looked out for him coming down the street and cocked his head if he heard a boy whistling like Billy. But as time passed he transferred his affection to Mrs Wilson and she had been grateful for this. It somehow made her feel closer to Billy. Sometimes she raised her eyes to the scullery ceiling when she was washing up in the chipped enamel bowl, and spoke out loud to her deceased son. It comforted her to speak out loud to him. It was a one-sided conversation of course, but she felt in her heart that he understood why she had taken the decision to offer Jack to the military. Although she communicated less so with her dead husband, John, in this way, she somehow felt that he would not have minded. He had been a good husband but not exactly the kind of man she could talk over her feelings with. Billy, on the other hand, had been a mother’s boy, a sensitive lad, whom she had nursed through measles and scarlet fever as a little boy of six. Through her fear of losing him during the epidemic, when so many children died, she had done her best to keep him well and safe as he grew up. By his teens he was a strong, wiry lad, He had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the army when the call-up had come. Although only just sixteen his parents had agreed they could not hold him back. The fact was, of course, that there was not much choice in the matter. The Government, under Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, had more or less ordered that all able-bodied men over the age of sixteen sign up.

   There had been a fever of bravado that had fuelled the call to arms, instigated by the well-known poster of an admired soldier, Kitchener, whose imposing moustached face and pointing finger reached out with the words Your Country Needs You. Young men rose to the challenge that spoke to their manliness and self-esteem. At last, they could escape their dreary lives and take the path to certain adventure and heroism.

    News of Jack spread about the local streets and provided a welcome distraction. Mrs Wilson was happy to share the updates from Sergeant Clegg. She was sometimes stopped by complete strangers asking after Jack.

    Reports about Jack, once he had been dispatched to the Front, were less frequent and quite terrifying at times to Mrs Wilson. She had had less news from her son and husband, who wrote little about the terrors of the war, the agonies of the men and the hellish conditions.

    From the letters about Jack, Edna learned more than she had ever done from the carefully worded letters from her spouse and child. The horror of war became real to Mrs Wilson through the scenes described of mud and chaos, and the horrors of the men’s injuries. She loved her husband and son even more for their bravery when she realised the terrible conditions and fear that they had lived with day by day, night after night, without respite. The only way out was by death, the only way home was by serious injury.

    In November 1917 an injured soldier from Sergeant Clegg's East Anglia Division came to visit Mrs Wilson. She welcomed him into her house and did not flinch at the sight of his badly disfigured face. He had returned home from Passchendale, after being shot, and losing the sight in his right eye. He had volunteered to visit Mrs Wilson and give her news of Jack. Jack, he said was still very much part of the regiment and all the men regarded him as a hero. He had saved many lives, including his own, and had often sat stoically beside injured infantrymen, giving them comfort as they lay dying in no-mans land. Corporal Green explained how Jack had lain across his bleeding and unconscious body until a fellow soldier had spotted him and hauled him back into the trenches as soon as it was safe enough to reach him. He was able to give Edna the sort of information that she had been longing to hear, but which was too secret to write about in letters from so close to enemy lines. She was told that Jack, and two other dogs, were used to carry messages in canisters around their necks to and from officers along the lengths of the trenches, across stretches of deeply rutted, wet, muddy terrain that a man would have struggled to cross quickly and safely enough due to his weight, and would have been an easy upright target. The dogs were light, fast, focused and ran close to the ground, often unseen and mainly out of target. When lines of communication were down the success of the dogs carrying messages to and from, was crucial to maintaining essential contact. The dogs had sometimes been caught in the crossfire and injured, but somehow always managed to get back to base, even if it took a whole day. Mrs Wilson cooked tea for Corporal Green before she sent him on his way. At the door, she was tempted to reach up and kiss his young ravaged cheek. But instead, she shook his hand, and as an afterthought lifted it to her face and lightly kissed the back of his hand.

    Edna Wilson felt humbled and yet sustained by that single afternoon visit from the injured corporal, and often thought about him and about Jack. Occasional short letters were received over the next few months, but they held little information, except to say that Jack had survived another gunshot wound, and damage to a paw from barbed wire.

     When, at last, the war with Germany ended in November 1918, the surviving troops began to straggle home, Mrs Wilson was at first swept up with the relief and elation and joined in celebrating with the whole country. Whilst the feeling of relief that the war over remained, Mrs Wilson felt sad with the renewed realisation that neither her husband nor her son would be returning home to her. It was a bitter pill. What sweetened it to some extent, was the news that Jack had survived and was coming home. It was Corporal Green who brought Jack home. Thinner and now limping from his wounds, Jack was none the less delighted to be home. Recognising Mrs Wilson he went to her with his tail wagging and as fast as his limp would allow. The whole street came out to make a fuss of him and admire the home-made serge jacket he was wearing, with badges of commendations for bravery pinned on.

     After a month convalescing at home, Jack was much improved. Life settled down for Jack and Mrs Wilson. Thanks to Jack , Mrs Wilson began to socialise more and it wasn’t long before she met Bert, a widower who made her laugh again. He had a little Yorkshire Terrier who got on well with Jack and they would all go for walks together.

     When a letter came from the Prime Minister's office, commending Jack for his work during the war, Mrs Wilson was touched and proud and had it framed. A few weeks later she received another letter from an organisation who trained guide dogs for the blind. It explained that as a result of their war injuries many servicemen had lost their sight and were struggling with rehabilitation and work prospects. The organisation was recruiting suitable dogs to act as guides and companions to these men and women. Jacks name had been put forward to them and they wondered if Mrs Wilson would consider allowing him to join the training programme.

    Edna and Bert talked it over and agreed that Jack would be ideal although they would miss him very much.

    The following year saw Edna and Bert married. Although they had a new puppy they never forgot Jack. For the rest of his working life, they visited him regularly. When Jack was ready for retirement he came home, to be loved and cherished for the hero that he was.

 

Copyright Jane Skoggins

 

 

Haiku

 

By Peter Woodgate 

 

Small but exquisite

Beautiful nature indoors

My lovely Bonzai

My Lovely Bonsai

 

OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE

By Bob French

It was a cold evening as Private John Hacker, an east-ender who had joined the army in 1915 and fought right to the end, stood in the forward observation trench just east of Mons in Belgium.  He had been on sentry duty since just after five in the afternoon.  Frank, the man he shared the duty with had left the trench some time ago to try and blagg some food and drink, and to be honest John didn’t expect him back much after early Christmas morning. As he stared out into the darkening wilderness a tall figure appeared out of the shadows and stood next to him.  It was a Sergeant and John nodded to him. 

After a while, John turned to the man. “Private John Hacker Sarge, Essex Regiment.  The tall sergeant nodded.

“Alex Coventry, Fourth Middlesex.  They stood silently looking out over the land that stretched out into the darkness.  It was ten o’clock on Christmas Eve, 1918 and the war to end all wars had finally come to a close.  All that was left was to mop up the dregs of the German Army as they made their way home and help the civilian population where ever they could.

“’Ear Sarge.  How long you been at war then, an’ what’s it like when it ends?”

“Depends.  Civies celebrate by dancing in the streets singing God save the King, others quietly mourn their loss. I can tell you that when you do gets ‘ome, you’ll notice it.”  He paused for a while. “To be honest, you don’t feel much whilst you out in these bloody trenches with your mates.  I can remember getting ‘ome on leave last year.  Me, the missus and the kids took a while getting used to each other, but it’s the men who suffer from the trauma of the war ya feel sorry for. Sometimes it takes them a long time to adjust; some never do.  It’s different for each man and his family.”

“You mean they have terrible memories of the days and months, sitting in a slime ridden trench just waiting for a shell to blast them to pieces?”

The sergeant nodded. “Ay. You can be the best bloody infantryman in the battalion.  If a shell hits your trench then is curtains.  Jerrie's shell recognizes no one.  It just indiscriminate slaughters.”  He paused again as he stared out into the darkness.  “It’s the waiting that does it to the mind.”

“I hear tell that during the retreat back from Mons in 14, we….”

Sergeant Coventry turned suddenly, interrupting John. “Listen, Lad, the British Army never retreats got it.  They withdraw until they finds a better position so they can take the fight back to the bloody Hun.”

John Hacker nodded silently “Sorry sarge, all I was goin’ ta ask was were those stories about our lads seeing them angles and British bowmen during the battle of Mons.   Were they true?”

Sergeant Coventry stared silently out over the dark landscape. Frost had already settled on the land, blanketing the torn and destroyed features that nature had taken hundreds of years to create, in a white coat as though making a statement to all who looked out over the land, that peace had arrived. 

“Yeh, I heard about them.  When I was having my arm bandaged at the dressing station some time back, I ‘eard a Medical Officer explaining to one of the colonels.  He said that the men had been on their chi-strap.”  Private Hacker frown at the expression until Sergeant Coventry paused to explain. “When some men who have had to force march for a couple of days to get into position, then before they could get a chance to eat or sleep, theys asked to force march again for a couple more days in blistering sunshine with little or no water, they tend to have hallucination.  That’s what he was saying the men had suffered from.”

They both stood quietly staring out into the dark for about half an hour, when Alex Hacker suddenly looked up.

“What is it?”

“I thought I saw something move out there.”

“What direction and how far out Lad?”

“Dunnow Sarge.  But I definitely saw something move.”

“Probably the ghosts of Christmas Past.”

Alex Hacker stared at the sergeant for a few seconds too long until the sergeant spoke in a quiet voice.

“After every war, those whose bodies don’t find their way home, wander the battle fields on Christmas Eve.  They meet up as comrades, regardless of whose side they fought on.  Each year there are a few who find peace as their bodies are found and repatriated, and those who continually walk the battlefields waiting to be found.”

John Hacker felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and he shivered a little, but not from the cold, but from the unknown.

“Are they out there now Sarge?”

The sergeant didn’t answer straight away.  “Depends. You have to listen real hard to the wind on the barbed wire round about eleven forty-five on Christmas Eve.  If you’re lucky enough, you may hear them singing Silent Night.”

“How long do they sing for Sarge?”

“Until midnight, then they fades away.

“John Hacker, with wide eyes, stared at the sergeant, then turned to face the dark expanse and listened.  He must have been there for about ten minutes when softly at first, then a little louder he heard on the cold wind that rushed at him from the east the words of the Christmas Carol of Silent Night.

“Sarge, I heard it……  Sarge.”

Private John Hacker turned to explain, but he was alone.  He had not heard the sergeant leave, just as he remembered that he never heard the sergeant arrive.

In a huge hollow created by an artillery shell a few hundred yards from the forward observation trenches of the British Expeditionary Force, just outside Mons two British soldiers sat waiting.

“How you been Alfred?”

“Can’t grumble mate.”

“Where’s Harry then?”

Alfred and his friend Harry, had been killed in the first few hours of the war and just before last Christmas, Harry’s body had been found and had received a proper military funeral, and as such, had found peace.

“Harry didn’t make it last Christmas, so I am thinking he found peace, lucky blighter.” Just then another person slid down the wall of the hollow.

“Well if it ain’t my old friend Manfred. How you been mate.”  Before the German sergeant could reply, a young French officer slipped down beside him.

“Philippe my old son.  Good to see ya. Thought for a minute you weren’t going to make it.”

The French officer smiled and realised that some of his old friends were no longer present. “Have we lost some of our comrades my friend?”

Manfred nodded.  “Yes, but that is good, no?”

They talked for a while about their families and what they would be doing this Christmas, then they began to sing Silent Night.  As they did, a man slipped over the edge of the hollow and slid down to join his comrades.

The French officer reached out and shook hands.

“It is good to see you, Alex Coventry. I wish you peace at this Christmas time mon ami.”

They sang quietly until the night sky grew very dark and still.  It was Christmas day.

As if by magic, it started to snow and as the men sat in the hollow singing Silent Night, like the snowflakes that floated on the gentle wind, they slowly faded away.

Christmas story 4 of 4.

 Copyright Bob French

 

Let’s Hear it for the Buses

by Rosemary Clarke

They've been with us
The whole time through
They're usually punctual
Rarely blue
And through it all
Not made a fuss
What would we do
Without a bus
For some of us
They're a lifeline
Those buses try
To be on time
But roadblocks, jams
And other folks

Make driving really
Past a joke
So when you board
Just spare a thought
If in the town
You do get caught
They have dependents
Just like us
So if they're late
Don't make a fuss
Without the buses
We'd be lost
Just help them all
Don't count the cost
It isn't such
A heavy task
Use cleansing gel
And wear a mask
Then they should all
Be very safe
And no one has to
Buy a wreath
For our bus drivers
Everywhere
Look after them
They need our care.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

TIMEWALK     (part three of five)

 by Richard Banks        

I return home along the pedestrian highway. For the first time in a long time, I'm glad to be back in the here and now. There's no traffic snapping at my heels, and only minutes away is Greta's cooking and an Egor-free flat. It is not until I am on the landing and reaching for my key card that my good mood is all but erased by the thought that nothing may have changed. I open the door, half expecting Egor to be there. For a few moments logic has deserted me, in another, it is restored.  

         Greta stands at the oven, obscured by a cloud of steam, but unmistakeably Greta. Mia is setting the table and two unfamiliar figures, a man and a woman, sit either side of the window. The woman gets up and greets me as though we are good friends. She kisses me on the lips. I figure we are more than good friends. The man stays seated and acknowledges my presence with an open palm salute. There is no baby and no Eli. I ask where he is and almost instantly regrets doing so. No one knows him. They look puzzled and I make up some story about expecting a visitor. We drink our vodka and talk. Everyone is at ease with each other, we laugh, there is careless talk about politics. No one suspects any of the others of being a spy, the secrets of the room stay in the room. During dinner, I discover the woman's name is Cheshire. She sits next to me and runs her hand up and down my thigh. The man is Lew, an American, from the Southern Confederacy. He has only recently arrived, having replaced someone called Dee. He has an open, easy-going way, that everybody has taken to. He also has a guitar and offers to play us some few tunes after the President's broadcast. As this is on all TV channels and the loudspeakers there is no escaping it. We watch it on Sky State. There is a brief introduction and the scene switches to Unity Hall, where a guy called Palmer is about to address the People's Assembly.

         “What's happened to Hurst,” I ask, wishing I hadn't. I get more odd looks

         This is crazy. The only change should be Egor. So where are Hurst and Eli? Why them? Could it be they are links in the same chain? Powerful people were watching over Egor, Eli as good as said it. Had Hurst delegated the watching to Eli? Why else would a party member be slumming it in grade C accommodation? It makes sense. With Egor gone, never born, why would Eli be here. And what of Hurst, our President for nearly five years, who no one remembers any more. Has he also ceased to exist? How could my five minutes of play-acting make that happen? And then I know it did. Eli said that Josef Herschel had only one son. He was lying and with good reason. I take the photograph of Josef from my jacket and study his face, the prominent forehead, the olive drab eyes, the flared nostrils of his flat nose and know him for what he was, the father of Egor, and Joseph Hurst.

         Palmer comes to the end of his speech and after the obligatory standing ovation vacates the rostrum and returns to the VIP seating at the back of the stage. He resumes his place in the front row and accepts the congratulations of those either side of him. A familiar figure sitting directly behind him leans forward to add some words of his own. The weasel face is fuller now, better fed, his standard-issue denim replaced by a tailored suit. It's Eli, but not the one I knew. The transmission ends and normal programming resumes. It's a quiz show called Stick or Slide. Cheshire asks if anyone wants to watch, “this rubbish,” and when nobody does she switches it off.

         Lew and I have the job of washing the dishes. Apparently, there's a rota but where it is no one knows. Lew doubts whether it ever existed, but Tuesday, according to Cheshire, is definitely one of our days. We go down to the utility room and load up a machine. There's fifteen minutes until it starts, time to talk, to get up to speed. Lew also wants to talk. He suggests we have a cigarette on the roof. He says it will be quiet there and he's got some good wack that will keep us happy for the rest of the night. We go up in the lift and sure enough, we have the roof to ourselves.  We light up and Lew starts talking about jazz, how no one plays it any more, about the music library in Patriots' Square and how he is a member.

         I express surprise. “Isn't that for officials?”

         He gets up from the bench we've been sitting on and wanders off a few paces. When he faces me again he has a gun in his hand. He tells me to sit tight and keep smoking. His voice is unchanged; he could still be talking about music, the weather or any other everyday thing. He says that he usually shoots his targets without warning. But with me it's different. He wants me to know that it's nothing personal. I'm a regular guy and he likes me, but business is business and he isn't allowed to pick and choose.  If it was up to him this wouldn't be happening but evidently, I've pissed off someone important and that's never a good idea.

         “Do you want to finish the cigarette?” he asks.

         I nod. It's good stuff and the fact that I'm about to kick the bucket seems almost irrelevant.

         “So who is it that wants me dead? Eli Weisman? Is that who?”

         He shrugs his shoulders. “Who knows. I get my orders from a guy who gets his from someone else. Where it starts I don't know. Best not to know. All I can tell you is that this is about you knowing more than is good for you. At least, that's the rumour.” 

         “Did anyone mention Timewalk? How the President shouldn't be the President because I ...”

         “Stop it there!” His demeanour changes. “I don't want to know and you ain't going to tell me. Now stand up, this has gone on long enough.”

         I do what he says. He aims and the sharp ping of a laser gun sends him crashing to the ground.

         “Are you okay?” My deliverer steps out of the shadows and stoops down to inspect the hole in Lew's back. Cheshire returns the slimline she's holding to her jacket. For a second time, she asks if I'm okay.

         I'm not sure what I am. For a man who's had a near-death experience I'm feeling foolishly content with the world and my place in it. Then reality comes rushing back.

         “Yeah, yeah I'm okay.” I want to ask her what the hell is going on, but think better of it. Anything I say is likely to be a mistake. My angel delight, if that's what she is, is a dangerous girl. Thank the Lord we're on the same side, whatever that is. Say nothing, let her do the talking. She does.

         “So good old Lew was a government hitman. Who would have thought it? I wonder how long he's been onto us?”

          Her question is a rhetorical one, so she's not fussed when I don't answer, which is just as well as the answers, I have related to a reality that doesn't include Cheshire or Lew. I mean they were probably around shooting people or doing whatever else they do, but they weren't a part of my life and how I wish it was back, my discontented but blissfully humdrum life.

         I've been silent too long and Cheshire's giving me the sort of look that makes me think I should be saying or doing something, so to fill the gap I ask her what she thinks we should be doing. Maybe I'm the one who should be making the decisions, but somehow that doesn't seem likely. As I thought, she's not short of a plan.

         “We need to get out of here and warn the others, tell them what's happened.”

         As plans go this one suffers from the disadvantage that anyone breaking the curfew is likely to find themselves on the wrong side of the police or a criminal gang.

         “What if we're being watched?” I say. “Couldn't we send them a text?”

         Cheshire snorts in disbelief. “Are you crazy? M16 be reading every word. Get your gun. If we have to we'll go out blasting.”

         I return to the flat and open up my locker, where I'm surmising my gun is. I'm not mistaken, and without stopping to say goodbye, or anything else, to Greta and Mia, I rush out onto the landing where Cheshire has stopped the lift and is now pointing her gun at its only occupant. She orders him out of it in the name of the Revolutionary Brotherhood and we descend the thirty-two floors to ground level. Things are getting clearer now. The Brotherhood is the military wing of a proscribed organisation that wants to turn the clock back to the bad old days of universal suffrage and civil rights. At least that's how the Government sees it and up to now, I've kept well clear of an argument that involves both sides shooting on sight. We reach the ground floor and as the doors, open Cheshire braces herself for a volley of gunfire.  When nothing happens she charges across the lobby floor and peers through the glass door into the street.

         “What do you think?” she asks.

         What I think is part of a much longer conversation that we don't have time for now, so I say, “lets roll.” Not only does this sound like the kind of thing an urban freedom fighter should be saying but involves zero chance of us being shot; no one's outside because Lew was a lone assassin whose only mission was to kill me. In order to enhance my credibility, I dash out into the street waving my gun wildly through 180 degrees and signalling Cheshire to follow me. Having done so she veers off to the right with a turn of speed that has me struggling to keep up. At the first intersection, we take another right into a road that is suddenly plunged into darkness in anticipation of the curfew. We slow down and as our eyes become accustomed to the dark the faint hum of an electric motor warns us that someone else is about. The humming gets louder and the darkness is pierced by the flashing blue light of a retrieval van. It's coming our way, so we duck down behind a refuse shoot and wait for it to pass. It stops. A man gets out and with the aid of a torch examines a mound of debris piled up against a wall. He declares it to be clear.       

         “Where the hell are they?” he complains. “How can I make a living if there's no bums.” A voice from within the van says that if they can't find enough stiffs they will have to take out some still breathing. The other man concurs and suggests they try their luck by the river. He gets back in the van and they continue on.

         Cheshire takes a deep breath and announces, “we're going down.”

         I consider the likely connotations of this expression and decide that I have no idea what she is talking about. “Down?” I say.

         “Yes, get it up.”

         “Up?” I say.

         She waves her gun at a manhole cover in the middle of the street. “Get it up, we're going down the sewer.”

         This is probably Cheshire's best idea to date. Whatever is down there can't be worse than what's up above, so I rush out into the street and start clawing at the cover. Fortunately, there's a gap between it and the metal surround. I insert my fingers, pull hard and the cover flips up and over. Buoyed by the unexpected success of my efforts I signal Cheshire to join me, but she's already on her way. She scrambles down into the hole and descends the metal ladder within. I drag back the cover and follow on. Cheshire switches on her mobile and directs its light down to the sewer, where a steady flow of goodness knows what awaits us.

         We step down off the ladder and sink ankle-deep into a fetid cocktail of sludge and water. The sewer's too small in which to stand, so Cheshire drops down onto her knees and starts crawling towards what she says is the main sewer. Not only am I the newest revolutionary in town, but with Cheshire kicking muck and water into my face I'm also the dirtiest, and if there's anyone smellier I don't want to meet them. We get to the main sewer just in time to be almost immersed in a surge of liquid waste. Cheshire staggers to her feet and hits out at a large rat that's attached itself to her jacket. Having vanquished the rat with a right hook to its whiskers she declares that, “we're nearly there,” which means we're wading through more of the same for the next ten minutes.

           Just when I'm thinking she's lost her way Cheshire shines her mobile at a flight of steps below a vertical shaft. We climb up the ladder within and push up past the cover into cold air and the light of a first-quarter moon. We're in a road of detached villas which can only be part of a gated compound. Cheshire races down the road, before turning into the driveway of a house that's all but hidden behind a large fir tree. She rings the bell; two short rings followed by one long. We wait several minutes and are about to ring again when the door half opens and then stops. The shadow of a face peers out at us.

        Copyright Richard Banks