My Short Story in 'The Best of CaféLit 3'.

I am proud to say that I believe I can now consider myself as a writer: one of my short stories has been included in the anthology 'The Best of CaféLit 3'.

A collection of 'The Best of …' stories posted on the CaféLit ezine in 2013 – which includes my short story, 'Mrs Prendacast's Handbag' – has recently been published in paperback and e-book format for the Amazon Kindle. Both options are available here.

In July 2013 I was pleased that the story was published on the CaféLit website and the CaféLit Creative Café Project weblog, which have connections with the Salford University. These are published as part of The Creative Café Project.

No Inflatables -- Colchonetas No

What could be the repercussions of ignoring this rule?

Mark and Jane were enjoying their two-week honeymoon, staying in her parent's Spanish holiday villa, in a compact residential urbanization in the Costa Blanca. They had been married on Jane's twenty-first birthday and Mark is almost three years older.

It was the seventh day of their married life. The cloudless azure sky was offering no protection from the searing heat of the blazing fireball directly above them. To try to cool themselves they decided to use the communal swimming pool for a refreshing dip in the crystal clear water. It was only the second day that they had used the facility.

On the previous occasion, two days before, it had been brought to their attention, by two of the older and permanent residents within the complex, that the use of inflatable air-beds or similar objects was not permitted in the pool area. George, a placid and polite gentlemen, on entering the area and seeing Mark and Jane's inflatable armchair floating on the water had said: “It's not Edith's and my intention to be killjoys but air-bed type things are not permitted in the pool. The rules displayed on the poolside notice board clearly confirm this fact.”

“My parents own part of this pool so the rules don't apply to us. The rules are only for visitors so we'll do what we want when we want,” retorted Jane.

“The rules are for the safety of everyone using the area,” Edith replied amicably.

“It's a stupid rule,” said Mark, adding as an afterthought, “and we don't need boring old farts telling us what to do.”

From the solarium of the villa they could see that no one else was in the pool area so they decided to continue to ignore the rules and for the second time take the fuchsia blow-up armchair for Jane to use on the water. Mark had purchased the throne for his princess on their visit to the beach, at the start of their holiday, as it was in her favourite colour.

Although both she and Mark were adequate swimmers, Jane found the movement of the floating armchair on the water, when Mark created breaking waves each time he performed one of his show-off dives, a little unnerving. She liked to keep the buoyant armchair close; within a steadying arm's reach; to the promenade edge of the pool to ensure she wasn't tipped over into the water. Especially today as she didn't want to get her hair wet.

After fifteen minutes of Jane sitting relaxed and regal in the floating princess' throne and Mark getting bored with executing his mediocre range of dives he said: “Come on Jane you can't sit there all of the time, get in and have a swim.”

“No; I've told you as we're going out tonight I don't want to get my hair wet. That travel hair dryer is useless.”

“Never mind that I'm sure I've seen a more powerful one in your mum's wardrobe.”

With that Mark dived into the water. Keeping himself underwater, as close to the bottom of the pool as possible, he swam towards Jane and positioned himself directly under the inflatable, invisible to her sitting relaxed above. He bent his legs, bringing his knees as close to his chest as possible, with his feet touching the base of the pool. He stretched his arms straight-up towards the underside of Jane's floating haven and uncoiled his ranine legs, pushing hard onto the floor to give him maximum speed towards the surface. The combination of the forces, of his hands hitting the armchair and the bow wave created by his rapid movement through the water, threw Jane from the lifting, capsizing inflatable towards the side of the pool. Everything happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she wasn't able to react to protect herself. Her scream was silenced when her head crashed into the overhanging kerb-stone of the pool edge.

Pleased with his successful torpedoing of Jane into the water, Mark quickly swam underwater to the shallow end of the pool to protect himself from the anticipated wrath of Jane, by putting distance between the two of them. On surfacing, his underwater internal chuckling changed to external raucous laughing. His eyes were drawn first to the large fuchsia island floating upside-down on the far side of the pool. He looked for Jane, expecting to see her rapidly swimming towards him to reap her revenge. But she wasn't: Jane was lying face down, motionless in the water.

He waited a few moments anticipating a sudden movement when she would start her attack. She remained still: the only movement was the effect of the ripples in the water on her body. He thought she couldn't hold her breath much longer. She didn't raise her head to breathe.

“Come on Jane, enough is enough, stop mucking about.” He waited for a reaction – there wasn't one.

“Jane! Stop it!” he shouted and speedily swam towards her.

On reaching her, he grabbed hold of her shoulder that was furthest away from him and pulled it towards himself to roll her onto her back. He expected her to attack him but she lay motionless. There was no gasping for breath. Her glassy eyes were staring skywards. Her lips had a light blue hue. There was a large graze and bruising to her temple. She was unconscious.

Mark knew he had to get Jane out of the water and get her breathing. He pushed her to the side of the pool. He tried to lift her out but the water was too deep; he couldn't stand on the bottom; so each time he tried, her weight pushed him underwater. He leapt out of the water onto the side, and tried to lift her from there. He couldn't hold on to her wet body, her flimsy bikini didn't give him enough fabric to grip hold of, and she was too heavy for him on his own. They were alone in the swimming pool area.

He started shouting: “Help . . . Help . . . I need help here!”

There wasn't any response. No one seemed to be about. It was the middle of siesta time, the hottest part of the day, so most sensible people were indoors in the cool shade.

The only way he was going to get her out of the water was to move her to the shallow end. He grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her along like a floating manikin.

He continued shouting: “Help . . . Help . . . I need help here in the pool!”

Once he'd got Jane to where he thought the water was shallow enough Mark jumped into the water alongside her. He put his arms underneath Jane and started to lift her. As soon as her body was level with the beige kerb-stones he rolled her away from himself towards the safety of dry land.

He heard a male voice, from the area of the entrance gate into the pool area: “Hello in there, how can I help you?”

“My wife has had an accident in the water. I don't think she's breathing. Please come and help me.”

“The gate is locked. I can't get in.”

“I'll get our key and come and let you in.” Mark said as he rushed to where Jane and he had put their towels. He couldn't find it. “I can't find the bunch of keys. Where the hell is it. . . Damn she must have had it with her sunglasses and mobile phone in the cup holder in the armchair. As it's turned over they're all at the bottom of the pool. Please call 112 and tell them I need an ambulance for her urgently.”

“No problem. I'll also go and find someone who's got a key so the medics can get in when they arrive. I'll get some extra help.”

Mark knew he had to do something to start Jane breathing. He hadn't had any training in giving CPR but he'd seen it being enacted in television programmes. He had to try. Anything was better than nothing.

George and Edith had risen from their siesta and as they leisurely approached the pool area for their daily rejuvenating swim they could see the fuchsia inflatable and Mark leaning over Jane, his arms outstretched in front of himself, repeatedly pushing down on her chest.

“What game are those two love-birds up-to now? We could do without rudeness from them again,” said George.

“There's something wrong George, I can sense it, come on hurry-up let's get in there.”

“She's not breathing; I can't get her to breathe; I don't know what I'm supposed to do!” shouted Mark when they reached him.

“Come on son, get up out the way, let Edith deal with this; she's a retired accident and emergency nurse. I'll do my bit by calling 'Emergencies' on 112.” He refrained from mentioning to Mark that they might be old but they weren't useless old farts. Now was not the time – perhaps later.

Edith went into automatic mode. She knelt down beside Jane, placed one hand over the other, fingers interlocked, on her patients breastbone, in-line with the nipples, and started the rapid depressions. She was thinking to herself: 'Push 1, 2, 3 . . . . 28, 29,30. Hold the head back; make sure the airway is clear; pinch the nose; cover the mouth and blow in two breaths. Push 1, 2, 3 . . .

It was nearly twelve minutes, although it seemed like hours had passed, before they heard the duo-tone siren of the SUMA ambulance coming to help. George had ensured that the entrance gates to the complex and the swimming pool had been secured open to allow the medics fast, easy access. Edith was tiring; her energy and strength almost used up doing CPR during the long wait; and relieved to hand over to the ambulance team. She was despondent, distraught that she hadn't managed to get Jane to return.

The conclusion of the investigation carried out by the Guardia Civil officers who attended the scene was that it was an unfortunate case of accidental death. Jane had become unbalanced when she climbed onto the inflatable armchair, that contrary to the rules of the complex was being used in the swimming pool. She had slipped, fallen, hit the temple part of her head on the poolside kerb-stone, and drowned as a result of being unconscious and lying face down for too long a time in the water. The medical autopsy revealed Jane had a thinning of the skull in the region of her temple resulting in a fracture and an intra cranial haemorrhage.

Mark had been the only witness to what had actually happened and why. He knows who is truly responsible for Jane losing her life; for him becoming a widower at twenty-four years of age; for Jane's parents losing their only daughter.

Will he ignore safety rules in the future?

  © Elliot Sampford 2013

Mrs Prendacast's handbag

Image courtesy of  John Kasawa / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Three weeks prior to the eventful, possibly life-changing day, Jack returned to his family village having completed two years of his latest prison sentence. During the last twenty years of his life fifteen of them have been spent incarcerated at 'Her Majesty's' pleasure: punishment for his regular straying from the 'strait and narrow'.

His parents, Ted and Mary, still live in the ancestral two bedroom terraced cottage. At forty- two years old he has no option but to live at home. As a result of his extensive criminal record, full-time employment is not an option available to him so he doesn't have a regular wage income, just minimal social benefits. He needs to accept their offer of free accommodation.

Apart from when he has to leave the village for the pointless visit to the job centre; he spends the majority of his days sitting on one of the benches on the village green breathing the free, fresh country air. The claustrophobia he's developed in prison means he needs to be outside rather than spending his time sitting indoors in the small cottage. He has spent too much 'time' in small rooms.

He knows the majority of the villagers consider him bone-idle and not to be trusted. There are some who use him occasionally as a cheap, cash-in-hand, dogsbody for the unpleasant jobs they consider below their status. Mrs Prendacast and the members of her social circle are vociferous in their public condemnation of Jack's life style: his sponging off his parents and society.

During his most recent prison term Jack decided he needs to change before the cell walls crush him for ever. The physical fitness routine and the education programme he undertook had the goal of producing a new Jack. But could he change? Was he fooling himself?

Last Monday morning started the same as the previous three since his release. Jack was sitting at his usual place watching the villagers going about their normal routines. He noted the older folks going into the combination village shop and post office. He assumed they were cashing some of their pension to buy a few bits and bobs. He saw Mrs Prendacast go in. He doubted if she really needed the money given the large house she lives in and the expensive car her husband drives.

When she came out, he saw her checking her money again in her purse to make sure it was safely tucked away. She then put the purse in her handbag which in turn she hung on her left shoulder. The shoulder nearest to the road as she walked away from the shop.

Jack noticed a cyclist, who he recognised from his prison days, travelling down the road behind, and going in the same direction as the walking Mrs Prendacast. She did not seem aware of the fast moving cyclist, that she was his target, and that the gap between them was rapidly reducing.

Jack knew what he had to do.

He leapt to his feet and started his dash towards Mrs Prendacast. He knew his new level of physical fitness would get him to the right position and at the right time for his plan to be successful.

As Jack's feet left the soft, slippery grass of the village green; still on the opposite side of the road to them; the cyclist drew level with Mrs Prendacast. Jack knew what was going to happen next. As his feet came in contact with the firm, abrasive tarmac he accelerated his sprinting speed to ensure he reached the far side of the road in time. He had to successfully complete his part in the action.

Jack heard Mrs Prendacast scream out: 'Help! Help me someone! He's stolen my bag! Thief! Stop that thief!'

The cyclist had violently grabbed the handbag from Mrs Prendacast's shoulder as he passed her. He pushed hard on the pedals of the bike to get away as fast as he could.

He'd been concentrating on his prey and obviously hadn't noticed Jack coming at speed from his left. He clearly didn't see the flying tackle coming. He would suddenly have felt the full strength and weight of Jack as the body-check crashed into his upper torso. A pair of arms wrapped around his chest as he was forcibly grabbed from his bike and dumped on the pavement.

The crash onto the paving slabs appeared to knock all the air from his lungs, and the weight of Jack's body bearing down on him, meant there was no struggle to escape or movement of any kind by the cyclist. Two workmen who had seen and heard the mêlée of the attempted mugging ran to help Jack restrain the failed robber.

Once they had control of the mugger Jack removed Mrs Prendacast's handbag from his grasp and handed it back to her, with the sarcastic comment: 'Best to keep a firmer hold of it in future. You never know if there are thieves and spongers about!'

'Thank you. . . Thank you . . . for your help,' she stammered, 'I never expected that of you!'

Mrs Prendacast, the members of her social circle, and other villagers are no doubt now wondering; has Jack changed from poacher to gamekeeper? Or is it part of another of his con tricks?

But they'll have to wait and see – won't they?

© Elliot Sampford 2013

Edited: 12.07.13
I am pleased to say that this story has also been published on the CafeLit website and weblog:
 http://cafelit.co.uk/MrsPrendacastsHandbag.html 
http://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/mrs-prendacasts-handbag.html 

Unsatisfactory Weblog content

My apologies to those who regularly visit my weblog for the reduced quality and quantity of my articles and short stories of late.

My writing has fallen by the wayside recently as a result of a combination of several factors. Personal life changes in the last couple of months have taken up quite a substantial percentage of my time, physical and thinking. A tumble in my level of confidence in my writing ability has kept the pen from my hand and my fingers from the keyboard.

The life changes, so far, have been made successfully and bode well for the future. A recent complimentary comment - “Enjoyed reading this, now I'm off to read more of your work” - made on one of my short stories, I believe may be a catalyst in the start to the rebuilding of confidence. A revision of the 'How to' books on writing is called for.

I hope you will see and read an improved content over the next few weeks and ongoing.

Debriefing.

The police station front-counter sergeant was sitting behind his desk, day-dreaming about his allotment. The noise of the automatic entrance doors opening brought his mind back to reality. He got up from his desk and went to the counter. Waiting for him the other side of it stood an unkempt, unshaven vagrant wearing a dirty, ripped army greatcoat. On his head was a maroon beret with a Parachute Regiment cap badge. A rusty shopping trolley full of what looked liked rubbish was parked beside the reception area chairs.

“Corporal Richards reporting Sergeant. I'm here for my debriefing after the skirmish on my patrol this morning.”

“What are you going on about old man? What the heck is that shopping trolley doing in my reception area?”

“That's all my kit in there. That's the easiest way to move it about as I can't carry it because of my spine problems.”

“Well I'm not having that filthy thing and rubbish in here; take it and yourself back outside and go away.”

“I can't leave it out there; someone will try and steal it again. That's what the two men tried to do this morning. I warned them not to but they didn't listen. They attacked me so I had to kill them to save myself.”

“What are you going on about? I don't have time to waste chatting to you. Now out you go.”

“I was on my daily patrol this morning going through an alley towards the common when I was confronted by two men wearing hoodies. They blocked my way and tried to steal my gear. I told them to clear off and let me pass – but they wouldn't. They each had a knife and tried to kill me – but I was too fast for them.”

“So you ran away from them and came here to waste my time complaining and boring me with your story.”

“No! I told you Sergeant; I killed them and I've reported here for my debriefing.”

“That's it I've had enough of your nonsense! Get yourself and your rubbish filled trolley out of my reception and my sight or I'll find something to arrest you for, and lock you up. Now move!”

Ex-corporal Richards lifted his right leg, bending it at the knee, moved it next to his left leg, slammed his foot to the ground. Standing at attention he shouted: “Yes Sergeant, right-away Sergeant.” He executed a smart military about-turn, collected his trolley, and marched out of the building at double-quick-time.

The sergeant returned to his desk and his day-dreaming.

Awhile later a telephone in the rear of the office started ringing. A Constable standing nearby lifted the receiver to answer the call: “Hello?” He listened to the voice at the other end of the connection for a few seconds and said: “OK I'll tell him,” and replaced the handset, ending the call.

“Hey sarge two bodies have been found in the alley that leads from the high street towards the common.”

© Elliot Sampford 2013



If you haven't already, you might like to read my other short story on this theme: 'Utrinque Paratus'

Utrinque Paratus.

Nick and Jack had seen the unkempt, hunched tramp pushing the rusty shopping trolley, full of what they assumed was rubbish, on the common yesterday. Now he was walking down the deserted alley which connects the lower and quiet end of the town's high street to the common, passing through their gang's patch within the council owned housing estate. It was their allotted task today to monitor anyone using the gang's alley.

“Hey Jack, let's have some fun with the dirty old man. Let's see what he's got in his trolley.”

“Yeah, a good idea Nick, I'm getting bored doing nothing. He might have something in there that we want.”

They slouched towards their prey; their hoodies covering most of their faces, their hands in the pockets.

“Hey you where do you think you're going?” asked Jack.

“What you got in your trolley then old man?” added Nick.

The vagrant bent forward over his trolley, as if to shield its contents, ignored the questions and continued on his way, unfortunately towards the hoodies. As he got closer to them he moved to the left of the wide path to bypass them. Jack moved to his right, stood in-front of the trolley, grabbed hold of it, at the same time putting his foot on the bottom bar of the frame, and stopped the man and trolley in their tracks.

“We asked you some questions you old git. Are you deaf or what?” said Jack menacingly.

“What you doing coming down our lane old man? Show us what you've got in there.” said Nick as he put his hand forward with the intention of reaching into the trolley.

The man laid over his worldly possessions to protect them. At the same time he pushed Nick's arm away with his own. He tried to move the trolley forward away from the two trouble makers. They both moved threateningly closer to the drifter.

“Hey watch it old man, let us see what you've got in there.” said Nick.

“If you know what's good for you you'll show us. You might have something we want” Jack said as he tried to reach into the trolley.

“Leave me alone!”

“What did you say?” said Jack.

“Leave me alone please,” the wanderer repeated: “I haven't done you any harm.”

“Oh yes you have. You've come down our path without our say-so and you just hit my mate.”

“I didn't. I just pushed his arm away from my things.”

“You hit me,” said Nick, “so I'll have what I want out of your trolley as payback. Get out of my way.”

“No! They're my things and you're not having any of them. Leave me alone,” said the vagabond as he moved the trolley further away from the youths positioning himself between them and his possessions. “You don't touch another man's kit.”

“You think so old man,” said Nick. He put his right hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a knife and pointed the blade at the vagrant. “Now clear off unless you want some of this. Your trolley is ours now.”

“You're not having my kit. Go away and leave me alone – if you know what's good for you.”

“Stick him Nick, the dirty old git deserves it. We'll show him he can't mess with us. Go on stick him.”

Nick suddenly leapt towards the vagrant and at the same time thrust his hand holding the knife forward to stab the old man.

But he wasn't a slow old man any-more. With lightening reaction the traveller moved sidewards. He grabbed hold of Nick's knife wielding hand with his right hand. At the same time his left hand grabbed hold of Nick's elbow and pulled it sharply to the left making the arm fold back on its self. The sharp, deadly blade was now pointed towards Nick. With the momentum of his body travelling towards the tramp; who at the same time forced the knife-holding-hand back towards its owner. Nick's knife was plunged deep into his own abdomen. After forcing the weapon upwards; the man released his grip of the knife hand and took a step back. Nick bent his head looking with amazement at the knife protruding from his stomach. At the same moment the drifter landed an upper-cut karate kick to Nick's jaw. The accurately placed, forceful blow sending Nick's dying body hurtling backwards to the ground.

Instead of stopping for a moment to think, and then run away, which would have saved his life: Jack launched his own attack on the wanderer. He pulled the large Bowie knife from its cover in his trousers' hip pocket with his right hand and made a sweeping thrust towards his mate's attacker. The drifter took half a step back. The blade passed in front of him almost close enough to shave off his beard. With no contact, the momentum of Jack's sweeping arm and the lack of grip of his shoes on the gravel path spun him off balance. His back was now towards the tramp. He was now the victim. He felt an arm wrap around his upper chest from the left and grab hold of his right shoulder blade. Another hand from the right grabbed hold of his jaw and violently twisted his head to the right. The last sound Jack heard was a thunderous 'crack'. His limp body was dropped to the ground.

The drifter returned to his shopping trolley and rummaged amongst his worldly possessions for the maroon beret he'd earned and loved so much. As he put it on, cap badge over his left eye, cloth smoothed tightly to his head, he quietly said: “Utrinque Paratus”. He stood up straight and started to push the trolley to continue his journey. He calmly looked down at the two corpses saying: “What a waste. I thought my killing days were over. Why couldn't you have left me alone?”

© Elliot Sampford 2013

I have published another short story on this theme entitled 'Debriefing'

We've been robbed!

It was a normal day's work for me: shopping in other peoples' homes.

I arrived a little later than usual at my lock-up garage, where I keep my white van. I don't keep it at home because I have to keep my current work and personal lives separate from each other. My wife Kathy still thinks I work in the personal taxation department of the Inland Revenue so I leave the house at the same time every week day morning.

My first task each morning is to choose which set of the magnetic advertising signs to put on the van. There is one for each day; 'Stop-tap Plumbers', 'Power Electrics', 'Aerial Installations', 'Spick & Span Decorators' and 'Green Finger Gardeners'. To compliment these I have a choice of three sets of vehicle number plates. I keep a diary of which sets of signs and numbers have been used each day. As well as changing the appearance of my van I change my appearance; swapping my civil-servant suit, shirt, tie and polished shoes for overalls, t-shirt and trainers.

I selected the two houses I was to enter that day, carefully as always, after carrying out my detailed surveillance during the week before. I only choose properties in areas that are middle to upper-class home owner domains. I don't include council or housing association rented properties because too many of them have people at home during the day.

I tour an area for two or three days looking for possible targets. I prefer houses that are surrounded by high walls or hedges, or have several substantial shrubs between the house and the road. Each day I visit an area the van has a different sign displayed to confuse any net curtain twitchers. Once I have selected a short list I carry-out an evening walk past of each to see how many vehicles are in the drive. Two or more cars during the evening and none during the day is a good indication of an empty home; whereas one in the evening and none during the day is uncertainty and more caution is needed. As a considerable number of home-owners don't shut the curtains in the lounge in the evening it also gives me the chance to catch a view of possible electrical home entertainment goodies.

I like to start at my first selected house of the day as soon after 10:00 a.m. as possible, but that day I was late. I normally make my calls between 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. because that is when people are most likely to be away at work, school or running errands.

There weren't any cars on the drive so I parked my van on the road in front of the property and went to the front door and knocked loudly, with the brass lion's head. I waited and then knocked again. As I hoped, no one was home. Before going round to the back door I always quickly check to see if there is a key under a flower pot, or welcome mat, or drain cover – no such luck this time. As soon as I'm in the back garden I again check the usual hiding places including between the support batons under the shed floor. In this case the owner had helped me by leaving the back door key in the lock on the inside. With my trusty circular suction pad and glass cutter, always in my not just for appearance toolbox, it was easy to put my arm through the neat hole I'd cut and unlock the door – easy access. People will never learn to not leave keys in locks.

My journey through the property follows a tried and tested route after putting my tool box against the front door. Putting something there acts as a warning, if the owner returns and comes in that way, to give me time to escape quickly through the back door.

Bedrooms first for jewellery, cash and small electrical items. I checked the easy to find hiding places; on top of the wardrobe; in the wardrobe at the back of the shelves behind clothes; under the bed. I found some nice items and a box to carry them in. These were put by the front door before I went into the lounge. The television, DVD player, Acer laptop, Wii and Xbox were soon sitting in the hallway waiting to go. I was disappointed that there wasn't an Ipad. In just about twelve minutes my shopping was done and ready to be put in the van. Using the front door access, I went to get it and calmly reversed onto the drive so the rear doors were facing away from any possible prying eyes.

In less than eighteen minutes I was out of the property and leaving with my gifts in my van: having remembered to secure the front door as I left – of course.

Two hours later, a change of van signs and fifteen miles away from the first, I entered my second choice for the day. It was good of the owner to leave the key on the ledge in the roof of the porch. Another two televisions, a 32 inch and a 19 inch, two Toshiba laptops, an Xbox and several items of jewellery were quickly in the van and I was finished shopping for the day, well before my 3:00 p.m. deadline.

I drove for a couple of miles before stopping and removing the day's magnetic signs from the van. I like it to be a plain white vehicle when I deliver my goods to my buyer, as does he. I always try to collect and sell in the same day. I didn't get the prices I would have preferred, as he had purchased some similar items earlier in the day, but I had earned a good-day's pay.

Having returned the van to the security of the lock-up garage and changed back into my civil servant clothes it was almost 5:30 p.m. when I turned my car into our road.

My heart skipped several beats and I felt hot and faint when I saw the flashing blue lights of the police car parked outside of my house. How could they have found me? I'm so careful to cover my tracks and keep my business and personal lives apart! I stopped the car and was about to turn round and escape when I spotted my wife in front of our house. She was talking to one of the police officers and I realised she had seen me and the car coming home.

I had no option. I slowly drove the last seventy-five yards. I was trying to quickly get my thoughts together for a good presentation of my prepared alibi.

“Where have you been? What have you done?” was the greeting from my wife.

“Why? What am I supposed to have done?”

“What have you done? I'll tell you what you've done!” she bellowed. “When you went to work this morning you left the back door unlocked. We've been robbed!”

“What? Why blame me?”

“Because you were running late, rushing to get out, and were the last to leave.”

She was right. She continued to bellow my humiliation.

“You're always going on about security and yet you leave an open invitation to some scum-bag thief! Well he accepted it! Our home has been vandalised and our televisions, laptops, my gold jewellery and your Rolex watch have all been stolen!”

© Elliot Sampford 2013

Joe saved my life again.

It was a sunny day, not the type of day during which you expect your best friend to die.

It was mid-morning last Sunday and we were taking our usual stroll down to the seashore. The sun was high in the sky and was warm on our backs. We were happily chatting away about everything and nothing, as you do with old friends. We were taking our time as Joe's arthritis in his hips was making walking a little more painful than normal. I had noticed that with his other ageing ailments he seemed to have aged more years than expected in the last year.

Our usual route along the disused railway cutting footpath meant that we had to cross the coast road, walk along it for a few yards and then down the bridleway for the final stage to the sand dunes. It was a difficult crossing point because of the slight bend in the road.

It was our fault that we didn't hear or see the vehicle coming because we were too busy talking. We were halfway across the road when Joe spotted the van almost on top of and coming directly at us. The driver would not have seen us before because of the curve. We both started to move to jump to the safety of the roadside. I remember feeling Joe push me to save me by helping me get clear. I think in that split second he knew that because of his limited movement he wasn't going to get to safety so he put his effort into protecting me.

He had always done that throughout our long friendship. When we were temporary members of the Charlotte-Street gang he stopped the others from bullying me because I was the smallest of the group. He wasn't the biggest and strongest of the members but he was considered the better fighter so the others knew not to argue with him. In fact he very rarely got into a fight, it was his confidence in himself that was his winning aura. He would often say to me; “You're the brains and I'm the brawn of our team, we're unbeatable.” But we weren't that sunny day.

I landed in a heap on the grass verge looking back towards the road. A little bruised, I found out later, but safe. I saw the front kerbside wing of the van hit Joe and heard the thump as it launched him high into the air towards the verge some fifteen feet further up the road from me. His body twisted into unnatural shapes before he crashed to the ground.

The driver of the vehicle didn't bother to stop to see how we were.

I ran to Joe. My worst fear was to become a reality. I could see from the shape of his torso and limbs, and the blood seeping from his ear and nostril that his prognosis was terminal. He was unconscious when I knelt-down beside him.

I looked around for help from any passers-by, shouting for help from anyone: there were no walkers and several vehicles drove pass without stopping. I couldn't contact the emergency services.

After some considerable length of time – looking back it could only have been a few minutes – Joe regained a degree of consciousness. I continued with the one-sided conversation that I'd been having with him whilst he was snoozing: “Hey Joe everything is going to be OK. You've had a bit of tumble, but nothing you can't deal with”.

“Bob ... is that you?” he mumbled as he tried to look towards me.

“Yes mate of course it is, who else do you think it could be, we're always together.”

“Where...are…we…Bob?”

“We're lying in the grass in the sand dunes. Where else would we be on a sunny Sunday?”

“But we can't be...I'm so cold...it's getting dark.” He paused: “Why can't I move? Why do I hurt so much... everywhere?”

His questions confused me for a minute. I was continually looking around for assistance and support but the world was ignoring my shouts for help.

“We've had a bit of an accident crossing the road Joe, we weren't quick enough, a van has given you a bit of a shove.”

“Bob…Bob…where are you?”

“It's alright I'm here Joe”; I moved closer to him to give the reassuring touch he needed; “There'll be some help soon. Just hang on in there Joe”. I knew in my heart that there would be no hanging on. His breathing was getting shallower; the seepage of blood from his nostrils and ear was increasing; his eyes were dulling over.

Joe was losing his fight for life and I was losing my comrade-in-arms.

A few fellow walkers had arrived but were standing away from us: why weren't they helping? Why were they ignoring my loud, continuing, pleas for help? Why were none of the vehicles stopping? Why were people so callous?

I looked back at Joe's face: his eyes told me he'd left me.

It wasn't his fault. I was going to stay with him as long as I could. He didn't deserve to be alone after all he'd done for me over the many years we had played, 'ducked and dived', lived and survived together.

The watchers seemed to sense that Joe had gone and slowly began to move closer to us. I shouted at them that they were too late.

It was then that I remembered what Joe had always said to me. I stood up, faced the onlookers, barked my hatred of them for letting Joe die, and started to run away from the empty body that was once Joe.

I ran back across the road and along the disused railway cutting footpath with Joe's warning sounding in my ears: “Bob; we must never let humans catch us because they'll take us to the dog prison and kill us.”

The mysterious O’Neills

A period of twenty weeks had passed between the day of the auction sale of Woodsman’s Cottage and any physical sighting of people at the property. The time void was ended by the arrival of a team of non-local builders with their lorries, JCB excavator, scaffolding and other builders paraphernalia. The extensive refurbishment of the long time uninhabited property was completed in a time scale of another ten weeks.

Whilst the refurbishment was carried out, the many attempts by the inquisitive villagers at developing friendships with the unknown builders – they are normally a good source of information – had been unsuccessful. Under the control of a strict task master the workers behaved like members of a self sufficient secret society. They brought, or had delivered direct to site, everything they needed each day. When the work was completed the corps of tradesmen departed as suddenly as they had arrived. The testament to their temporary presence was the immaculate resurrected, building and gardens of the cottage; and the newly erected tall boundary walls with solid entrance gates.

For a further three weeks it stood waiting, expectantly, for the day Ryan and Fiona O’Neill moved into their new home. For the villagers their arrival was as if the cottage had given birth to twins at the end of a concealed pregnancy.

Since their arrival the O'Neills have been the subject of many discussions and speculations amongst the villagers. They have heard snippets of the many theories about themselves. The subject of conversations being quickly changed when they have entered the village store, with post office, or the Queens Head, the only village public house.

They are private people who are happy, contented, in their own company. That is not to say that they do not like socialising, reacting, with others, but on their own terms. They can be perceived as being overly reserved. This interests some of the villagers, who see it as a challenge to get closer to the O’Neills to unravel the mystery: to others it is a great annoyance and seen as snobbery by the unwelcome moneyed newcomers.

Ryan and Fiona's lifestyle means that it's necessary for them to leave the village very early in the morning and a long working day results in a mid-evening arrival back at the cottage. The villagers find it very difficult to regularly monitor arrivals and departures at the isolated cottage.

That is not to say that the O'Neills are not seen about the village.

The 'Queen's Head' has a reputation for excellent cuisine. Ryan and Fiona are often to be seen enjoying an evening meal in the cosy restaurant, once or twice during the week-days. Invariably Sunday lunch is also eaten there, after a stroll from their cottage to the pub across the village common. When ever it's possible they sit at the same table for two, in the corner, next to the window. There isn't a sign saying 'do not disturb' but their demeanour leads the other diners, and those at the bar, in no doubt that is the case.

When they use the village store to buy the week-end papers and groceries; forgotten during the trip to the large superstore in town, twenty miles away; conversations are kept to the minimum necessary for politeness: the weather, newspaper stories and purchases the only matters raised. The expressions on the faces of the staff and other villagers in the store suggest they have questions to ask about the O'Neills' but no direct interrogations are forthcoming.

Those that have lived in the village a long time are eager to know if the newcomers have information about the previous owner of Woodsman' Cottage, and his mysterious disappearance. But no direct interrogations are forthcoming.

The members of the village board of enquiry have managed to ascertain, to the best of their surreptitiously acquired knowledge, that Ryan and Fiona are a married couple, without children despite their age; Ryan was born in 1970 and Fiona in 1971. They do not have pet animals of any type. They have their own company, O'Neill Associates, but the nature of its business is unknown. Opinion is that it they must be 'doing very well' given the expensive make and model of each of the two cars they have, and the assumed high cost of the work carried out to the cottage. It's agreed by all members that not a lot of information is known [some of which is wrong]. At its latest meeting the members decided, over morning coffee and home-made chocolate chip cookies, that a more direct approach to gathering facts, and gossip, is necessary. If the O'Neills are to be accepted into the inner-circle of residents then they must be persuaded, or tricked, to release more personal details. Mystery in the village is unsettling.

The inquisitors have a problem: Ryan and Fiona don't want, or need, to be accepted into the inner-circle of residents. They enjoy, finding it humorous, being a source of mystery in the village. They are experienced at answering direct questions with indirect answers as part of their previous military careers and current business. They will continue with the current game of hide and seek until they become bored with being hunted by amateurs. The O'Neills knew more personal information about some of their new neighbours before they purchased Woodsman's Cottage than the villagers know about them now.

When that point in time comes, as it will, as it has in the two villages where they have lived before, Ryan and Fiona will, unbeknown to the villagers, reverse the roles. The new hunters will use their finely tuned professional skills to their omnipotent and financial advantage over their selected, vulnerable, victims.

Lost imagination

I'm worried!

I can't write a new short story because I've mislaid my imagination somewhere. I've looked in the usual places; under the cushions of the settee; under the driver's seat in the car; in the dirty laundry basket; in the paper shredder; under the bed; under the kitchen sink; in my 'man drawer' in the cellar and many more places.

Where else could I have left it: where do you find those items you've mislaid?

I've posted a 'Lost' notice on 'Twitter' and 'Facebook' as I'm at my wits end. If you find it would please return it to me, asap.

The collapsed body - that was Mary!

It was a damp autumn Sunday morning. William and Mary were driving on the narrow B1723, through the Kent countryside, going down the twelve-hundred yard long steep incline towards the bend in the road, at the spot known locally as 'Carlton bottom', where it came out of Upper Carlton Wood. At this stretch of the road the trees either side of it were so close to each other that their canopy of branches met above the tarmac; forming the rib-cage of a tunnel. In the summer with a full compliment of leaves on the branches, if there was a cloud cover blocking the sun's full light, it was often necessary to put on the cars headlights to see the road clearly. It wasn't the case that morning as the fast majority of the leaves had been shed onto the ground. The black tarmac road was covered in patches by a mottled hue of yellow, brown, crimson, and golden leaves.

Although their journey to the hospital, to be with their three-year old daughter Samantha, was later than they had planned, William was being careful not to drive too fast, particularly on this stretch of the road. Experience had shown that at this time of the year, with the ground-level mist in the mornings the fallen leaves could impersonate black ice on the road's surface. The tightness of the bend where the B1723 exited the woods was deceptive: several non-local drivers had been caught unaware by the unmarked curve on this quiet country road.

As the car approached the bottom of the incline and the bend William selected a lower gear for the engine, rather than use the brakes, to slow the car a little more. As they safely followed the road to the left they couldn't fail to see the car ahead of them on the right-hand side verge. It was upside down in the ditch against the dense hedgerow.

William stopped his car on the left-hand grass verge, just beyond the crash scene, where there was enough space to get off the road. He and Mary got out of the car as quickly as they could and ran back across the road towards the upturned vehicle.

From the marks on the grass verge it looked as though the driver had misjudged the bend and the car had drifted three feet off the road towards the right. Unfortunately the offside wheels had dropped into the one foot wide concrete drainage gully; that ran for twenty-five yards along this part of the bend; that had been recently installed to eliminate the frequent flooding of the road at this point. The sudden drop of the right-hand side of the car, the gulley taking over control of it, and the g-force on that side of the vehicle because of the momentum of trying to turn left had then resulted in the car rolling onto its roof, possibly twice, and landing in the five feet wide, two feet deep, ditch in front of the substantial Hawthorn and Ash hedge. The car was positioned at a forty-five degree angle to the road. The front section, from the crumpled bonnet to the rear passenger doors, was lying in the ditch and the rear boot section pointing slightly upwards, resting on the side of the ditch furthest from the hedge.

Even in the position and at the angle it was; William recognised the wreckage as a beige 1982 Ford Cortina Mk. V Estate-car: he recognised the number plate even though it was the wrong way up. They had bought that same car when they first moved to the area to start up their smallholding twenty years before. They had used it daily for ten years until they sold it, as they thought for it to be scrapped.

Although it must have come from the same direction as them, they hadn't seen it in front of them at any time. As they ran towards the Cortina the signs were that the accident hadn't happened too long ago. There was steam and smoke rising from the bonnet area and the front wheel on the far side was still slowly rotating.

William was the first to get to the car, going straight away to the nearest front door. With the car being upside-down this was the driver's door. He could see a man, head down, being held in position by his seat belt. His head was against the window with blood running from a cut on his forehead. He didn't appear to be moving. William had to lie down on the grass to look into the car to see if there was anyone else inside: there was only the driver.

“Mary; call 999 and tell them about this,” William shouted, “tell them there's an injured man trapped inside. They need to send an ambulance plus the fire brigade, to cut him out.” Mary ran back to their car to use her mobile phone.

William could see that the driver's and rear doors on that side couldn't be opened, trapped by the bank of the ditch, so he went round the rear of it to try the doors on the other side.

He heard Mary shouting to him: “I can't get a signal neither on mine or your phone. I'm going to drive up to the top of the hill and try there.” With that said she was quickly in their car and driving to a better advantage height.

“OK, I'm going to try to get the driver out,” but Mary didn't hear him.

As soon as he got to the far side of the ditch he could see that the hedgerow was not going to let him open either of the doors. As he went around the rear of the car he thought he could smell petrol. He returned to the drivers door and was relieved to see some movement from the man.

William knocked on the window and shouted: “Hello in there. Can you hear me? Are you alright? Can you move? Are you hurt?” The only reply he received was murmurs and groans. “Hello in there. We've called 999, help should be here soon.” William knew, even though he said it, soon would be quite some time because of their isolated countryside location. “We'll get you out as quick as we can,” but there was no we, only William.

He had to get the driver released from his seat belt and out of the car. He considered smashing the window to reach in to free the driver, but the man's head was against it. He needed the man to help himself, but there was still no meaningful response. Continuing to knock hard on the glass he shouted; “Hello, Hey in the car, Hello, Can You Hear Me?”

In the silence whilst he waited for a reply, William was sure he could hear a crackling noise coming from the engine compartment area. It reminded him of a noise similar to that he often heard from the overhead electricity cables on the pylon near his and Mary's house.

“Help, help me somebody,” came a quiet, slow, slurred response from inside the car.

“Hey it's OK, I'm here and help is on its way,” William reassured the man.

“I can't move. Where am I?”

“You're in your car and you've had a slight accident. What's your name?”

“Brian.”

“I'm William, Brian, I'm going help you until the ambulance and fire brigade get here. My wife Mary has called them. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“All my chest and my right shoulder hurts, and a stabbing pain when I breath. Where am I?”

“You're upside down and suspended by your seat belt, can you undo it?”

After a pause: “No I can't reached the button, and it hurts too much to move.”

“That's OK if you open the window I'll reach in and release you.”

Another pause: “I can't find the handle. Oh God I hurt!”

“OK Brian it wont be too long now.”

William could hear a car's engine, he looked round, it was Mary returning. She was soon standing beside William. He stood up. “Are they coming?” he asked her quietly so Brian wouldn't hear; although he wouldn't have because the window was still shut.

“They're on their way, but it could be ten to fifteen more minutes because of the distance,” and after a short pause, “I can smell petrol.”

“I know so can I.”

“Will; what are we going to do?”

“I've got to try and release him from the seatbelt so we can get him out.”

Suddenly there was a loud pop from the front end. Smoke and a few flames could be seen in the engine compartment.

“Bloody hell! Mary run and get the fire extinguishers from the boot of our car.”

She ran back to their car as fast as she could, kicking of her stiletto high heel shoes as she went. She very quickly returned handing one of the two extinguishers to William. Without hesitation he pulled out the safety pin and squeezed the trigger handle. As soon as the foam started to spurt out he handed the extinguisher back to Mary. “Keep aiming it at where the flames are coming from,” he ordered Mary. He bent down to check on Brian.

“What was that bang?” Brian asked.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I can smell petrol fumes! I can smell burning rubber! What's happening?”

“Don't worry; Mary's dealing with it; she's sorting it out.”

“You've got to help me get out of here! The car's on fire isn't it? I don't want to be burnt to death!”

“That's not going to happen.”

On cue Mary shouted: “It's out Will, it's out.”

“Problem sorted Brian,” William said as he stood-up to talk to Mary.

They stepped two paces away from the estate car. William summed up the situation: “We can't wait any longer. I've got to get him out now. The fire brigade and medics could be ages and if there's another fire before they get here, with all these petrol fumes around, that could be the end for Brian.”

“You'll have to leave it to them, they'll know what to do. You can't move him, it could injure him more.”

“I think I can get him out through the back door, it's the easiest way.”

“No William; it's too dangerous for you to go into the car. What if a fire starts again?”

“In that case that's why we have to get him out now! I know the inside of this Cortina back to front, I know what I've got to do.”

With that William went to the rear of the upside down car and pushed the rear door catch. To his relief the door started to fall open. The door's gas struts pushed it all the way open.

“Keep your eye on the engine compartment,” he shouted to Mary as he climbed in to the boot area, kneeling on the roof, which was now the floor.

“OK Brian I'm coming to get you out.”

“Hurry, please hurry, the petrol smell is getting worse. Oh God I hurt.”

William's first task was to get the backrest of the rear seat out of the way, to give him more room, so he could go forward. He knew it folded down and where the release catch was, but had to remember everything was the wrong way up. He pressed it but the backrest didn't move out the way; gravity was working against him; it just hung down loosely where it was. He needed to push it up and something to prop it up out of the way. Looking around on the ceiling there was a garden spade. He picked it up, used the blade to push the back-rest up and the handle end was forced against the roof to wedge it there.

He moved forward and was then behind the driver's seat. What was he to do next.

“OK Brian I'm behind you. Listen to me. I'm going to try to take some of your weight off the seatbelt so that I can release it. When I do, you'll slide down, and it will probably hurt a bit but it has to be done.”

He put his arm under Brian's left shoulder and was about to press the seatbelt release.

He heard Mary's shouting: “Will, Will, a fire has started again! Get out of there!”

“You've still got a bit left in the extinguisher and you've got the other one as well. Stop the fire Mary, put it out fast,” he yelled back.

“Hold on Brian here we go, we can't hang about”

The release catch was pressed. The belt was free. William couldn't support Brian enough so he fell, hitting his head on the roof.

“Aarrgghh!” Brian screamed.

William reached up and pulled the driver's seat backrest release lever. He pushed the back up, using the ratchet mechanism to hold it almost horizontal, to give him access to Brian and to give a clearer exit path. Brian dropped down further, he was now laid on his front, his left arm trapped under him, head to the rear of the car and feet against the dashboard.

“Aarrgghh!” he screamed.

“WILL, WILL, its not working I can't put it out! Get out of there, NOW!”

William and Brian knew that because they could smell burning. The engine compartment firewall would protect them for a while.

“Its now or never Brian, we've got to go.”

“Help me! Don't leave me! I don't want to die like this! Don't let me burn!”

William looked to the front of the car and could see the amber glow of flames through the shattered windscreen. His heart was thumping in his chest. He tried to get hold of Brian to pull him but Brian was laid on his front not on his back.

“Sorry, no time to discuss this” William said as he rolled him over onto his back. He knew it wasn't the right move to make, in case it caused complications to Brian's injuries, but the fire was the biggest complication.

“Aarrgghh!” was the only reply from Brian. He was on his back.

“Brian; listen to me. When I lift your shoulders and pull, you have to push like hell with your feet. Do you understand? Push like hell no matter how much it hurts. Here we go. One, two, three, PUSH!”

“Aarrgghh!” They'd moved about six inches.

“One, two, three, PUSH!”

“Aarrgghh!” They'd moved another nine inches.

Dragging Brian out was proving more difficult than William had thought it would be.

Mary had thrown the empty extinguishers away, they hadn't done their job. The engine area was engulfed in flames. She was running back and forth, from the fire to the rear of the car: William and Brian’s only way out.

“WILLIAM, GET OUT NOW. Leave him if you have to,” She screamed. She only used William when she was angry with him. How dare he put himself in such danger. How dare he jeopardise her and Samantha's future. She was angry and frightened.

Then she thought she'd heard the faint sound of a two tone siren in the distance. She was right; there it was growing louder as she listened. Then there was a second two tone to support the first. It sounded like a beautiful duet to Mary. The volume was increasing even more. She turned and looked up the road towards the woods and suddenly saw a flashing blue light. Then there was another. As the ambulance and fire engine entered the tunnel of trees these acted like a megaphone; the four tone duet became a cacophony of sound. Mary could hear the sirens shouting: “We're coming, nearly there, we're coming, nearly there; you're safe now, help is here, you're safe now, help is here.”

Inside the car William's repetitious command and Brian's painful response could still be heard. Mary turned back towards the car to tell the two of them that help was arriving now. There was a bright flash and a whoomph as the flames engulfed the outside of the car.

“NO, OH MY GOD NO!” she screamed.

Inside the Cortina, William could now hear the comforting sirens.

“Push Brian . . . one, two, push . . one, push: we're nearly out and the help has arrived.”

At that instance William saw a bright flash and a whoomph as the flames engulfed the outside of the car.

“I don't deserve to die like this,” he thought “I'm just trying to help somebody to live. I can't leave Mary and Samantha on their own. I refuse to die like this!”

He took a firmer grip of Brian and pulled with every bit of his tiring strength.

“If you don't want to be burnt to death Brian ignore the pain and push with your legs with all your might and keep on pushing.”

They were now in the boot area; so close to the rear door; and William accidentally dislodged the spade used to wedge up the rear seat backrest. The blade of the spade fell down onto Brian's chest whilst the backrest dropped down hitting William in the face. This stunned him for a moment, but he kept hold of Brian. He started to pull again and at last could feel his feet on the edge of the rear tailgate. He could feel the heat of the flames on his face and neck.

Suddenly he felt a power grab hold of him and start pulling him. “There are two of them.” a strange muffled voice shouted. William saw a pair of arms that weren't his take hold of Brian, pulling him as well.

He could feel and see foam being jetted over both of them. He felt a lot cooler. He could see the sky. He was being dragged away from the burning wreckage. He could see two beige robots with yellow heads and yellow cylinders on their backs carrying Brian. There was another bright vermilion ball of light and a very loud explosion.

Next morning when Mary and William, with his bandaged hand and a replica of a sun-burnt face, were driving past the crash site they saw that all that was left of the 1982 beige Ford Cortina Mk. V Estate-car was a charcoal coloured metal skeleton. Everything that could have burnt away had. The charred remains of the hedgerow stretching ten feet either side of the wreckage was testament to the intensity of the fire.

“That was nearly your crematorium: would have saved me funeral costs,” said Mary in a wry tone, belying her feelings about the previous day.

Four days after the crash, whilst visiting Samantha in hospital, William and Mary decided to visit Brian in his ward. When the police crash investigation constable had been to their home, two days after the accident to get a statement, they'd asked after Brian and were informed he was recovering in hospital and his full name.

“Hello Brian, I don't know if you remember me but we met in your upside-down car? This is my wife, Mary, and I'm William in case you've forgotten. I'm sorry if I hurt you or have caused you extra complications when I was helping you to get out.”

“That morning's still a bit hazy but I'll never forget you and what you did. The police tell me you saved my life.”

“What are your injuries?” Mary asked.

“A broken left collar bone, a fractured sternum, two fractured ribs, one broken rib, punctured lung, concussion, a small cut to my forehead and a few scorch marks. Nothing compared to death.” After a short pause he continued: “It probably would have been a fractured collar bone and three fractured ribs before William grabbed hold of me. A bit clumsy of him . . . but hey he gave me my life,” said Brian with a big smile on his face.

“Always glad to be of assistance” said William nonchalantly.

After a few more minutes of chat about Brian's recovery Mary said:” Come on Will it's time to go to Samantha.”

“We must go now Brian,” said William, adding: “we're off to be with our daughter, she's in the oncology ward upstairs.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, what's wrong with her, if you don't mind me knowing?” asked Brian.

“She has a Neuroblastoma, a type of cancer,” replied Mary.

They then went on to explain, in brief terms, more about it and the treatment Samantha was having. They explained to him that due to National Health Service funding restrictions she wasn't able to have the latest type of treatment available. The local Health Trust would not fund the treatment as it necessitated travelling out of the country. They told him about their fund raising campaign, 'The Samantha Hitchins Appeal Trust', so that they could pay for the special treatment themselves.

They got up to leave Brian to recuperate and as they were moving away from his bed he asked: “How much have you raised so far and how much more do you need?”

“So far we've managed £55,940 which leaves us approximately £45,000 more to raise in the next eight months otherwise it will possibly be too late for her,” said Mary, with a tightness developing in her chest and throat, and moisture in her eyes.

“Will you call in to see me the day after tomorrow, I'd like to give a donation to help Samantha's appeal.”

“You don't have to give anything, that's not why we mentioned it,” replied William.

“I know that, but please call in.”

They left to be with Samantha.

Two days later they called in to see Brian as he'd asked. They knew they were to be given a donation and didn't expect much, but every little bit could help them get vital treatment for Samantha. They assumed that as Brian had been driving the thirty-year old Ford Cortina Estate, that they had sold ten years previous when it was worse for wear and ready for scrapping, that money was probably a little scarce for him.

“High Brian, you're looking better today; well on the road for recovery we see,” said William.

“Hi you two, yes I'm feeling better each day, thanks for coming.”

“No thanks needed Brian, we are here everyday at the moment to be with Samantha,” said Mary.

“Yes they are; more than I can ever say.” Mary was about to say something but Brian put his hand up, with the palm facing her, like a policeman stopping traffic. “I won't keep you away from her for too long but there is something I need to say.” He thought for a few seconds and began: “When I was in the car and it caught on fire and you were trying to get me out, William, I thought I was going to die in a most horrific way. You could have left me, and if the roles had been reversed, I'm not certain I would have stayed. You saved my life.” He paused to control himself. “You've given me a future I nearly lost. You and Mary have told me about Samantha and your fight, through the appeal, to get funds to buy the best treatment possible to try and give her a better future. You shouldn't have to fight. A man who risks his life to save another person he doesn't know deserves better.” Another pause to wipe moisture from his eye. “Mary; will you go into my bedside cabinet please; there is an envelope in there with something for the 'Samantha Hitchins Appeal Trust'. William gave me my life, so I want to try to help Samantha keep hers.”

Mary did as Brian asked and opened the envelope. She looked in and took out the cheque that was inside. She quickly looked at the amount in figures written on the piece of paper and read what she thought was an amazing amount of £450.00 from someone she assumed had little money. At the same time she started to say: “Thank you Brian for the four hundred and . . ” She stopped in mid speech, having re-read the cheque correctly this time.

She read: Pay the 'Samantha Hitchins Appeal Trust' the sum of Forty-five thousand pounds: £45,000.00. Sir Brian Richmond.

William rushed forward and picked up the collapsed body, that was Mary, from the floor.