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Aughton and Ormskirk

Creative Writing 2020

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Short Story Winners

Here are the winners of the Short Story Competition organised in 2020 by the Creative Writing Group.  Click or tap on the links below for a good read!

The Mojave Flute Player – by Mike Briggs

He often went backpacking alone, preferring his own company. Not because he was anti-social, far from it, he had a wide circle of friends who met on a regular basis. It was simply that he loved the freedom of thought and movement that solo walking gave him. This freedom allowed him to indulge in his other passion; connecting with nature and trying to understand what was happening around him. To do that you have to be alone and, if possible, remote from other human influences.

Yoga and meditation had always been a part of his life. As a child, his mother encouraged him to practice sitting still and to absorb the silence around him. She taught him to use his mind to cut through distractions and find the hidden gems.

As the years passed he travelled to many remote parts of the world. He developed the ability to induce deep, almost transcendental states of awareness. Once entered, they allowed him to experience rare insights into the parallel universe of nature. Things like the cause and effect of weather patterns; wind, rain, snow, searing desert heat and the vastness of space.

He often camped or bivouacked out under the stars, observing and listening to the activities of nocturnal animals, insects and other creatures. All these special moments were stored in the massive data bank which is the human brain. He took no photographs and very rarely kept written notes. It was all filed away in his own trillion byte storage facility.

For this particular trip he had decided to re-visit the Mojave desert. He had not been there for many years and, among other things, he was hoping to find the location where he had previously enjoyed one of the most amazing and beautiful sunrises he had ever seen.

He'd been backpacking for ten days now, and in all that time had only encountered one other human being. That was at the very start of his trip when he had reported to the Mojave National Park Ranger, a Native American by the name of Jim Golden Cloud. During his time in the desert, he felt he had seen more life than anyone could imagine. He followed the dried up water courses, and scrambled down into the depths of canyons and ravines to shelter from the shimmering desert heat. He felt completely at ease and very happy. However his trip was coming to an end, and there was a three day hike to the nearest state highway.

That night, he found the perfect bivi site with a small stream close by. He slept soundly but before daybreak, he was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of a rattlesnake. Through the gloom, he could sense rather than see the snake. He wasn’t particularly alarmed, he'd seen many of these and other desert dwellers before. He slowly reached for his head torch and, carefully placing it on his head, he simultaneously switched it on. The snake was in the raised strike position at the foot of his sleeping bag, its chilling rattle sounding more and more ominous.

They fixed each other’s eye, not blinking, not moving. Only the rattle betrayed the gravity of his predicament. 'Is this it then?' he thought, after all his expeditions, 'was it to end here on a dark Mojave morning?'

As he looked out into the desert beyond the snake, he saw a thin line, gold and pink, splitting the darkness like the slash of a rapier on a piece of crimson silk. The deadly rattle increased but he just sat there transfixed, awaiting the mortal strike. Now the gold and pink was joined by red, green and orange as the increasing light illuminated the dark desert floor.

At that moment, about fifty metres to his left, there came the most hauntingly beautiful sound of a flute drifting across the stillness. A Mojave flute player was sitting cross legged beneath a rocky overhang, high up on a steep cliff face. It was the most uplifting sound he had ever heard and with each evocative refrain the light increased, illuminating and bathing him in the morning rays of warmth, energy and hope.

When he looked down at his feet, the sinuous rattler had slithered away to its rocky hide, the music had stopped and the outcrop was deserted.

Closing his eyes very slowly, he smiled and saved it all to his memory bank...

'Do you think he can hear us?' said the student nurse to her colleague.

'Don't know to be honest' she replied, 'he's been like this for six years now. Crashed his motor bike into a desert ravine.'

'Still, he looks very peaceful' commented the young nurse, 'maybe he was having sweet dreams.'

Breath - by Ann Henders

When people ask me, 'What was it like to be dead?' It makes me stop whatever I am doing. I find myself instinctively reaching out to touch whatever is near, a wall, a table, their shoulder. There is a change in the air around me. It’s not colder exactly but thinner, clearer. Like the difference between drinking good cold water drawn from a well and water scooped from a rushing, living stream. I know that I must connect myself to something solid, hold on tightly so that I do not, once more, sink into the oblivion of not being.

My death made me special, although dying in itself is not remarkable at all it happens to everybody eventually. So I really should say that being reawakened, rising to the surface and breaking through from there to here to take breath after breath of warm scented air was what truly made me special.

I was 12 when I died. My life until then had been just like all the other girls in my village. We helped our mothers at home and were expected to look after the sheep and chickens. We attended the synagogue, where my father was an Elder and we dreamed of the sort of men we would soon marry. Then I woke up one morning and my throat was sore. I still took the feed out to the chickens but the light of the sun hurt my eyes. My back ached, my face burned. When I turned to go back into the house the ground heaved as if I was on my uncle’s fishing boat. I must have fallen, the next thing I remember was my mother kneeling by my bed, wiping my face with a cloth and crying. She told me that father had gone to find a healer. But the sound of her words hurt my ears like cymbals clashing in my head and the touch of her cloth felt like claws upon my face.

Then, nothing. No pain, no heat, no sound. Just comfort, peace, security. I nestled as if in the softest bed of feathers and slept. Then I heard a man’s voice "Little girl, I say to you, get up". To tell you the truth, I didn't want to get up. I was afraid but he took my hand and I felt something, strength and courage and love and so much more flow from him to me. That's when I took that breath, that was the moment life returned to me and it hurt. Have you ever watched rain fall onto parched, cracked earth? As the drops fall and start to flow each grain of soil seems to drink the water and swell. As the water runs into the cracks the ground softens and binds together. You can picture the drops finding the tiny seeds below the surface and waking each one of them up, "Come on, this is your moment, your reason to live" That's how I felt. I had been awakened to a different life but why?

The healer ate with us that evening. My mother and my father, Jarius offered him the best food and wine that they could find. They listened to his every word and never stopped thanking him for bringing me back to them. I said little, it was enough for me to feel the air entering and leaving my body, something so ordinary and yet each breath felt like a blessing. As he prepared to go he made us all promise that we would not tell anyone what had happened. "But what shall I do with the life that has been given back to me?" I asked. He replied, "Freely you have received, now freely give".

The rest of my life has been truly unremarkable. I learnt some of the skills of healing. I have helped bring babies into the world, nursed the sick and been with many as they leave this world. They hold my hand and take comfort in the reassurances I give them about the place they travel to. Every morning when I take my first waking breath I offer it up to my healer.

Last Memory – by Sue Watkinson

It is early February and the heavy wooden doors are open wide. Outside the air is light and cool, inside it’s warm and oppressive. The late afternoon sun, like a lantern, white and bright, shines low through the tracery of branches on the beech trees.

The sky is blue. Not the clear bright blue of a spring day, nor the heavy deep blue of summer but a limpid hue, tinged with turquoise and peach, an indication of a still, clear winter night to come.

Alice stands in the hallway, looking out, a longing to be in the fresh, cool air overwhelming her. A young blonde woman in a blue and white uniform is watching a dark-haired young man, his arms laden with boxes, rushing in and out of the door. She spots Alice and calls out 'Just wait there a minute luv.'

Bustle and voices, more boxes, packages stacked up high. Distractions are many. The light invites Alice to move forward, down the steps, onto the drive.

'Alright there Queen?' She turns and looks at the young man, dashing back to the van for his next armful, and moves on slowly. He disappears inside and no-one sees her go towards the road.

Traffic roars by and she turns left alongside the safety of a stone wall. The bend in the road, the pattern of the trees, a view ahead, so familiar. Ahead are high stone posts and intricate metal gates. She has seen these before, a long time ago, and she knows where to go. A wide smooth path leads down to a lake where ducks, geese and swans glide and bicker: they swim towards her but she has nothing for them and they lose interest. She sits down on a familiar bench - ‘In loving memory of Jim, husband of Alice, Dad and Grandad to his family’- and watches their antics as they begin to settle down for the night on little islands. Does she remember the many times she has sat here alone or with children, just watching quietly, enjoying the peace, the sudden silence as the birds tuck their heads under their wings ready for sleep? The sky is still light but the sun has dropped below the horizon and fingers of frost are riming the grass.

A little dog snuffles round her ankles and Alice puts down a hand to touch a soft, curly coat. It’s warm and she buries her cold fingers deep into the fur.

A whistle, ‘Bengie, come on, come here’. The little dog gives a short bark but stays with her. A figure appears beside the bench, big coat, scarf, hat, warm smile and a bright light shines down on her face. She blinks.

'Bengie, who have you found? Oh, hello, are you alright?'

Alice looks up and tries to smile at the bright eyes,

'I’m Carol, what’s your name?'

'A, Al,'

'Anne, Alison ... Alice?'

Was that a tiny nod?

'Is anyone with you?'

Alice tries to shake her head but her expression is blank.

Carol picks up Bengie and puts him on Alice’s lap.

'He’ll keep you warm, give him a cuddle.'

She takes out her phone, makes a call and speaks urgently. Alice is shivering now but Bengie is such a comfort. The sky is darkening.

Carol puts her phone in her pocket, sits down close to Alice and puts a young arm round her shoulders; she pops her hat on the short, white curls and winds her scarf round the thin neck and shoulders. Carol starts to sing a song she remembers about evening and Alice joins in. Together they wait.

The delivery driver has finished his round. He thinks he might pop back to the care home and see whether that bright, young assistant is off duty any time soon. She was really giving him the eye. Then his thoughts turn to the old lady who moved so slowly past his van. Where did she go? He feels disturbed, anxious, turns the van round and drives the short distance. The blonde assistant answers the door.

'I saw one of your old ladies leaving the home earlier, I can check on the CCTV, look' - he switches on the recording - there is Alice looking up at him, moving round the van and out of sight.

'Oh my God, she’s done a runner, no-one’s noticed.'

And suddenly there is panic. Raised voices. Phone calls are made.

Back at the park, Carol, Alice and Bengie are being escorted by torchlight to a car. A large and soft spoken police officer makes a radio call - 'missing person found safe, where do I take her? No, she can’t explain.'

There was a pause.

'So, they’ve just noticed she’s gone - not a good reference for that place. She’s OK but very cold. A dog walker found her and phoned the station.'

The car is warm and moments later they are at the door of Park Lodge where the staff are waiting. The young blonde assistant stands close to the delivery driver, holding his hand, smiling up at him with tears in her eyes.

'You’re a real life saver.' she tells him as Alice is led inside.

The police officer speaks to the manager of the Care Home. 'I’ll have to report this incident Madame, and suggest that you change your procedures. You need a statement for every mobile resident, ID, familiar places, medications, photograph, family; you must know the sort of thing. If, God forbid, this happens again, we can see the statement and we’ll know where to start looking. If young Carol hadn’t found her when she did we’d have a body on our hands and that’d be bad news for your business.'

The delivery driver and care assistant are exchanging phone details. Carol and Bengie are sitting in the stuffy dining room waiting, while Alice is wrapped up warmly, safely confined once again.

The Man In The Smiling Mask - by John Winter

Frank looked into the small mirror which was propped up against a book on the table. A partially-masked face peered back at him.

“Too white,” he thought. “Too unfriendly. Too Chinese.”

Removing the mask, he picked up a marker pen. He had placed two packs, in assorted colours, in his trolley at Morrison’s some weeks earlier. Before the shelves had been stripped bare. ‘Buy One – Get One Free.’ He could never resist a bargain. And he was sure one day they’d come in useful.

Copying from the screen of his I-phone, he carefully inked an emoji onto the fabric. A round, smiley face. In red.

Replacing the mask, Frank looked at himself again. The emoji smiled back at him. Behind his mask Frank smiled too. Much better.

The previous evening, as on every evening since 23rd March, he’d watched the latest Coronavirus update. Deaths in hospital had topped 900, and were still rising.

“There will always be exceptions,” said the Chief Medical Officer, standing behind his wooden lectern, “but current figures indicate that Covid-19 is mainly a threat to the over 70’s and those with underlying health problems.”

For a man like Frank, born in 1939 on the very day Germany invaded Poland and under orders from his doctor to take seven tablets each morning, that was not much comfort. But he felt well, despite a niggling cough. And the day was warm. So maybe that was why he was feeling so hot.

Frank’s friend, Annie, had called in earlier that morning to find him standing at the sink in the kitchen, soaping his hands and singing to himself.

“Zhu ni shengri kuaile. Zhu ni shengri kuaile. Zhu ni shengri kuaile. Zhu ni shengri kuaile.”

“What the heck’s that, Frank?”

“Happy birthday to you. In Chinese. I looked it up on Wikipedia. It fits the tune perfectly. And it reminds me that’s where all this nonsense started. What with their wet markets and the strange things they insist on eating.” Frank coughed, then repeated the song. “You need to sing it twice, Boris said. Before he got ill. Otherwise your hands won’t be properly clean. Maybe he didn’t follow the rules. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Annie shook her head and laughed. “You come up with some crazy things, Frank Partridge, I’ll say that for you. Do you want anything to eat while I’m here? Or shall I just put this food I picked up for you in the fridge?”

“In the fridge is fine, thanks. Could you pass the towel?”

Annie took a red towel from its hook. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was written across it.

“Shame there’s no football on the TV,” she said.

“Can’t be helped.” Frank shrugged his shoulders. “Football’s got to take a back seat when people’s lives are at stake. But if they try and use it as an excuse to stop Liverpool winning the title there’ll be hell to pay. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t live to see it happen.”

“We’re all Blues in our house. So we try not to think about it.” Annie smiled to herself as she opened the fridge. “Have you heard from the kids?”

“We FaceTime every morning. Steve at ten thirty. And then Peter at eleven. Little Emily’s usually there when Peter calls too. She doesn’t say much, but just seeing her happy little face cheers me up. It’s difficult to believe, but she’ll be three next week. It’s one of the silver linings of this miserable business. The family are worried I’ll catch it and pop me clogs. So they keep in touch.”

The fridge door clicked shut. “Okay Frank. I’ll be off. If you need anything just give me a ring.” Still wearing her blue, protective gloves, Annie reached out and opened the back door. “Same time next week?”

“Same time next week. Stay safe.”

“You stay safe too, Frank.”

“I’ll be fine.” He opened one of the kitchen drawers and held up a square of plain, white fabric. A tape dangled from each corner. “You see I’ve found this old surgical mask.”

Later that day, at about four o’clock, Frank donned the mask, now sporting its smiling emoji, and wandered out into the front garden. He stood by the gate, watching the world go by. Late April. The trees across the road were heavy with pink and white blossom and the sky was clear blue. For the time of year it was unusually warm and sunny. A glorious spring. It had been that way almost since the start of the lockdown.

Neighbours passed along the road, in ones and twos, taking their permitted daily exercise. Mostly they waved and smiled at him. Adversity, it seemed, was good for community spirit.

Frank waved back. And his emoji smiled at them.

It was Thursday. The sun was dropping low, and the cooler air was making him cough. He felt tired, and a little short of breath. He turned and walked back up the path. Five o’clock was tea-time, but he wasn’t hungry. A comforting hot chocolate, with a generous slug of medicinal brandy, would make a good nightcap. He’d miss tonight’s eight o’clock clapping for the N.H.S. But he’d sleep long and well.

Down in London, at exactly ten thirty the next morning, Frank’s son, Steve, picked up his I-pad and pressed ‘FaceTime’. In Ormskirk, on a white-painted, bedside table, an I-phone rang out, unanswered. It had been a hefty dose of brandy and Frank lay still. His skin pale, and his chest hardly moving.

Three months earlier, over five thousand miles away in the Chinese city of Wuhan, Dr Li Wenliang, had been warning his medical colleagues to take care. He’d seen a new, and dangerous, illness. Not long before he died - a victim of the novel virus he had recognised - he had signed a confession. He had been making false comments that severely disturbed the social order.

The invisible genie was out of the bottle.

Creative Writing Group During Lockdown

When we heard that we’d no longer be able to meet up for our usual monthly sessions, the Creative Writing Group decided that we’d still like to write something every month and share it via email. We knew it wouldn’t be half as enjoyable as getting together but it was better than nothing. However, with the next ‘meeting’ several weeks away, someone suggested we created a WhatsApp group so we could keep in touch in the meantime. What a great idea! National lockdown was looming but we were prepared.

We’ve got to know each other surprisingly well. Through the WhatsApp chat we’ve heard snippets of lives past and seen present day photos from daily walks. We’ve even had the odd glimpse into each other’s homes via Zoom. Strangely, during this time apart, acquaintances are becoming firm friends.

One day, a bit of banter on WhatsApp sparked a couple of lines of fiction and everyone joined in adding their own couple of lines. Before we knew it we had a page-worth of words that could have been lifted from a spy novel. It was a bit of fun so we decided we’d have a proper go with a new story. We’ve written seven so far, including one round of poetry. The six of us keeping ourselves amused with these exercises are set in a new order every time and then write two or three paragraphs each, usually two rounds per story.

With all of this, plus our short story competition entries, we’ve done more writing in the last three months than most of us ever do under normal circumstances and we’ve thoroughly enjoyed this aspect of lockdown.

This story was written on WhatsApp as a fun activity, so please forgive the errors. It’s all down to the technology!

Six writers contributed 2 sections each, completing 2 rounds in the same order, as indicated by the numbers.

Jimmy

1. Jimmy slammed the front door shut and bounded up the stairs shouting, 'What's for tea, Mam?' Why doesn't he come into the living room and have a civilised conversation like other people's sons do, she thought. It wasn't as if he was in a hurry to have a meal before going out. He hardly ever went out. She wished he would. She wished he'd go out, get a girlfriend and move out. What could possibly be keeping him from having a life of his own? She looked over at the pile of freshly ironed clothes and thought of the toad-in-the-hole cooking in the oven and wondered whether she'd been wrong to look after him so well. But with him now in his thirties it would be a bit strange for her to suddenly put her foot down and demand he pulled his weight and paid towards the bills.

2. But unbeknown to Jimmy’s flustered mother, he led two entirely different lives. The one, a drab and dreary existence in featureless West Ruislip, the other- well that’s to be revealed as our story unfolds.

Since leaving the army, his mother thought, despairingly, that he had let his life slide. Aimless and seemingly without any drive or focus.

Jimmy had completed three tours in his military service- one in Bosnia and two in Afghanistan. And she was convinced he was suffering from PTSD. But he would stubbornly never seek counselling or help.

Had she been sufficiently motivated to follow her son when he left the house at exactly seven minutes past eleven every second Thursday morning of the month, she would have been astonished. A very different Jimmy would have taken the stage.

3. Jimmy's Mam had shared some of her worries with his twin sister, Jacqui. She'd done the right thing, according to Mam, getting married at 21, having two kids in rapid succession and, now they were both in school, she'd gone back to retrain as an infant teacher. Her life was full and happy so she was able to think constructively about her brother and what had changed his life.

Jimmy had learned punctuality in the army, along with drills, target practice and unquestioning obedience. She knew he must have seen dreadful things but had chosen not to share these experiences with his family. She knew better than to pry, waiting for the right moment that never seemed to come.

On Thursday mornings Mam went out early to shop and clean for her elderly parents so Jacqui thought it a good time to pop over to spend time with Jimmy. She arrived just in time to see him walking briskly up the road in the direction of the Tube Station. He was smartly dressed and his shoes gleamed. His normally untidy fair hair was neat and he had trimmed his beard, grown in the months since he had been at home. She checked her watch. It was eight minutes past eleven.

4. He had to be going for the 11:20. Should she give up again and go home, catch him up or even follow him? Sighing for the close relationship they seemed to have lost, she set off after him along the route they had so often taken together on their way to school. Happy days, when they had been ever together. Turning the corner she was surprised to see that he had passed the bus stop and was studying the small ads in the newsagent's window. As she paused in indecision Jimmy made a note on his phone, checked his watch and quickly disappeared into the tube station. Resisting the temptation to read the notices and now consumed with curiosity, Jacqui just managed to reach the platform in time to jump into the last carriage of the Central Line train her brother was boarding. She could hardly approach him on the train so, beginning to feel like a character in one of the thrillers she read so avidly, she manoeuvred herself into a position where she could see if Jimmy got off. Still uneasy about what she was doing, half of her wanted to get off the train herself and abandon the chase

5. but as the train drew in at East Acton she saw Jimmy get ready to move, so managed to join with people behind him. She carried on following him really very curious by now, thankful that although she was quite petite he was almost 6 foot so she could watch him through the crowds. Then he turned a corner and she did not see him enter Hammersmith Hospital. She looked all round and realised there was no point in going further, it was after lunchtime and she needed to hand in an essay and meet the girls from school. On the train back her mind wandered back to their childhood, back to the time before their Dad disappeared. They were 11 and had just started secondary school. Dad had gone to work as usual but never returned and they’d not seen him again. Jimmy had been fantastic helping her and Mum. As she thought back to how distraught her Mum had been tears began to flow silently down her cheeks. Jimmy had become man of the house overnight and had taken on paper rounds and odd jobs for neighbours and she had helped with housework whilst Mum started full time work in the Co-op. They had pulled through and Jimmy joined the army at 16 sending money to help with bills.

The lady opposite leaned over, “are you alright, Love?”

Jacqui hastily wiped her eyes, coming back down to earth, smiled and said, “Oh this is my stop,” and alighted onto the platform.

6. Jimmy walked quickly through the busy reception area of the hospital. Entered the lift and ascended several floors coming out in a quiet corridor. After checking himself in at reception. He sat in his usual seat in the waiting room. When Dr Rajib called him in he smiled as he walked through the door. Dr and patient sat opposite each other.

"How are you Jimmy?"

"I'm ok, yeah feeling good, thanks" Jimmy thought back to three months ago, his first meeting with the Dr. Then he had hardly been able to talk to him but gradually trust had been established and on this, the last appoint of his "talking cure", he acknowledged his debt to Dr Rajib.

"I don't think I would be alive if it weren't for you. Thank you"

"No need for thanks. I'm just doing my job, just as you had to do yours. Now, future plans. Have you applied for a place at University?" Jimmy smiled "all done". After all the carnage and destruction he had seen he wanted to do some healing in the world and was waiting to hear whether he had been accepted to do a nursing degree.

"That's marvellous and have you had that other conversation with your mum?" Jimmy blushed a little.

"No not yet. Still building myself up to that".

1.ii Jimmy left the hospital for, what he hoped, was the last time, head held high, feeling optimistic about the future. He didn't want to mention the nursing degree to his mother until he was sure he'd been accepted onto the course but he was hopeful and he was looking forward to telling her. She'll be so proud that both her twins are going to be in highly respected jobs in the community, he thought. He could picture her itching to tell the neighbours. She deserved to have the opportunity to show off. She'd had the role of single parent thrust upon her so unexpectedly and life had been a struggle. It's about time she reaped the rewards for holding it together. In the meantime he felt it was time for a heart to heart with Jacqui. It was time he told her about the messages in the newsagent's window. Perhaps between them they could piece things together. Perhaps they'd even have some news of their father to share with Mam.

2.ii But Jimmy’s reverie was about to unravel in a way he could never have anticipated.

As he passed through the out-patients department he had been observed by a certain Eric Peters.

A fluke sighting. Although now retired, Eric had been a war correspondent for a large national newspaper and had spent a great deal of time in various theatres of war. He had a photographic memory, still functioning, and instantly recognised Jimmy, or Lucky Jim as his comrades called him.

Eric had been embedded for 3 months with Jimmy’s regiment & had witnessed at first hand the atrocities & destruction. But one particular event was still lodged in Eric’s brain. He & Jimmy’s regiment were stationed in Tuzla, by Bosnian standards a large city.

But despite the obvious turmoil & fighting, when two local girls disappeared without trace, the authorities, military & police, became very active. It was not uncommon for liaisons to occur between troops & local women. Eric remembered the name of one of the girls-Milica, but couldn’t remember the other one.

Jimmy had developed a strong relationship with Milica & was interviewed by his own MP’s & the local SIPA officers. But he had supposedly perfect alibis & his mates backed him up. Case closed for Jimmy.

But now, suddenly, the case was no longer closed for Eric. He had listened to the subsequent whispers & firmly believed Jimmy was not called Lucky Jim without good reason.

3.ii Jimmy set off for the tube station, head high, spirits soaring. Eric jog trotted to keep him in sight and boarded the same coach, following him on his journey home and noting the address of the house he entered. All unseen.

'What's for tea Mam,' he shouted in greeting from the top of the stairs.

'Come down here at once, Jimmy Stephens. We've got visitors.' Seated in the garden with tea and cake were Jacqui and her two girls. 'and there's a letter for you with a French stamp on it. Must be your past catching up with you.' Mam was in high spirits. Jimmy greeted his sister warmly, hugged his nieces and looked at the envelope. Corporal James Stephens it read. There was an army H.Q. address crossed out with his home address added. Curiosity, fear and hope overcame him and he ripped open the envelope. A hand written sheet was covered in neat small script. He turned away as tears began to fill his eyes. 'I am well. Thank you for saving my life. I owe you so much, Petra too. Our journey was long and hard but we are safe. We hope you did not find trouble for helping us escape.' There was an address somewhere north of Nice.

'Oh just one of my old army mates, wanting to catch up,' Jimmy said, stuffing the letter into his pocket.

'Just what we've come to do too' smiled his twin,

'you'll never guess who I met today!'

4.ii ‘Go on.' ‘Uncle George. Remember? One of Dad's colleagues, no uncle at all.' ' Yes, I remember. He was really nice to us. Gave us pencil cases to take to secondary school. I've still got mine.' So had Jacqui, and suddenly the constraints had gone and the twins and their mother were talking enthusiastically about old times as the bored children disappeared into the garden. It seemed that Uncle George, like the family, had never been satisfied by the official verdict that his friend had simply cleared off. Once retired he had started an investigation of his own, and was going to call on them at the weekend to discuss what he had discovered. Jimmy was really excited but decided to conceal his own enquiries until they were all together, though it did cross his mind that George, a former detective, might know a journalist who could help with his plans. In any case, in the end there was no time to disclose any of his secrets before it was time for Jacqui to gather up her children and go home, the old relationships renewed. Even so, as the door closed, he excused himself and disappeared upstairs, ostensibly to change, but really because he could not wait any longer to look again at his letter.

5.ii Overwhelmed with emotion he raced back downstairs. It was time to share some of his news with Mum, who had just settled with a joyous smile on her face to watch Coronation Street. Jimmy rushed in, ran over, hugged her and showed her a photograph of Milica, “meet the future Mrs Stephens, well I hope so, isn’t she beautiful?”

She sat back on the sofa in shock while Jimmy explained his story.

Eric had been right, he had fallen in love with Milica, just as Tommy Watkins his childhood friend from the logistic corps had fallen for Petra. Villagers had begun to suspect and had informed the local police. As Tommy was due Leave he had opted to help the girls walk over the mountain Pass to escape through to safety. To delay matters in the night Tommy had run a tank into the nearby forest and left tyre marks and 2 items of clothing from both girls one with blood marks by the scene. He and the girls then set off. Jimmy had stayed in camp to make sure of his alibi and Tommy was never investigated as he had already supposedly gone back home.

His Mum realised how serious this was and couldn’t wait to meet the girl who had stolen her Jimmy’s heart. Now she could look forward to more grandchildren, maybe a boy this time. Both crying openly they hugged each other.

He then told her about seeing Dr Rajib and his application to train as a nurse. Her cup was overflowing with happiness.

He didn’t tell her yet though about Tommy Watkins Dad being the Trade Union Leader who had helped cover up the fight his Dad had been involved in at work the day he disappeared and whom he’d been trying to contact as he’d left Tommy’s Mum soon after the fighting and changed his address. He also didn’t tell her about his asking Dr Rajib if someone could suffer longterm amnesia after a brain injury but he would tell Uncle George when he came at the weekend.

6.ii For the rest of the week Jimmy began to pick his way through the vast and almost impenetrable pages of information on various government websites. Milica was one of millions of displaced people. Refugees fleeing war and persecution who had landed on the inhospitable and indifferent shores of Europe. To Jimmy she was the love of his life to so many others she was at best a nuisance and at worst a threat. He quickly realised that bringing her to England legally could be an impossibility. When Saturday came he had to turn his attention to uncle George. The family gathered in the garden to pool everything they knew about his dad’s disappearance and Jimmy told them about the strange card in the newsagents window. A photo of a man in his mid fifties and an appeal by his daughter for information about her father who may have worked as a mechanic in the area. Jimmy showed them the photo on his phone. They were stunned. His mum was in shock. "That's him", she managed to whisper. While everyone was trying to make sense of this the doorbell rang. When jimmy answered it there was Eric. He put his foot in the door.

"I'd like your comment sir on the disappearance of two young Bosnian girls during your tour of duty".

"You can have them" said Jimmy. "Come in. I'll tell you the full story but I want something in return" Jimmy recounted all the events concerning Milica and Petra's flight from persecution and possible death and brought the tale up to date with the dead end he had hit trying to get the girls into the country. Eric's eyes glistened. He knew a scoop when he heard one. This one had everything. Brave heroes, a daring escape, beautiful women, thwarted love.

"Leave it to me. I'm going to suggest to my boss that we run this as a big human interest story. If we can get the public on board your young lady may stand a chance" Jimmy thought there may be a chance and at least Eric didn't work for the Daily Mail. There were still very important family matters to sort out. Was it possible that dad had started a new family? Well it was up to his mum to lead them forward on this. It was a decision that couldn't be rushed. So much was happening. But as Jimmy, his sister and mum sat talking late into the night he knew that together they could face whatever life threw at them.