Welcome to the World of T.D.McKinnon

Memory Point: '“Up! Up! Up!” someone's shouting; I'm still half in my dream-state… Bang! Bang! Bang! There's a loud thumping on the wooden walls of the billet. As I attempt to physically orientate, the double doors at the end of the barrack room burst open with such a force I'm sure they will fly from their hinges.

"Hands off cocks! On with socks!" bellows the scary intruder framed in the doorway.

Resembling a gorilla in singlet and shorts: huge barrel chest, long ape-like arms and no neck he appears much shorter than his five feet ten inches. His round head seems to be just stuck on his wide, sloping shoulders; the hair on his head is short and sparse making the hair that covers his entire body seem longer and thicker than it actually is.

As he stands in the doorway, from his snarl-like grin and the sparkle in his dark, beady eyes, it's quite obvious that he is enjoying the panic and confusion he is creating.

Starting to move onto the next billet, he suddenly stops and turns back, a look of shocked amazement on his face; abruptly, appearing for all the world like an enraged gorilla, he charges down the centre of the room making loud growling noises. Everyone backs as far out of his path as they can; everyone that is except the poor, unfortunate boy who's slept through the entire performance thus far. The boy in question wakes up just in time to stare wide eyed and open mouthed in horror as he is lifted, bed and all, and hurled down the centre of the room.'

(This is the first memory point of this book; from this snapshot in time and space I gleaned the complete memory: the first sub chapter.)

The billet was now silent, some boys staring at the metal bed lying in a disassembled wreck, while the boy sitting amidst the wreckage and the rest of us stared in disbelief at the open doorway. The doorway only a second before 'Company Sergeant Major Instructor Hunton', the physical training officer of the Junior Parachute Company, had disappeared through, laughing like a demented lunatic.

“When Hairy Hunton is orderly officer you jump out of bed and stand to attention, immediately!” Steve’s warning had paid off for me and all but one of my roommates, some of the other billets had not been so lucky: on our way to breakfast we saw about twenty boys coming back from the assault course, bathed in sweat and splattered with mud.

Was it only yesterday I said goodbye to my father and stepped onboard the train, leaving my childhood behind for ever…

As I stared out of the window I had not, as it may have appeared to the casual observer, been watching the countryside speed by. With my mind’s eye, I'd been glimpsing flickering images of what the future might hold, in line with the choices I had made thus far in my life.

Eventually, a familiar grumbling in my stomach had brought me back from my prescient dreams and going in search of the buffet car I'd bumped into Tom Hare, whom I'd met a few weeks previous at the swearing in ceremony. We were to become, some time, friends over the next few years.

During the first leg of our journey we discovered numerous boys on the same mission, and after arriving at Euston Station we travelled in convoy across London’s network of underground railways to Waterloo station. By the time we departed on the Aldershot train there were over sixty, fifteen to seventeen-year-old, boys on their way to the Junior Parachute Company.

In Aldershot, a fleet of vehicles ferried us from the station to Malta Barracks; my home for the next two years.

The camp was made up of a succession of spiders: groups of eight barrack rooms joined together; four on each side of an amenities block, all linked by a series of long corridors.

Steve was my friend, and the son of my mother's paramour; a little older than me, he'd left school and joined Junior Para six months earlier. My decision to join up was in fact made after visiting him at Malta Barracks.

As well as warning me about Hairy Hunton, Steve had filled me in on the rules of survival at the Junior Parachute Company. His general advice had been quite simple: blend in and don’t buck the system.

For the first three months I was the epitome of mediocrity: careful not to fail at anything and just as careful not to excel; I didn’t want to get noticed or singled out in any way. With sixty-four boys, the largest intake the JPC had seen so far, it was not too difficult for a rather skinny, average sized fifteen-year-old to remain anonymous.

In that first three months there were some good times, and some times that were not so good, but on the whole I considered that I’d made the right choice.

I was one of the youngest in the intake, therefore one of the youngest in the whole of the JPC: two hundred and fifty boys between fifteen and seventeen and a half years of age. Twenty corporals, seven sergeants and colour sergeants, and two company sergeant majors were numbered in the permanent staff NCOs (none-commissioned-officers); the commissioned officers consisted of four lieutenants and the company commander who was a major.

Under the permanents were about twenty Junior NCOs: boy soldiers promoted to a temporary rank while serving as juniors.

The sergeant in charge of my platoon was Sergeant Norman; he brought quite a reputation with him from P Company. P Company, or Pre Para Company, was a process that soldiers from other units had to endure when attempting to join the Parachute Brigade. Other units, as any Para will tell you, are ‘Crap-hats’ and anyone wanting to swap that ‘Crap-hat’ for the coveted Red Beret would have to endure intense physical and mental agonies. Sergeant Norman, 'Pompy' or 'The White Hunter' as he was better known, was one of the best or worst, depending on who was telling the story, task masters ever to hit P Company. He was both hated and admired throughout the entire 16th Independent Parachute Brigade. Then there was Corporal Strong, he’d been in the army for about twelve years; rumour had it that he'd been busted from sergeant on more than one occasion. He was well liked by the boys, known as a veteran soldier who held little regard for commissioned officers.

For the uninitiated, NCOs work their way through the ranks from private to lance corporal, corporal, sergeant, staff/colour sergeant, company sergeant major, and eventually regimental sergeant major.

A commissioned officer starts by going straight to officer training school – where he also gets his basic soldier training – or does his basic training with his chosen unit, and then goes to an officer training school later. Regardless, they arrive in a unit as a second lieutenant, younger than any of the NCOs and technically out ranking them all. The attitude towards commissioned officers was generally, but not openly, fairly hostile. Firstly, there was a natural aversion to taking orders from someone who'd learned his soldiering from a textbook. Secondly, most commissioned officers came from the upper classes or upper middle classes, and there was a general animosity between the classes.

Every day contained more mental and physical stimulation than I had ever experienced. There was always something new to absorb; as they redesigned us: taking the basic material that was us they coaxed, teased and shaped us and as the days and weeks passed, each made of different metal, we reacted individually to the process.

Most of us had enlisted as junior soldiers or junior drummers, with an odd few actually joining as junior bandsmen; however, there was a process during the first three months of training, as they turned the heat up, when the real forging began. Like tempering steel: heating, cooling, pushing and pulling; applying pressure from every conceivable angle; eventually making or breaking us.

As previously mentioned, there were a few who signed on as bandsmen, but in fact musical ability had little to do with the final equation. There were those who didn't make it of course, but the ones who made it and were deemed not in possession of a hardy spirit were persuaded that perhaps they would be better suited to the band or drums. Those earmarked for the band and drums who displayed that hardy spirit were given the option of changing to the junior soldiers. Not always successful, this method did however give them a bit of a safety net if they erred in their initial selection process.

There were some boys I related to more than others and I was lucky enough that my barrack room didn't seem to contain, for the most part, the egotistical elements that were defining the other three billets; for instance, there was less inclination to vie for positions of dominance. Interestingly, most of the boys in my room were destined for the band and drums.

When visiting Steve at Malta Barracks before I left school, one of the things that had impressed me most, and in fact made up my mind about joining Junior Para, was the confidence and self esteem emanating from the young soldiers. Little did I realise how hard come by that self esteem was.

In my first three months I experienced more physical and psychological exertion than in my whole life to date. For most of the new recruits just getting up at 06:00 every morning was a new experience. One thing not new for me; I'd been delivering newspapers, morning and evening, for almost two years and 06:00 was a half hour lie in for me.

Every morning began with some form of intense physical exertion. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after a 07:30 muster parade, was the Company 'road, walk and run'; except the name was a bit of a misnomer: no walking (unless you dropped out, and then you were subjected to such abuse that most didn't do it again) and not much road. The only road part was the bit leading to the tank tracks: a wilderness area of miles and miles of muddy hills and valleys, broken occasionally by acres of wooded enclaves. It should have been called simply 'the tank track runs!' A training area we shared with the Royal Armoured Corps. Most of the time, we ran ankle or knee deep and sometimes waist deep in mud and water; and this while wearing boots, putties and denims. Unless of course, on occasion (or in the advanced platoons), wearing full battle gear: webbing and pouches weighted to simulate carrying ammunition et cetera.

Tuesdays and Thursdays, after the 07:30 muster, began with square bashing: marching drills, with or without weapons, until you thought your feet would fall off.

Physical training and conditioning was a major part of our daily routines; when we weren't running or marching we were in the gymnasium doing hours of circuit training, or doing task specific stuff like Battle PT: the assault course, with or without rifles, and sometimes with logs: telegraph pole sized logs, carried in teams of four or six. Battle speed marches, in full battle order with rifles, over roads and across country (country being generally the tank tracks of course). Then there was weapons training, handling and drills; learning about and mastering the small arms of the British Army, until you could strip, clean and assemble each and every weapon in seconds flat. There were endless hours on the firing ranges becoming proficient marksmen in those weapons until they were your best friends. The main weapon of an infantry soldier was of course the Self loading combat rifle (SLR), but the weapons we familiarised with included the Browning high power pistol, the Stirling sub machine gun (SMG), the Light machine gun (LMG), the General purpose machine gun (GPMG) in the light and the heavy role; plus the various grenades, mortars, rocket launchers and the Carl Gustov (the main anti-tank weapon).

There was always something to learn or new skill to perfect as they moulded us into elite shock troops; from close quarter combat, with and without weapons, to orienteering and battle tactics.

Unlike regular infantry, the Paras worked in small units; designed to be dropped behind enemy lines, working on there own, using a kind of guerrilla warfare against superior numbers. There wasn't a day go by that we didn't chant some Parachute Regiment rhetoric. The Parachute Regiment motto is 'Utrinque Paratus': 'Ready for Anything'. The Junior Parachute Coy motto was 'The Strong Shall Live and the Weak Shall Die'. The Airborne was our brotherhood and indoctrination of the Red Devil creed was fed to us daily, in large doses.

Being a junior leaders company they also had our education to tend to, so that by the time we progressed to the regular battalions we had the educational qualifications to take us to senior NCO's. So, somehow, we managed to also fit in two full afternoons of English, Maths, Geography, Current Affairs and Regimental History. Besides all of the above, the responsibility of not only the washing, ironing and maintenance of our own kit, weapons and various uniforms et cetera fell to us, but also the cleaning and maintenance of the entire camp; including living quarters, amenities block (showers and toilets etc.), cookhouse (kitchens and dining room etc.), grounds, stores and company offices. All of this fitted into a five and a half day week, and could have us busy until 21:00 daily, culminating at lunchtime on Saturday – unless we were on manoeuvres, in which case we could be at it for weeks at a time.

During the first few months I watched the clique-forming as two or three boys from each billet took a dominant role, with various others grouping around them. The ensuing power struggles between those groups for supremacy over the whole intake resulted in conflict and, inevitably, regular outbursts of violence.

Although as I said, for the most part, it wasn't happening in my billet, Slick Bletchley, professing to be something of a boxer, was probably the most vocal.

Paddy Hanson’s confident manner, as he strolled down the centre of the room, totally belied his almost alter boy like appearance.

“Anyone got a spare cigarette!” said Paddy in his clear southern counties accent, with the merest hint of an Irish lilt coming through.

From one of the other billets, Paddy was a lieutenant of another youth, Brummy Richards who – at seventeen years old, due to his size, maturity, and the fact that he had demolished a huge opponent in no uncertain fashion – was now considered the kingpin of the whole intake. Paddy, on the other hand, resembled a rather pale, under nourished fourteen-year old.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was lying on top of my bed with my beret over my face. The Saturday morning camp inspection had taken place just before lunch and now most of us were relaxing or getting ready to hit the town.

“Fuck off back to your own room and cadge fags!” growled Bletchley in his thick Yorkshire accent. I moved my beret just enough that I might watch the unfolding drama.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” said Paddy unperturbed.

“Fuck off! Before I drop ya!” snarled Slick, and rising from his bed he dropped his half finished cigarette butt onto the highly polished floor and ground it under his boot.

Memory Point: '“Tch, tch, tch, what a waste; and what a mess you’ve made of this beautiful floor!” says Paddy calmly, shaking his head.

Obviously more than Slick Bletchley can stand, with an enraged roar he quickly closes the gap between them and lets loose with a big right fist. A blur of motion ends with Bletchley flat on his back, staring up in amazement. Stepping back, Paddy allows him to get to his feet. By now I'm sitting up.

It isn’t until later that we piece together what actually happened: Paddy, nimbly side stepping and ducking under Slick’s swinging right fist, while simultaneously grabbing a handful of hair with his left hand, jerked his head backwards and clubbed him to the ground with his right fist in an unorthodox hammer-type action.

Slick gets to his feet, slowly, his eyes never leaving Paddy. Standing calmly, hands by his sides, Paddy watches Slick shape up like a boxer. Approaching cautiously this time, Slick jabs out a straight left. Moving his head slightly, Paddy expertly slips the punch. Slick then moves in with a quick left, right combination, but again Paddy’s head isn’t there.

Suddenly, Paddy moves forward, delivering kicks and punches at such a speed and in such a manner that I, nor any of the other boys, have ever seen before. This time the blur of motion finishes with Slick on the floor and Paddy holding two handfuls of his hair, one leg cocked, ready to smash a booted foot into Slick’s face should he refuse to quit.

Paddy strolled out of the door barely two minutes after his casual entrance. Slick Bletchley certainly learned the hard way that you should never judge a book by its cover.

In Britain at that time, anyone who practised judo was considered a bit of a traitor: feelings still ran rather high concerning the Japanese after WW II, and I had never heard of karate.

The rumour quickly spread that Paddy Hanson was an expert in some kind of Asian fighting art; nobody knew for sure and it was to be years later, after Paddy and I had become close friends, that I found out the whole story.

I was a different person than the individual who'd boarded the train just a few short months before.

Arriving home on my first leave, from the moment I stepped from the bus in Keresley to walk the remaining half mile or so – dressed in my uniform, red beret at a jaunty angle, low on my forehead – I was treated like a homecoming hero.

I went to meet my sister, Jane, from school and all the while people, young and old, exchanged pleasantries with me; I'd never received so much respect.

After dinner that evening I smoked a cigarette in front of my parents for the first time; my mother said she hoped I wasn’t smoking too much and my father just mumbled something about me making my own decisions now. I spent a lot of that first evening talking to my sister. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why we'd fought so much. After sleeping late the next morning, I went for a walk around the village. Running into Hughie Donnely and Allan Rivers I ambled along with them, chatting and passing the time of day. It had been almost six months since I'd been in their company and things had changed.

For as long as I could remember, Hughie had been my friend, some times my best friend. Over the years we'd fallen out for various reasons but we always eventually made up. A tough boy by necessity: his family and background; less than a year older than me he was honest and moral, and had even been my protector on occasion.

I had known Allan for most of my life too; a couple of years older than me, I knew him as a brutish bully who'd played the antagonist in my life right up until I joined the army.

Memory Point: “Do you remember that fight I had with John Thomson?” I say, laughing at the memory. Allan and Hughie laugh along with me as we each remember the incident from our own unique perspective. “Do you remember?…” I say between fits of laughter as they join in my infectious merriment. “That day…” and I almost collapse in hysterics, “How you dragged me off John, by the hair, when I had him cold, punched me in the face and slammed me against the wall?!” My innuendo is obvious and Allan’s laughter abates, but I'm clearly still in good humour and soon he's caught up in the infectious euphoria once more.

The laughter subsides into a few moments silence as we walk on, lost in our own particular thoughts, and then I burst out laughing again.

“Do you remember…? Ha ha ha… that day when I stalled your bike? Ha ha ha…” I'm now laughing fit to burst and my two companions are almost collapsing on either side of me. Suddenly, completely absent of humour, I say, “That’s when you punched me out!!” and in one swift movement, drawing my fist back sharply, I turn on him…

Not much had changed in their lives, but I had grown in size, strength, confidence and ability. I’d been on a learning curve they could barely imagine; fast-tracking the change from schoolboy to soldier.

The look of shock on Allan’s face as he jumped away, raising his arms in defence, was all the revenge I needed and I burst out laughing again. Hughie, who'd stepped back involuntarily, was quick to rejoin my mirth, but relief broke slowly over Allan’s face; before he too, nervously at first, began laughing again.

We spent the rest of that afternoon pleasantly enough, but all three of us were aware that the situation between us had changed forever.

“Remember?...” said my father, causing me to pause on my way out. “The door gets locked at eleven o’clock, sharp!”

“I remember!” I said, but what I was thinking was, 'up yours!'

My father had beaten and intimidated me until shortly before I joined the army. The catalyst had come a few weeks before leaving home. After making the decision not to give in passively to anymore beatings, terrified but resolute, I stood up to him. The time had now come to reinforce that understanding.

I went out with some boys I'd been talking to after leaving Hughie and Allan earlier that day; older boys who previously would not have given me the time of day. Getting very drunk, I slept on the floor at one of their homes and returned the next morning just in time to get changed and leave for camp. My father gave me a stern look, but said nothing. My mother fussed a little but after a cursory, “Out with some mates and got back late, so I slept over at Ken’s!” she gave my father a ‘That’s your fault!’ look, and dropped the subject.

On my return, to my amazement, I was informed that I'd narrowly missed being appointed leading soldier: the first step for those considered NCO material. I had not remained as inconspicuous as I’d imagined. There were only four leading soldiers picked from over sixty; consequently, I felt that I was under the microscope.

Where previously I'd felt little or no pressure to excel, but had obviously done quite well, I was now afraid of not living up to expectations. Leading up to the Christmas break I was convinced that everyone was watching and passing judgement, and I became increasingly uneasy.

Steve, on the other hand, was made a leading soldier in his platoon and took to it like a duck to water.

Christmas came around fairly incident free, although my confidence had definitely taken a down turn. The Christmas break was just what I needed and two weeks into the festivities, at a party in Steve's house, I was in a much better frame of mind.

“Tom. This is Gwyneth!” introduced Steve with glowing pride. We hadn’t seen much of each other over the break. He and Gwyneth, whom he'd known from childhood, had been spending time together; while I'd been involved with festivities in other circles.

“Hello!” I said, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.” She blushed and smiled shyly.

“Come on, I’ll get you a drink!” said Steve, steering her in the direction of the makeshift bar. He glanced back briefly, smiling and I gave him a nod of approval before wandering off to find Jossie, my date for the night. As the party got underway the drinks flowed, the music got louder and everyone began to relax, talk, dance, and in general party on.

During the course of the night, while dancing with Jossie, I'd noticed Gwyneth watching me. She was a pretty, petite little thing with big brown, almond eyes and long dark hair. I took the attention as a boost to my ego, as any youth at the blossoming of manhood might, but she was Steve’s girl so I thought no more about it.

Memory Point: The party is in full swing and everyone is a little drunk; Steve and I are on our second bottle of scotch. On my way back from the toilet I almost collide with Gwyneth in the hallway. We smile at each other and I try to side step, but attempting the same manoeuvre we still bar each other’s way. I move again, and once more she makes the identical move. Now, facing each other yet again, we burst out laughing.

The laughter slowly subsides and Gwyneth puts her hands on my hips. I find myself gazing into her soft, brown eyes and as if by magnetism our mouths are drawn together. Suddenly the lounge-room door opens; startling apart I look up to see Steve, wild eyed.

“McKinnon!!” he yells venomously, before turning on his heel and disappearing back into the lounge room.

“Steve! It’s not how it looks!” I call after him, frantically.

Gwyneth runs after Steve, while I follow dejectedly. Feeling guilty and embarrassed, I stagger through the lounge room where the music has stopped and everyone is staring, wondering what has suddenly changed the mood of the party.

I could hear Steve outside shouting, incessantly, “McKinnon!! Get out here! You bastard!” with my head spinning from the drink and the sudden change of pace, I headed for the back door.

“Steve, please liste–!”

“Shut up! Slut! Just shut up!! I’m going to kill him!” interrupted Steve, as Gwyneth tried to calm him down.

“Steve! Please listen to me?! It wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was m–”

“Shut up! And get out of my way!” he exploded in her face as I stumbled out of the back door and crashed into the garden shed.

My whole world had suddenly turned into a nightmare, and try as I might I couldn't bring anything into proper focus. Steve attempted to push passed her, but small as she was she did a good job of barring his way. I began to throw up; I kept throwing up until I was sure my intestines would be the next thing to come up.

“Can’t you see he’s drunk, and very sick!” she screamed at him.

“He’ll be a fucking sight sicker before I’m finished with him!” he retorted.

With a supreme effort, I eventually stopped retching and managed to focus up the path just in time to see Steve pick Gwyneth up and throw her into the hedge.

“All right Davis! If it’s a fight you want… I’m not frightened of you!” I heard myself say through a foggy haze.

“Right!!” said Steve, jerking a thumb towards the front of the house. “On the front yard. Now!!”

Taking a deep breath, I headed passed him making for the front of the house. Hearing Gwyneth scream I turned and, for the second time in as many minutes, saw her thrown into the hedge again.

“Come on Davis!” I shouted. “Let’s get this over with!”

It was over very quickly indeed. Reaching the centre of the yard I turned to face him and throwing a punch as he moved in I missed by the proverbial mile. I never really knew what hit me. He knocked me down with a crashing blow to the chin and I was vaguely aware of sprawling onto my hands and knees. The next thing my head exploded as he finished me off with a vicious kick in the head.

When Bill, Steve's father, arrived home later that night he found the house in semi-darkness and the music playing, softly. Gwyneth and I were cuddled up in one corner, as she nursed my aching head; while in another corner Jossie tended to Steve’s injured pride.

The following day, much to the envy of several Junior Paras returning on the same train, we kissed the girls goodbye as they saw us off at the station.

Steve had been really keen on Gwyneth, I knew that Jossie was small consolation. Anytime I caught his glance, I could sense the residual pain flash behind his eyes. Eventually, seated in the buffet car with a beer, smoking a cigarette, I said, "I hope you know how very sorry I am, Steve?... I…I never meant for any of last night to happen."

"I know," he said, attempting to smother the pain, before adding, "You can't help being so fucking irresistible!" and after a sardonic little laugh, "Seriously though, Tom, your looks could get you killed one day by some guy or other in a jealous rage."

"Come on, Steve… How many ways can I say I'm sorry?" I felt as low as a snake and didn't know what else to say.

"It's not just your looks, you know, it's that smouldering way you look at the girls; that 'Slow Burn' of yours," he said cynically.

After a couple of beers we loosened up a little and he apologised profusely for kicking me in the head; before too long we were best buddies again, almost.

Neither relationship lasted; we both got 'Dear John' letters from the girls. My head, however, was a different story. In fact I continued to get dizzy spells, head aches and ringing in my ears for months afterwards. Steve tried to persuade me to see a doctor but I stubbornly refused; eventually my head returned to normal, or as normal as it had ever been.

Steve and I had fought, sporadically, almost since we first met as ten-year-olds: his dominant arrogance clashing with my arrogant defiance. However, realising after that last little episode that we were not little boys any longer and could in fact, inadvertently, kill each other, we swore never to fight again.

Taking several twists and turns, 1966 was an eventful year. Through my very defensive attitude – most people would have said I had a chip on my shoulder – I alienated myself somewhat from most of my peers. Although I had acquired a good level of proficiency in all aspects of soldiering, I was fast becoming disenchanted with the army in general. Basically, I just didn’t like being ordered around.

Meanwhile, not only was Steve proficient he also had a good attitude, was confident and had a good relationship with his peers; he was promoted to lance corporal. Although in a different platoon, he was appointed NCO in charge of my billet. Occupying a small room of his own at the entrance to the main billet, he was responsible for the cleanliness, discipline and smooth running of the barrack room and the sixteen junior soldiers who lived there.

I initially thought the incessant knocking was part of my dream.

“Thomas are you awake? Thomas… Thomas, wake up!”

“Yeh… yeh, I’m awake! What is it?" Entering my bedroom, Jane knelt beside my bed looking like the cat who stole the cream. “What are you looking so pleased about?”

“Aren’t you getting up? It’s Ten o’clock you know.”

Gathering the blankets around my neck I yawned. “Yeh… soon… give me a break; I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn for months.”

“I thought you might like to know that there’s a girl outside asking for you.”

She'd just said the magic words, “What girl?!” and she now had my undivided attention.

“She’s outside on the green asking for you.” she said smiling triumphantly.

“What’s she like?”

Moving to the window and opening the blinds she said, “Have a look for yourself. That’s her over there with the big dog.”

My family lived on Parkfield Road, and like most of the roads in Keresley, there was a part where the road looped around a small village green; ours was the first house in the loop.

“Over there!” she said, pointing as I joined her at the window.

It was a beautiful day, and squinting against the glare of the sun I could see a girl with long black hair squatting next to a large Alsatian dog, absently rubbing its ears. “I don’t recognise her!… Mind you, from this distance I can’t even tell if she’s cute?”

“Don’t worry, she is…” assured my sister, “and she says she knows you!”

Ten minutes later – washed and dressed, stomach full of butterflies, trying to appear cool and relaxed – I sauntered towards her. Standing up as I drew close, she gave me a warm smile; there was something familiar about the pretty, elfin features and the twinkling blue-grey eyes, but I still didn’t recognise her until at last she spoke: the soft, bell like tone of her voice was the only thing about her that hadn't changed… “Hello Tom. Don’t you remember me?”

“Sue?”

We first met, briefly, more than three years previously as thirteen year olds; she was dating Ken, a sometime friend of mine. We hadn't even spoken at that meeting, but as our eyes met we connected on a deeper level. About a year later we met again, this time she was Hughie's girlfriend; we spoke that time and there was a definite connection. I made a conscious effort to avoid her after that meeting, but the shit hit the fan when she told Hughie she couldn't get me off her mind. Hughie chased me with the object of beating me up; he didn't catch me, but he and I fell out for some time. I hadn’t seen her since; a lifetime ago.

We walked miles, talking and laughing together, engrossed in each other's company; occasionally stopping briefly to kiss, when a car might toot its horn, or someone might call or whistled from across the street and we'd laugh before strolling on again. We spent most of that Easter leave, hand in hand, on endless country walks.

“Tom! No!” she said sitting up and pushing me gently but firmly away. It was the last day of my leave, and after more than a week of nursing a permanent erection my frustration had driven me to try every sly, conniving, bold and brazen trick in my limited book of experience. Sue was standing firm. I would, yet again, have to relieve myself of the pain in my groin, later.

“But, Sue… you’re driving me mad!” I said in frustration.

“Look Tom… I think I love you… and, I will admit that I get randy too, but I think it’s too soon. Anyway, I don’t think lying in the grass, in broad daylight, is the right place for my first time. Do you?!”

I lay back in the lush green grass, unashamedly displaying the obvious bulge in my tight jeans and lit a cigarette.

“I wish you'd understand!” she said quietly, the tears welling up in her eyes.

I’d hurt her again. Sitting up and leaning forward, I caught a tear running down the side of her nose, and then kissed her tenderly on her soft, down-turned mouth. “I’m sorry… I don’t know why you put up with me?” I said genuinely, and for a long moment we gazed into each others eyes.

“Oh Tom!” she exclaimed, launching her petite frame at me, and we fell back, rolling together in the grass.

Later as we held each other quietly, watching the sun set, she suddenly asked, “What are the army girls like?”

“Oh… much like any other girls, I suppose.”

“You know what I mean?!” she persisted. “Do they… let you…?”

With an exaggerated expression of shock, I said, “Why… Susan Burns! I can’t think what you mean!”

“Don’t give me that, Thomas McKinnon! You know exactly what I mean! And I want an answer!!” She then proceeded to tickle me until we were both laughing hysterically. The laughing and tickling quite naturally turned to kissing and fondling; eventually we became still, just holding each other again.

“Tom,” she said, quietly against my chest. “I know you'll see other girls when you’re in Aldershot.”

“Sue I–”

“Don’t say anything! Just listen.” She fell silent for a moment, the sun was setting, the night closing in around us. “I just don’t want to know… about them!” I didn’t know what to say. “O.K?”

“O.K,” I whispered in her ear. She reached up and kissed me then, long and deep, before breaking away and running down the road.

“I’ll write!” I shouted, as the night swallowed her.

“I love you!” came floating back to me from the darkness.

Arriving at RAF Abingdon after Recruit Company and Maida Barracks – let alone Brecon and all that time in the field – little wonder I thought all my birthdays had come at once. Not only were we billeted in comfortable rooms with comfortable beds, there was also a dining room, not a cookhouse, a real dining room with cups and saucers as well as condiments and cutlery, and as much fresh bread as you wanted. Indeed, as much food as you wanted and the food was good, cooked well, with an assortment I’d never experienced, anywhere.

Memory Point: “Oh yes…” says Paddy sitting down next to me. “I could take plenty of this.”

“I recon…" I agree, and then between mouthfuls, "I should have joined the RAF Regiment.”

“With this kind of treatment all the time, you’d soon get soft,” says Rick, not bothering to wait until his mouth is empty.

“I don’t give a fuck about getting soft…" Doc cuts in, “They treat us like real people, here.”

“Well… I won’t be missing any of the Depot staff. And that’s for sure,” mumbles Paddy with a full mouth.

“Yeh!”

“My fucking oath!”

“You bet your life!” the various terms of agreement chime in from around the table.

We actually came under the Parachute Company Attached Unit, the PCAU and there were a few Parachute Regiment permanent staff at Abingdon, but for the most part, for the next four weeks, we were under the RAF dispatchers: sergeants and staff-sergeants, who treated us like real people.

Muster parade was 08:30hrs, giving us plenty of time for breakfast after getting up at 07:30hrs; sheer luxury. Further more, our working week was Monday to Friday, which meant we had every weekend off and could even go home if we lived near enough. I lived about two-and-a-half hours drive away and could hitch hike home in about four hours. But after sampling the on-base NAAFI Club, the 101 Club, I didn’t think I’d bother going home: there were so many girls here that I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. The WRAF girls were plentiful and beautiful, but that was only the half of it; the civilian population around the base were friendly towards the forces, a huge change from Aldershot, and they even frequented the 101 Club on the base.

“When we get to a thousand feet you’ll feel a lurch as the winch stops,” said Staff Sergeant Wise, as I watched the ground move further and further away. The first man in the stick, in the first cage of the day; looking around the pinched, white faces I wasn’t quite sure whether this was a good thing or not.

We'd been at Abingdon for two weeks, going through simulated parachute landing drills daily: running up and jumping off higher and higher ramps. The final simulated jumps were in a harness attached by a cable to a huge fan that allowed you to drop at a steady rate from a sixty foot tower, landing as though in a real parachute.

Now here I was with a parachute on my back, standing in a balloon cage being winched slowly up on a cable from the back of a truck to float high above the Drop Zone (DZ). After all this time in the Parachute Regiment, at long last, I was about to take my first parachute jump.

“Not long now!” The little dispatcher raised his voice to be heard over the wind whistling through the cage. The balloon lurched suddenly and everyone, except the dispatcher, grabbed for the sides of the cage; my stomach was in my mouth and I felt like throwing up. Besides the dispatcher, there were six of us in the cage and we followed a pre-planned sequence of drills, the first of which was to hook up our static lines to a cable on the ceiling.

“Now… listen carefully!” said the parachute jump instructor (PJI). “Hook up!” I looked around the faces of my fellow, would be, paratroopers as I hooked up. They were all white as ghosts. “Check chutes!” We each inspected the parachute of the man in front of us as a final check; having already been checked at several points previously. A feeling of surrealism was flooding quickly over me. “Stand in the door!” As the first man in the stick I moved a step closer to stand immediately in front of the door. The only thing between me and the DZ a thousand feet below was a thin bar.

“Don’t look down, Mac. Keep your eyes on the horizon,” the dispatcher said close to my ear, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the truck we were suspended from, which now looked like a match box toy. “Red on!” and as the little PJI said this he reached across and lifted the bar from the doorway. ‘Oh shit! Oh shit!’ I thought. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ and for a split second I wasn’t sure if I could do it; then a sort of calm came over me and I knew that there was no other way, even if it meant certain death, that I would not jump. In a way, it would have taken more courage than I possessed to refuse.

Memory Point: “Green on!… Go!”

Leaping into the void, before I really know what I'm doing, keeping my eyes on the horizon, I'm surprised when my boots come into view. Dropping like a stone for nearly two hundred feet, the events of my life seem to flash across the canvas of my mind; I'm quite prepared to die, here and now.

When you jump from a stationary object, like a balloon cage for example, you’re top heavy; and because your feet are the lightest part of you they float up before your parachute fully deploys; which seems like an eternity.

Suddenly, I seemingly stop, suspended by rigging lines from the canopy far above; now I feel such elation, the like of which I have never felt in my life.

‘Drills… Come on McKinnon… wake up,’ I tell myself, bringing my mind back to the task at hand, and looking up I check my chute. ‘No problems there.’ Should the parachute malfunction, I'll have only a few seconds to assess if I need to deploy my reserve chute. ‘Feet and knees together,’ I go through the drills in my head. ‘Relaxed but controlled,’ and then the ground rush begins.

Suspended bellow a parachute, ground rush occurs in the last hundred and fifty feet or so as you're approaching the ground.

It actually feels like I am hanging, quite still, in the air and the ground is rushing up to meet me; my instincts tell me to pull my legs up and away from the approaching ground or, conversely, reach out to meet it. Responding to either of these instincts can, potentially, cause serious injury. The many hours of drills and training come together and before I realise what's happening, executing a perfect roll, I'm on the ground.

Turning my harness buckle I punch it with the heel of my hand releasing me from the harness; bouncing to my feet I let out a whoop of delight, “Whooohoohoo!” I feel ten feet tall and bullet proof. And then I have to empty my bladder.

Walking along the DZ towards the rest of 318 platoon I had to keep my wits about me as the others from the balloon cage dropped around me. The landings varied from graceful to woeful, but the one thing that we all had in common was, to a man, immediately after landing everyone emptied their bladder. The guys who’d jumped were kept separate from those waiting to jump for the first time, and we chatted incessantly about how anxious we were to get back up there and jump again.

The second balloon jump was meant to simulate jumping from the boom of a Beverly aircraft. On large-scale parachute drops we would be jumping from port, starboard, and boom of the old Beverly at the same time.

I watched as the first man stepped into the thousand foot hole; and I peered into hole as he dropped away: tilting back, feet rising, eyes wide as saucers, until his chute deployed hiding his face from sight. The next man out had his eyes screwed tightly shut as he fell away from the cage. Then it was my turn.

Memory Point: ‘Oh fuck! This is much worse than the first time… No horizon to look at… Just straight down a thousand feet.’

“Red on… Green on… Go!”

Again, the endless hours of drilling take over and I'm through the aperture before I realise what I'm doing. My stomach lifts into my mouth, my body tilts back and I'm looking up at the fast diminishing hole in the bottom of the cage, where pinched white faces peer back at me until the picture is obstructed by my chute opening. And there it is again: that all-consuming elation: adrenaline shooting me higher than the proverbial kite.

“Jesus… They’re not having us on, are they?” said Martin Carter.

The day following the balloon jumps we waited nervously as the aeroplane taxied towards us.

“The fucking thing’s got masking tape holding the tail on!” remarked Paddy, unimpressed.

“The tail is lower than the door,” I observed, not sounding anywhere near as concerned as I felt. The aeroplane that we were about to board was an RAF Hastings, it looked like something straight out of WW II and it did have a fair bit of, what looked like, patch work repairs, especially around the tail section. While on the ground, the Hastings sat at about twenty-five degrees and the door was higher than the tail section. It looked like if you leapt from the plane, at jump speed, the slipstream would take you right over the tail wing, or smash you right into it. However, when the Hastings was in flight it levelled out a little, which meant the door was about level with the tail and it looked like, for sure, you would smash right into it. Quite obviously that wasn’t the case as these planes were used for parachuting all the time, but as this prehistoric monster climbed into the sky and headed for the DZ, that knowledge didn't make us feel any better.

“Stand up!… Hook up!” one of the PJI's yelled over the roar of the engines. The first stick, eight men, stood up and hooked their static lines to the cable running the length of the aircraft. “Check chutes!” came his second direction. They each checked the chute of the man in front of them, and then turning checked the chute of the man behind.

“Red on!… Move to the door!” called the PJI stationed at the door. The first stick shuffled towards the door until the first man was parallel with the open door. “Green on! Go!” and the first man leapt through the door, and in quick succession the other seven followed, barely a second separating them.

“Stand up!… Hook up!” called a PJI. Standing up, I realised for the first time that I was to be first man in the stick, again. My stomach was turning flip-flops as I struggled to remain standing when the aeroplane banked around for a second run at the DZ.

“Red on… Move to the door!”

Holding the strop and sliding my static line along the cable I shuffled towards the door with my stomach in knots. As I reached the door the PJI turned me and I was looking down onto beautiful green fields, it didn’t seem nearly as high as the balloon. In fact we were flying at eight hundred feet and as we passed over a farm someone was driving a tractor down a lane; I could make out the man’s face as he looked up. I was still looking, mesmerised by the tractor in the distance when…

“Go! Go!” and feeling a hard slap on the shoulder I jumped: I had missed the initial, "Green on, go!" order.

Once out of the plane, whipped away by the slipstream, I was rocketing down an invisible slippery-dip; much different from the dead drop of the balloon jump. Suddenly the slippery-dip ride was over and I was suspended under a huge white canopy high above the ground in a beautiful blue sky.

“Whoohooo!”

“Hey, Mac,” said Paddy quietly, as we waited for our drinks. Tearing my eyes away from the cute little behind I’d been watching, I found my friend beckoning me closer, a conspiratorial smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Paddy Hanson and I had become fast friends during our stay at RAF Abingdon. We shared a common interest, which we placed above almost anything else: girls. Regardless of anything that went on during the day, or anything we might have to prepare for the following day, we still found the energy to get ready and form an assault on the 101 Club, hunting for fresh game. Now we were drawing to the end of our stay at the RAF station; with only three jumps to complete the eight for our wings we would be heading back to Aldershot by the end of the week. As we leaned in closer Paddy glance quickly around… “Are you looking forward to going back to that Farra-Smythe, bastard?” My expression was more than enough answer. “I recon… we milk this place for all it’s worth.” I didn’t know what Paddy had in mind, but my interest was made evident by the grin spreading from ear to ear. When our drinks arrived we took them to a corner table for some privacy. “This is a full proof plan, not only to extend our stay in this holiday camp; it’s also our ticket straight to 1 Para.”

I had applied to be reunited with Steve in 1 Para; I was hoping to join him in Aden. Eddy McGraw, a platoon member, had applied and they were letting him join his brother. However, it would still be a couple of years before Steve was, officially, my stepbrother; and as cousins, which I'd claimed, they said we weren't closely enough related. Paddy had applied and been accepted into 1 Para. 1 Para was the boxing battalion and Paddy was not only a former Amateur Boxing Association champion; he was also the British Army Southern Command junior champion. I of course had missed out there too.

“But, you already have clearance to join 1 Para,” I said, a little confused.

“Yeh, but I’d have to wait in Holdies back at Maida Barracks, or perhaps join them in Aden. Where would you rather be?” and my eyebrows rose, understanding dawning… “Exactly!” said Paddy; before adding. “We could hang out in this paradise until 1 Para comes back.” He grinned a mischievous little grin and when I returned it a positive gleam appeared in his dancing Irish eyes. Lifting our drinks, we clinked glasses to seal the agreement, and then downing the contents we ordered two more.

The following day I walked off the DZ holding my arm, as if I had dislocated my left shoulder. The strange thing was that I had crashed in on my shoulder and although I was definitely milking it there was an element of truth, which helped me to carry it off persuasively. Paddy did his back on the next jump, staggering off the DZ very convincingly. Two days later we waved goodbye to 318 Platoon as they headed back to Aldershot.

“By the way, Paddy, I’ve always meant to ask you, ever since I saw you demolish Sting Bletchley back when we were all just sproggs… was that some kind of karate you were doing?”

“Fuck, Mac… that was a long time ago,” he said, giving a little chuckle at the memory.

“Yeh… I know, but I didn’t know you back then… In fact It’s only since we joined the Cadre that we’ve become friends, and It’s taken a while to get to know you enough to ask about something that happened a couple of years ago.” He chuckled again but said nothing; lifting his glass he drained the contents. “Come on Paddy?…” I said impatiently: I'd waited a long time to find out this little snippet.

“Well…” he said as if he was going to tell me, and then turning to the barmaid he said, “Two more of the same, please love?” After paying for and collecting the drinks he led me away to a table. “It’s quite a long story…” he began and he went on to tell me a little about his upbringing. He had, inadvertently, ended up doing some time in an approved school, and because he wasn’t very big he had to be twice as nasty when it came to defending himself against those who would take advantage. “You’ve got to watch out for the poofftas… if you know what I mean?” I nodded – I had a very good idea what he was talking about – and he went on, “I did a bit of boxing and a bit of karate and a shit load of scrapping… The nastier you are in a fight: the less likely you are to get picked by anyone watching, or anyone who hears about it!”

I'd seen Paddy in action, both in and out of the ring, and I believed he had a capacity for violence, or nastiness as he termed it, but I also felt intuitively that Paddy and I had something in common: compassion; he was one of the good guys.

Paddy and I became part of the PCAU’s permanent staff for a couple of months, with RAF Abingdon our adopted home. Hitchhiking home one weekend it only took me two-and-a-half hours to get home – I'd managed to get a dream lift, almost all the way home from about five miles out of camp – and then three-and-a-half hours to get back again on the Sunday afternoon. The following weekend after taking just over three hours to get home I took it for granted I would easily get a lift back to camp: I’d never had a problem getting a lift anywhere in uniform during the day. However, a combination of circumstances: leaving a little later than usual and the unpredicted appearance of a storm; four hours on the road had me soaking wet and shivering, less than halfway back to Abingdon. With the storm bringing on an early nightfall there was a good chance I’d be walking all through the cold, wet, pitch black night. Just as I resigned myself to that inevitability a Landrover past me, slowed down and stopped about thirty yards ahead. Hardly able to contain my joy, with my backpack bouncing against my sopping wet camouflaged smock, I ran towards the vehicle.

“Come on, young-fellow, jump in!” said the uniformed driver and as I settled inside I recognised the RAF officer’s epaulets; Wing Commander.

“Thank you for stopping, Sir.” I said gratefully.

“Think nothing of it,” he answered as he pulled away, and then squinting at me through the darkness he asked in a deep, cultured voice, “Where are you going, and what the devil are you doing hitchhiking on this damn, dirty night anyway?”

“I’m with the PCAU at RAF Abingdon, and I've been home to Coventry for the weekend, Sir.”

“Abingdon eh?… I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much use to you then son. Once we reach the Banbury intersection, I’m heading in the opposite direction.”

My newly acquired buoyancy deflated like a punctured balloon, but trying not to let my disappointment show, I said, “That’s fine, Sir. At least it will put me in a better position to get a lift to Abingdon.”

“I don’t know about that, soldier? I think you’ll be damn lucky if anyone stops for you on a night like this!”

“Then I guess I’ll be walking till morning, Sir… I have to make it back by the 0830hrs muster parade,” I said feeling even more despondent.

For the next ten minutes or so the officer chatted away in a friendly manner, putting me at my ease, and then as we approached a major intersection he said, “Here’s where we part company, young man.”

As we slowed down to stop the wind hammered the rain against the windscreen. “My god, would you look at that weather!” and then, to my surprise, turning towards me he said, “I can’t, in all conscience, put you out into that!”

I heaved a sigh of relief as he took the Abingdon turn off, but said, “Oh, I couldn’t take you out of your way, Sir.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “And anyway… I’m sure you’ll be grateful?”

“Oh yes Sir… eternally grateful,” I said with conviction.

“That’s the spirit,” he said turning to smile at me. “Now where shall we drop you off?” That's when, out of the blue, he reached over and squeezed my upper thigh. Instinctively I brushed his hand away, my heart jumped into my throat and began beating so hard I could hardly breathe, let alone speak. He just laughed and said, “Don’t get so excited… I said where shall we drop you off, not toss you off.”

My heart continued to pound, and I gave a nervous laugh: ‘did I just dream that?’ but I knew I hadn’t. Memories of my childhood came flooding back, and along with them those old feelings of guilt: ‘did I somehow encourage this RAF officer to do what he just did?' All of these thoughts flitted through my head in an instant and then his hand was on my thigh again. This time when I tried to brush it away it didn’t move as he gripped my leg tightly and for a few seconds we struggled; while he kept talking to me in that cultured voice as he continued to drive through the storm. “Come on… you said you’d be eternally grateful… So show me some gratitude. I just want to play with your cock… and then I’ll take you all the way!” and he laughed before adding, "No pun intended."

“Don’t!” I managed at last, while attempting to pry his hand from my leg. He was much stronger than he looked. The situation was bizarre: while driving through a storm in the dark, a high ranking RAF officer was making sexual advances towards me. Eventually, I managed to pull his hand from my thigh, but he was undeterred.

“Come on soldier… get your cock out… and you can be back at your camp and tucked up in bed in an hour.”

When I was a child I felt that no one would take my word against an adult, and now I felt that no one would take my word against an officer. This person thought that he could take advantage of me; taking me to a place I hadn’t been since I was a child. A fury was building inside of me.

'What should I do?... Tell him to stop the car, and then just get out and walk?... Or, just reach over and slam him in the jaw?... Or, play along with him and get him to pull off the main road, drag him out of the vehicle and kick him to death, and then leave his body to rot under a hedgerow?… Now, that was sounding more appealing by the second.'

“Well?… What’s it to be?… I suck you off then drop you off… or I throw you out here and you walk all night through the storm.

He was still driving, and I was still squashing myself flat against the door saying nothing: I figured that every hundred yards we covered was a hundred yards less for me to walk in that storm, and I still hadn’t decided.

“I’m going to take your silence as affirmative,” he said, and he suddenly turned off the main road into a small lane.

“Stop the car!” I said, suddenly panic-stricken: a host of butterflies took flight in my stomach (not a familiar feeling these days) and I began to shake uncontrollably.

“Oh, I’m going to…” he answered, smiling smugly while peering out into the stormy night, obviously looking for somewhere suitable, “Soon.”

The fury rising from within almost overwhelmed me and it was with great effort that I resisted the impulse to attack this gloating, arrogant abuser right there and then. However, suddenly I felt very calm, the butterflies disappeared, the shaking stopped; I knew exactly what I was going to do.

Without warning, he pulled abruptly left and off the road, stopping in front of a five-bar-gate. Before he had chance to switch the engine off I leapt from the vehicle and ran around to open the gate. Driving into the field, he pulled right and along the hedgerow ten yards or so before stopping the engine and switching the lights off.

I experienced a cold, hard, detached feeling as I walked, unhurriedly, through the pelting rain. Opening the door I hoisted myself back into the passenger seat.

“I’m awfully pleased you’re getting into the spirit of things… Now then… let's not waste any time,” he said, reaching over and unbuttoning the fly of my combat pants, and then leaning over, “That’s the ticket… my, my… that’s a lovely cock…”

Memory Point: He doesn’t flinch as I take a handful of his hair with my right hand and grip his jaw with my left, and he doesn't know what hit him as I smash his face against the metal dashboard with such a force I suspect I’ve caved his head in, and without pause smash it against the dashboard a second time. Pushing the door open I jump from the vehicle, keeping hold of his hair I drag the hapless RAF officer with me. His exit is suddenly halted as his foot jams somewhere. His head still firmly in my grasp, throwing my weight backwards I remorselessly wrench him out. Dragging him four or five yards, shaking him as a dog would a rabbit, I hurl his head at the ground where he lies motionless… "Now I'm going to kick you to fucking death!" I scream at his prone, unconscious form.

Some time later, as he slowly regained consciousness, I sat next to him on the grass while the storm still raged.

"I had planned to kick you death,” I said quietly, calmly, and then after a moments, menacing silence, “And I might still be inclined to do just that… if you don’t co-operate. I want a lift to Abingdon and I don’t want you to speak, not a word. I never want to hear your voice again.” Just then a flash of lighting illuminated his battered, terrified features; he looked like a frightened old man. “If there’s any repercussions I’ll tell my side of the story to the Sunday papers. And… no matter how long it takes, I'll find you; and next time… I will kill you!"

I could see that he believed every word. His nose was completely smashed and all his front teeth were broken. His ankle was possibly broken, and he might have to wear a neck-brace for a while, but eventually he would be alright; he'd live.

"But if you do exactly as I say… I’ll never mention this to another living soul."

I kept my word… until now.

Two hours and a hot shower later, as I lay snuggled up in my bed I felt no remorse. The RAF officer was unfortunate enough to be the victim of a rage he had no idea existed, but I think he got his ‘just deserts’.

We’d been on light duties for about three weeks. Paddy was safe enough with a back injury: all the doctors were prepared to do was wait, and hope he improved. However, my shoulder was a different thing. On the Monday following my ‘accident’ the MO sent me to a nearby RAF hospital for x-rays. When I returned with a clear bill of health, as far as the x-rays were concerned, the MO concluded that it was soft tissue damage and ordered me to keep wearing a sling. Three weeks later, with no change in the symptoms, I was sent me back for further x-rays.

I waited at the orderly room, at the entrance to the camp, for a driver heading in the direction of the hospital. The driver who picked me up was scheduled for several other destinations and dropping me off at the hospital he picked me up on his way back in the afternoon and, with yet another point of call, he dropped me off near the camp gates on his way past the base.

Memory Point: There are three girls on the opposite side of the road. Around sixteen years old, they could be older but the school uniforms give them away.

“Hey… sexy!” one of them calls, but looking straight ahead, ignoring her, I keep walking. “Hey!… Have you got a light?” she persists and I turn at last to find them all smiling, flirtatiously.

Fixing them with a well practised ‘slow burn’ and sauntering towards them, I pull out my Ronson Varaflame and offer it to the nearest girl. Accepting it with a smile, and a flutter of her long, dark lashes, she looks quickly over her shoulder at her friends before turning her big, brown orbs on me again, at full beam. “Well… That’s a lovely lighter, but I seem to be out of cigarettes… I wonder…" and giving me another flutter of her lashes and the most engaging smile, "could you spare one?”

Returning her smile, pulling out my cigarette packet, I hesitate, “Wait a minute… I don't want to get in trouble for corrupting minors.”

“But, we’re not minors,” they protest as one.

“We’re sixth formers," says the girl closest to me. "Sandy and Lucy are sixteen and I turned seventeen yesterday.”

“In that case…” I offer my cigarette packet around, and to the birthday girl, “Happy birthday for yesterday… What’s your name?”

“Ruth.”

“Tom,” I offer. “I’m very pleased to meet you… Ruth.”

“Come on Mac! We could be missing the best of the pick… shake a leg,” said Paddy as I entered the billet.

“You go on,” I replied and then, as he looked at me quizzically, “I just met a girl out side the gate on my way back from the hospital.”

“I thought you looked like ‘the cat who stole the cream’. Is she a WRAF?”

“No. She’s a schoolgirl.”

“What?” said Paddy, giving me a strange look, and then punching me on the arm he said. “You dirty, old bastard!”

Laughing and pulling away from another punch, I said, “No… no, it’s not like that; she’s seventeen, tall, with legs up to here!” I said, holding my hand at waist height.

“Yeh… right!” said Paddy, and then, “Has she got a mate?”

“Actually, she was with two others when I met her; they’re sixteen years old. She turned seventeen yesterday,” I added, smiling.

“Excellent… Legal meat,” said Paddy making a great show of licking his lips.

Later, when Paddy and I approached, they were lounging against a wall opposite the gates.

“Hubba hubba!” said Paddy, giving me a quick glance. “Well done, Mac… Well done!” Out of school uniform, they were wearing jeans and the cutest little, figure hugging tops; and looking way past school age.

“Which one of you lovely ladies is Ruth?” said Paddy, smiling, as we reached them. Smiling back, Ruth held out her hand and Paddy – pulling one of his typically charming tricks – took her hand and, deftly turning it palm up, kissed her wrist.

Even though for the most part we were just sitting on a wall, talking, the night was a huge success. Lucy left around 9:00pm, and at 10:30 Paddy walked Sandy home and I walked Ruth to the end of her street. I was grateful for the darkness, hoping she wouldn't notice, as just the touch of her hand in mine prompted an uncontrollable erection.

When we stopped at her street, she pressed herself hard against me, and clinging together we kissed passionately until suddenly, reaching down, she gave my bulge a gentle squeeze. Looking into my eyes, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she whispered huskily, “I’m looking forward to meeting your, anxious, mister big.” And then, abruptly, she was gone, running down the street before disappearing up a pathway.

“She didn’t?”

“She did.” I insisted between mouthfuls of egg and toast.

“You jammy bastard!” said Paddy, laughing. “Are you seeing her tonight?”

“No… She has some kind of heavy, homework assignment. But… Friday night is going to be…” and pausing I closed my eyes, “Fucking awesome!”

“Hey, None of that at breakfast!” he quipped, slapping the back of my head, before moving off quickly through the breakfast crowd.

“McKinnon?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Report to the medical centre straight after parade!”

“Yes, Sir!”

While on parade, just after breakfast, the Regimental Sergeant Major spoke directly to me for the first time since I joined the PCAU. The RSM was quite good, in that he never really bothered anyone. You could tell that he had a capacity for being an arsehole – that comes with RSM territory – but if everybody did as they should it was a quiet little station. What ever he wanted done was passed along the chain of command via Sergeant Hincle, and Sergeant Hincle, or Hinc, didn’t bother anyone as long as RSM McKay was happy.

At the medical centre the duty sister informed me the latest x-rays seemed to indicate a hairline fracture. I’d have to go back for more x-rays. Another day of wandering around chatting up nurses and basically ‘skiving off’ out of the way suited me down to the ground. ‘Skiving’, an unofficial army term meaning: ‘to do nothing of any consequence,’ or ‘to get out of doing something’. During my stint in the army I had become quite a proficient skiver.

Returning around 4:00pm, by the same method as the day before, I found another group of girls in school uniform just outside the gate, on the other side of the road. Some of them made kissy noises and one of them wolf whistled as I passed. Suppressing a smile, attempting to cover my embarrassment and appear nonchalant, I paused briefly and lit a cigarette.

“Hey, soldier!”

Turning to look across the road I found, of course, they were all looking straight back at me; smiling and winking. I turned on the ‘slow burn’ before giving them a little wave as I moved off.

“Hey, soldier… Have you got a spare fag?”

When I stopped and turned this time one of the girls had stepped onto the road and was heading towards me. There was time for a detailed appraisal as she approached. She didn’t have Ruth’s long, tapering legs; however, she was quite stunning in a different way. Long, strawberry-blonde hair and a way of rolling her hips that was anything but school-girlish.

“Why, thank you kind sir,” she said, taking a cigarette from my packet; and after accepting a light from my Ronson she said, “You are so gallant, sir,” giving me a little mock curtsy.

“Sir is not my favourite title,” I said quietly, still smiling. “Tom,” I offered, holding my hand out.

“Patricia…” she said, putting her tiny hand in mine, “You can call me Pat.”

“Well, Pat…” I said, after enjoying the touch of her petal, soft hand for a few seconds, “where do we go from here?”

“I think you’ll have to see me tonight… That is, unless you have some one else to see?” and she smiled, still holding my hand, daring me to have someone else to see.

“No…” I said and her smile faltered a little until I added, “I don’t have anyone to see, tonight.”

“Well, then… it’s a date,” she said. “I’ll meet you here, at seven o-clock?” and it was only then did she let go of my hand. I watched as she rolled those beautiful hips back across to where her friends waited, abuzz with questions.

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Paddy.

“Would I lie to you?”

Paddy looked into my smiling eyes and shook his head. “You jammy bastard!” he said slapping me on the shoulder.

“Hey!…” I said, recoiling from the slap.

“Fuck off, Mac! Don’t start believing your own publicity. You haven’t really hurt your shoulder,” and he laughed.

“That’s just it, Paddy… I think I may have, and the x-rays are showing a hairline crack.”

“Fuck me dead, Mac. When you pull a flim flam, you really cover all the bases,” and he laughed again, this time slapping me on my good shoulder. “So, what are her mates like?”

“I’d just about given up on you…" I said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. "We were going to finish these fags and then adjourn to the Club.” And then jumping down from the wall I said, “By the way… Pat… say hello to Pat.”

Paddy and I had walked out of the gate at seven o’clock on the dot, and it was twenty minutes past by the time Pat appeared.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” she said. “Someone told my dad I was holding hands with a Para at the Camp gate… He hit the roof and wanted to know who you were.”

Jumping down from the wall and flicking away his cigarette butt, Paddy said, “You don’t want to believe everything you hear about the Paras; everyone likes to paint us black, but we’re really the good guys,” and smiling, he held out his hand. Smiled back, she put her hand out to shake, but Paddy did his usual trick: turning her hand over he pressed his lips briefly against her wrist, and still holding her hand he said, “There you go, some one can report to your old man that you’ve held hands with two Paras at the camp gate, and one of them kissed you.” Patricia smiled warmly; Paddy wasn’t classically hansom, but he more than made up for in charm, blarney.

“Oh, it’s all right…” she said, “I always get my own way, in the end…” taking one of my hands between hers, she looked up at me, fixing me with her beautiful, green eyes. Trapped in her gaze, I believed that this blonde, green-eyed temptress could get anything from anyone. “It’s just that… you’d better be careful, in case he finds out who you are,” she finished with a smile.

“You just worry about you,” I said. “I can look after myself.”

“How big is your old man, anyway?” Paddy chirped up. “You make him sound like a giant.”

“Oh, no… You misunderstand,” she said, briefly kissing my hand, and then looking from me to Paddy and back again. “My name is Patricia McKay… My father is RSM McKay.”

“Get rid of her, Mac!” said Paddy, out of the blue, as we walked back to our billet later.

“Hang on, Paddy! She’s gorgeous… and anyway, I thought you liked her?”

“It’s not a question of liking her. What’s not to like? She’s hot! Those tits… a great arse… and that hair, what colour is it anyway?”

“Strawberry blonde.”

“Yeh… Well… She’s also smart, and funny too, but Mac!… She’s the RSM’s daughter!” and then shaking his head he added, “You can’t be fucking the RSM’s little girl!?”

“Come on Paddy. You know what they tell us back at Depot Para?… There’s no such thing as can’t.” and we both fell about laughing.

We went on to joke about the possibilities, and probable ramifications of becoming enmeshed in the RSM’s family, but as we approached the billet Paddy put a hand on my shoulder, “Listen Mac… All joking aside, be careful!”

“Don’t worry Paddy…” and reaching into my back pocket I pulled out my wallet. “I’m always careful.” I said throwing something to him.

Chucking the packet of condoms back, he said, “You’d better hang on to them, mate… Although, you won’t need them after McKay cuts your balls off." We laughed some more but I must admit he was starting to get to me.

“You’re still coming to Oxford on Saturday, aren’t you?” and before he could answer I added. “That friend she’s lining you up with is one cute little dolly bird.”

“Well…” he stalled, sounding unsure, and then giving a dirty little laugh. “I suppose… a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” and we were laughing again.

Friday night came around and, literally, bursting with anticipation I went to meet Ruth. We found a quiet little pub; she didn’t know that I was still only seventeen, but she had to be careful in her own hometown: any number of people could identify her as being under age. After a few drinks, and a couple of hours chatting and getting to know each other, she told me that there was no one at home and asked if I'd like to go back with her, for a coffee?

“Shhhh!” she said, holding a finger to her lips, as she unlocked the door and pushed it gently open.

“I thought you said that there was no one home?” I whispered, following her through the door.

“There isn’t, but our next door neighbour is one of my dad’s Staff Sergeants,” she whispered back, as she closed the door behind us.

“Oh, I see… What!?”

“The guy next door is-”

“Who is your dad?”

“He’s in charge of the PJI’s, sort of like your RSM,” and while I was still standing open mouthed, she kissed me passionately, gyrating herself against me. In a matter of seconds we progressed through a couple of stages of heavy petting, and I spiralled quickly towards out of control mode.

Feebly pushing her away, I gasped, “Where are your parents?”

“Don’t worry about them,” she said, and then pulling me hard against her, re-attached her mouth to mine, she stuck her tongue so far down my throat I almost gagged.

Struggling, I managed to disengage again, holding her at arms length I said, “Oh… god… I feel like pushing you back on the floor!… Right here!… Right now!”

“Do it!” she said, pulling me down in the hallway. “Fuck me!... Now!”

“I’m so, sorry.” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “I’m so… so sorry.”

“It’s all right… Stop saying sorry, Tom. It could happen to anyone.”

As our lustful passions overtook us, we’d done a reasonable job of undressing each other, but while struggling with the condom it burst. Taking the second condom, Ruth tried to put it on for me but her attentions and the anticipation became too much: while she was trying to fit it I ejaculated all over both of us.

“But, it’s never happened to me before!” I said, feeling desperately unhappy.

“Look…” said Ruth, soothingly, “You’ll have to leave now so that I can get cleaned up before my dad comes in. But we’ll pick it up again tomorrow night… OK?”

“OK.” I agreed, feeling like the biggest looser. “Oh, no!” I said, suddenly remembering Saturday’s date with Patricia.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah… I’ve… Ah…” My mind was spinning, as I struggled to think. “I’ve just remembered that I promised to… Oh, I guess I can get out of it,” and I kissed her passionately, stalling for time.

Kissing me back for a couple of seconds, she broke off. “What had you forgotten?… What can you get out of?”

“Oh… It’s just that I promised to go into Oxford tomorrow with Paddy… But, I can get out of it…”

“No, don’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair…” and she kissed me again. Beginning to come to the boil once more, she pushed me away. “Go… go now!... Before my dad comes and catches us.” Outside, under the porch light, she looked down at herself. “Oh fuck… look at me. You get out of here, I’ve got to go and clean up,” then looking down at me she added, “And the fewer people see the state of you, before you get cleaned up, the better!” I started to back away. “By the way… my mum doesn’t live with us anymore, and my dad has dinner and a few drinks at the mess every night before he comes home.”

“Oh… I see,” I said and then turning I began to jog up the path.

“Tom!” Turning back I could see her silhouetted in the doorway. “If it’s not to late when you get back from Oxford tomorrow… come over?”

“OK,” I said, before sprinted out of the gate and back towards camp.

‘I’m a bastard! I’m a dirty, rotten bastard.’ I thought to myself as I ran. ‘I’m going to have to stop this… I really am.’

“OK… spill it… give me all the dirt on last night?” said Paddy, as we walked towards the gate to meet Pat and her friend.

Glancing at him, I then looked straight ahead – the memory of the previous night’s debacle flooding into my mind – and laughed. “I’m not the kiss and tell type… you know that.”

“Bullshit, Mac!… I don’t want to know who sucked what? But, was it a good night?… Did you reach first base?”

“You could say that,” I said, thinking ‘Sprinted past it, more like, missing it all together!’ and then before he could ask any more questions, "There’s the girls.”

We spent an idyllic day in and around Oxford, playing among the archaic buildings and in the sunshine along the riverbank. The lovely Kathy, Patricia’s friend, was a bit quiet, but Paddy more than made up for that with his rapier like Irish wit and sense of fun and she laughed for most of the day.

My golden-haired beauty enchanted me: she was witty and intelligent, and kept me amused, entertained and totally turned on, all day long.

Already two hours late for dinner, Kathy was the first to exit the bus as we came into Abingdon at 8:30pm, and Paddy alighted at the camp gate, heading straight for the 101 Club.

“I’ll see you at the bar in about half an hour,” I called after him.

Leaning against the side-wall of Pat's house we kissed passionately: lips moulded, tongues entwined, groin against groin, bodies moving in a parody of lovemaking. She paused in her abandon as I slid my hand slowly, caressing from her knee, up the inside of her thigh. Reading the signs correctly, I transferred my attention to the outside of her dress: her tension abated and she seemed once more to be lost in abandon.

Memory Point: “I have to go in now,” she says, breathlessly, pushing me away. “But I could sneak out later for a little while, maybe?”

“Don’t you dare go sneaking out…” I'm also breathing hard, trying to adjust myself surreptitiously in the darkness. “I don’t want your old man coming after us with a gun,” I say with a little laugh, but I'm actually quite serious. I can just imagine RSM McKay sneaking around a hedgerow, all camouflaged up, gripping an Sub machine gun, murderous intent on his face.

Laughing and pulling me closer she kisses me again. "I’ll see you on Monday night outside the gate?”

Walking towards camp I became increasingly aware of the pain in my groin. Turned on for most of the day, my thoughts drifted towards Ruth and her last words: “If it’s not too late when you get back from Oxford… come over?”

“Hello, big boy,” she says, smiling as she opens the door and taking my hand she pulls me inside.

“We’ve only got about half an hour before my dad's due back… so we’d better hurry,” she says pulling my Jacket off. “Oh my goodness! I see you’ve been anticipating this as much as me.”

Within seconds she's pulled my jeans down and is on her knees in front of me. “Oh, no! You’d better not do that!" I say pulling away, "Or I’m going to…”

“Oh, no! Don’t do that!…” and slipping off her own jeans and panties she lies back on the carpet. I fumble with a condom and, mercifully, managed to get it on at the first attempt. Kneeling between those beautiful, unbelievably long legs at last I feel myself being engulfed by her hot velvet depths as she strains against me, and then I stop; afraid to move. That, it turns out, is the worst thing I can do.

“What’s wrong?!” she breaths in my ear, clinging to me.

“Oh no!” I gasp, trying for all I'm worth to think of something, anything except where I am and what I'm doing: ‘Dirty socks… Smelly boxing gloves… Lieutenant Farra-Smythe’s face… Jumping out of an aeroplane…’ “Oh!… Oh… no!” I gasp again, trying desperately to ignore the convulsion threatening to overcome me.

“Oh, no. Don’t!” Ruth whispers, realising what's happening.

Going straight to the 101 Club, I got blind drunk, which wasn’t very adult. Then again, I wasn’t feeling all that adult. I didn’t tell Paddy about my visit to Ruth’s that night; when I arrived in a foul mood he just assumed I was pissed off with Patricia for some reason. I didn’t see Ruth again; I couldn’t face her. I guess she gave up on me too because she never sought me out.

I saw Patricia a couple of times during the following week and each time it was the same thing: down the side of her house, both hot for each other, frustrated as hell. I tried to get her to go somewhere else, but the house was her safety net. Each night ended the same way with me hitting the shower for relief.

Friday started the same as most other Fridays. Paddy and I received our pay on parade; actually, I got the distinct impression that RSM McKay was paying me just a little too much attention. We were in the 101 Club within half-an-hour of getting paid.

As per our usual Friday pattern, we bought food and a beer, and put some spare change into the slot machine while eating our dinner. But unlike our usual Friday, we started winning. Firstly getting drops of five, ten, and fifteen shillings; and then, as our kitty began to mount we pushed our plate’s aside, and the next thing we dropped the reserve jackpot of five pounds. Scooping our winnings out of the collection tray we decided to put twenty more coins through the machine before splitting the remainder of the pot, eight pounds: the equivalent of an extra week’s wages between us.

At first, with the way we'd been winning we expected a few more wins, but as we got down to the last couple of coins it was just a matter of getting the twenty over with so that we could start celebrating.

Memory Point: Slipping sixpence into the bandit and pulling the lever. “My last,” I say. The reels spin their usual whirring dance and then Clunk… Clunk… Clunk… Clunk: nothing. I'm ready to go to the bar and start celebrating.

Paddy spits on his last coin, puts it into the slot and pulls the handle. The reels spin around for a few seconds and then one by one, they clunk into place, BAR, BAR, BAR and as the last BAR falls into place, “Yehaaa!..”

“You… Fucking… Beauty!” says Paddy quietly, with emphasis, and then throwing our arms around each-other we laugh hysterically, as four hundred coins cough into the collection tray.

Two hours later, the dance in full swing, Paddy and I were well oiled; flitting from one group of girls to another, like bee’s from flower to flower; we were having a ball.

We were dancing with a couple of nurses when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Turning – while still trying to focus on the face floating in front of me – suddenly my ear exploded and then I was on my knees. When I could focus again I recognised Patricia's beautiful hips winding their way through the crowd and out of my life… forever.

“Come on Mac, get up!” said Paddy, hauling me off the floor. “You look ridicules.” Rubbing my ear I looked around; the nurses were in the process of walking away.

“Hold on ladies… Don’t worry about her..." Paddy called after them, "They split up last week and she just wanted to get the last word in.”

“She did?” I said, still rubbing my ear, “What did she say?”

The girls laughed and, slapping me across the back, Paddy said, “You’re a card Mac… let’s go and get these lovely ladies a drink,” and he guided us towards the bar.

The rest of the evening became a bit of a blur and Paddy called a cab as the Club was finishing. We arrived at the nurse's quarters, about six miles along a country lane, and expected to accompany them to their bed; however, discovering that the matron from hell was on duty we adjourned to a garden shed.

Entering the shed in the pitch-black, it was fairly chaotic as we stumbled over assorted garden implements. Attempting to find a cosy spot, far enough away from each other to indulge in a bit of fraternisation, Paddy and his partner shut themselves in an empty cupboard. Leaning against the wall, my partner and I began, what can generally be called, a heavy petting session. We were heading towards mutual gratification when, suddenly, without warning she gasped and jerked a couple of times, squeezing me so hard I yelled out in pain. She'd climaxed; all of a sudden she wanted out of there.

“Come on Betty. We’d better get in before old iron britches realises we’re not in bed,” and with that, she rushed out of the shed without even looking back. I was still struggling, attempting to zip up my jeans, as the cupboard door burst open and Betty stumbled past me in the dark and shot out through the door.

Unable to find a phone, stranded in the middle of nowhere, we had to walk back to camp. “Oh, god! I can hardly walk!” I whined.

“It’s your own damn fault,” snapped Paddy, rubbing his own genitals, gently. “You should know better than to get her off first.”

It took three hours to get back to a hot shower and relief.

Born just after the Second World War to a coalmining family in Lampton, County Durham, my earliest clear memory is in our National Coal Board home.

Ma is bent over the sink, using an old scrubbing board to do the daily wash. Da and my brother are just leaving for the back-shift. My three sisters are still at school, being in infants I get out earlier.

Geordie, my brother, is sixteen and, after being on the dole since leaving school, has recently started work. Da's happier because he's helping to support the family; Ma's happier, because she can put a better spread on the table at mealtimes, and doesn’t have to worry so much about him getting into mischief; and Geordie's happier now, having a beer on the way home with Da on paydays, he can call himself a man. My sisters and I are happier, of course, because he’s hardly ever around to tease us now. When he’s not working, he's allowed to be out pretty much when he wants as long as he’s home by eleven o’clock; when Da locks the door.

I started school last week and I’ll be five next week. I have a thirteen-year-old sister, Elizabeth, who gets Izy or lizy or Beth; an eleven-year-old sister Margaret, who gets Maggie or Megs; and an eight-year-old sister Josephine, Jo, Jo-Jo, or Jossie. Oh yes, and my name’s John. I like my name because there’s not much you can do with John.

“See ya’ later Ma,” says my father, kissing her on the top of the head as she's bent over the sink. “See ya’ tomorra’ John!” he says rubbing the top of my head as he passes: I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home from work tonight.

“See ya’ Ma,” says Geordie smiling at my mother, “see ya’ shrimp!” he says cuffing me across the head on his way out.

I remember that little scene as if it was yesterday. About six months separates it from the next scene, but emotionally they're worlds apart.

The house is full of people I hardly know, and everyone's wearing black, Ma and my sisters are crying, they have been for days. Da and Geordie are lying in coffins in Ma’s bedroom.

There was a cave-in at the pit, Da and Geordie were among fifteen buried alive, and it took four days to dig the bodies out. Today is the funeral.

I’m not quite sure how I feel yet, it doesn’t seem real; I keep expecting Da and Geordie to come through the door with black faces, laughing, just as they always did after a shift. Ma’s been sleeping with me in mine and Geordie’s bed, although I suppose it’s just my bed now. She keeps me awake for hours with her crying; when we get up in the morning the girls look like they’ve been crying all night too.

Da and Geordie are in closed coffins. I heard someone say the coffins were closed because the bodies had been so badly squashed. They didn’t know I was under the table trying to stay out of the way. Most people don’t even realise I’m there, or think I don't understand what’s being said.

I haven't been able to cry yet.

“Poor Annie!” one woman says, “What’s to become of her and the bairns? Naybody’s gonna to take on a widow and four poor, wee orphans!”

I can’t work out why anything has to become of us.

“If you need anything at all, Annie, don’t you hesitate to ask,” I hear another woman say. And as Ma turns away the woman says quietly to another, “I feel bloody awful… I had to offer… but I’ve barely enough to keep body and soul together m'self.”

Over the next couple of months our whole life changes. Ma takes in washing to earn extra money, but it isn’t long before even I begin to feel the pinch: I’m always hungry, for one thing. Ma wakes up at night crying with the pain in her back and her hands, from bending over the sink, scrubbing clothes, twelve hours every day; she's still sleeping in my bed.

Lizy moved into Ma’s bed a couple of weeks ago. “No point in three of us being squashed up in one bed… while a big bed goes completely to waste!” she said one night; Ma made no comment, so she moved in that night.

Ma eventually gets a job cleaning offices at night, at which stage she still has enough energy left to look after us, but she still isn’t earning enough. A few weeks later she gets a second job, working in a clothes factory during the day.

Other things are changing too. Because Ma's working 'all the hours God sends', as she puts it, our chores increase significantly. Now, the girls start first thing in the morning: cleaning the house, washing clothes in the sink, cleaning out the fireplace if we were lucky enough to have coal the night before. I get to make the porridge, if there’s any oats left, and wash the dishes when we’ve eaten, all before getting washed myself and going to school.

By the time my sixth birthday comes around we’re all pretty used to being without Da and Geordie, even Ma has stopped crying at night. In fact she got an old single bed from Mrs McKracon around the corner just the other week and has moved back to share the room with Lizy. Life goes on.

By the time I’m eight years old Lizy is working in Woolworths, Durham City, and Ma is only working her day job at the factory. Maggie, Jo and I have more chores to do, but that’s to be expected, they get done without too much fuss most of the time.

Lizy has a boyfriend, Bobby; he comes around a couple of times a week and we all watch the television: last Christmas' joint, family present. At half-past-eight I go to bed, Jo goes to bed at nine, Maggie at half-past-nine and Ma’ at ten o’clock. Lizy and Bobby have the place to themselves until eleven o’clock when Bobby goes home and Lizy locks the door.

School is always a mixed bag of tricks. I’m not one of the crowd. How can I be? I haven’t got a dad. I’m not bad at my lessons: how hard can it be at eight years old? But even as young as eight I wonder what the point is: I’ll have to go down the pit to help support the family; you don't need an education to work in a coalmine.

When I'm nine things change again. Lizy got married a couple of weeks ago. Ma said it was a shotgun wedding but I didn’t see any guns. Lizy and her new husband, Bobby, moved in after the wedding, and there was a reshuffle, as Ma put it. Bobby and Lizy moved into my room and took over my double bed, I moved in to share Jo-Jo’s room and got the old single bed Bobby brought from home, and Maggie moved in with Ma. Oh yes, and all this happens when Lizy is three months pregnant. Lizy works for another five months or so before she gets too big, but with Ma still working and Bobby working down the pit things don’t change that much.

As my tenth birthday comes around Lizy has just had her second baby daughter; Bobby managed to get them the house around the corner the other week, after old Mrs McKracon died. Maggie left school and took over Lizy’s job at Woolworths, she and Ma are now supporting the house. "Life's a bit of a struggle," as Ma says; I can’t ever remember having new clothes, I’ve always worn Geordie’s hand me downs.

I want to do my bit too; ever year since the cave in I’ve tried all the paper-shops for a job; always with the same answer: "Sorry son you're too young."

This year I’m eleven and, the very first shop, Mr Cameron tells me he'll give me a job. My day now starts at five o'clock in the morning; I'm still doing my daily chores as well as now delivering my papers before and after school, so when I eventually get home for tea at about half-past-five I’m usually pretty tired. I generally fall asleep in front of the telly before seven o'clock when Ma gives me a shake, "Off to bed with you, son. Bed's the place for sleepin'."

I earn twelve-shillings-and-sixpence a week and help to support the house by paying for my own school dinners, that's five bob a week.

I have my fair share of fights, no more or less than the average eleven year-old I suppose, but I do seem to get beaten a fair bit. Lizy says it's the lack of a male role model; my sisters do tend to be a bit overprotective. I join the local National Coal Board boxing club; it’s well worth the nine-pence a session, twice a week, from my hard earned newspaper money. After a while, I prove I’m going to be a stayer and Mr Fizgerrald, the trainer and the local greengrocer, takes me under his wing.

“You’re a skinny wee bugger, John,” he says, “You’ve got to try and eat a bit better.”

“But we can’t afford it, sir!” I answer. “I wish we could… I’m always starvin'.”

“You’ve got the paper run that comes past my shop haven’t you… if you call in when you’re passing in the mornings I’ll give you some fruit to take home.” The next morning he gives me a couple of apples and pears, and a grapefruit. “The grapefruit’s important for vitamin C,” he says, and every morning he gives me some fruit: sometimes apples and pears, sometimes an orange or a banana, but always a grapefruit. “And drink a glass of water first thing…” he says, “…it cleans out your kidneys." A glass of water and a grapefruit becomes part of my morning regime.

I'm now fourteen going on fifteen, Maggie got married last year; she, her husband, Martin, and their two month old baby son, little Graham, live in my old room.

Jo’s a hairdresser’s apprentice in Durham; she doesn’t have a regular boyfriend. In fact she’s getting a bit of a name for herself: just last week, I had to give a bit of a seeing-to to one of the boys down the street for bad-mouthing her.

I’ve been boxing for a couple of years now, I’ve had eighteen straight wins; three weeks ago I won the under fifteens A B A championships in Newcastle.

Ma’s not very well, she’s still working, but she’s looking shocking these days: a shadow of her former self, she's barely forty but looks seventy. I’ll be leaving school in a couple of months and going down the pit; maybe Ma can quit that bloody factory at last.

Ma was taken to hospital last night when I was at boxing training, and by the time I got there she had died: tuberculosis they said. She’d never been one to complain, wouldn’t go to the doctors, we all thought that she was just tired-out.

All the same people are at Ma’s funeral as were at Da and Geordie’s, but this time I recognise all of them; and this time I really am an orphan. I don’t have to worry about being the only one not crying this time: I’m shedding more tears than my sisters.

Martin and Maggie are taking over the tenancy of the house and I no longer have to go straight down the pit. I’m not going to stay on at school though; I think I’ve left it too late. I’m not dumb, but in anticipation of going down the mine I’ve done no work at school. A couple of my teachers have told me that I’m wasting my life and it’s never too late to get stuck into my education, but I know what I’m going to do.

An army recruiting officer came in to our school a couple of weeks ago; I'd been interested but hadn’t allowed myself to get too keen because I thought I was going down the pit. Apparently, you can join a Junior Leaders Regiment at fifteen, but you have to pass an entrance exam first.

I somehow get through the exam. Accepted into the Junior Parachute Company, by the end of August I’m boarding the London train heading for Malta Barracks in Aldershot, the home of the Junior Parachute Company.

The first day is one of the clearest memories of my life; a day when I put away children's thoughts and become a soldier.

Collecting my gear from the quartermaster's stores, I stagger to the barrack-room, drop my gear on the floor and collapse exhausted on my bed: all in all it's been a long day.

"Robert McGraw…" says the boy sitting on the bed to my left, and putting his hand out, "but call me Bobby, please."

"John Farrell… pleased to meet you."

Laughing, the boy from the bed on my right, in a distinct Irish accent, says, "Well, well, well… a Jock and a Geordie… good company indeed. Patrick Mahony, at your service… Paddy to my friends," and shaking hands the three of us bond from the very first moment.

Paddy is a Catholic from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. After his father died, under suspicious circumstances following an arrest by the notorious B Specials, he spent most of his young life in various foster homes; eventually, spending time in an ‘Approved School’ for housebreaking. Bobby is an orphan from Stranraar, a South-Western sea port of Scotland.

It turns out that Paddy is also a boxer and we both win the 'Junior Army Boxing Championship’ in our weight divisions two years running. I attain a 'junior' sergeant's rank and Bobby and Paddy are both corporals.

After leaving Junior Para, completing depot preparation, parachuting and getting our wings: the final shaping into ‘battle ready paratroopers’ complete, we move into the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and go to Borneo.

Paddy, Bobby and I are in the same section, and spend six months fighting a hit and run battle with rebel militia. It's a pretty intense time, but only once do I feel in immediate danger: our platoon is chasing a section, or so we think, of rebel militia.

It turns out we're engaging a whole rebel company, numbering nearly a hundred. My six man section is laying down covering fire as we fight a tactical withdrawal when we're cut off from the rest of the platoon. Completely surrounded, it's looking pretty bad: as in maybe we're all going to die.

I'm the machine-gunner and seeing an opportunity to get into a flanking position I go for it. Taking out thirty rebel militia I manage to knock a hole in the enemy offensive and we get out by the skin of our teeth.

They make a whole big deal out of it; I'm given the credit for saving my section and awarded the D C M.

By the time I’m nineteen I’m a lance-corporal, the first step on the promotional ladder and by twenty-one I’m a full corporal. I have my fair share of girlfriends along the way but being single minded about my army career and my boxing I’m not so obsessed with the female gender as most of the guys.

At twenty-two, while on a sniper's course, I fall fifty feet out of a tree: ending up in the military hospital at Aldershot with a severely broken leg.

"Come along, wakey wakey…"

Opening my eyes, the first thing I see is the cute little backside of the nurse who is pulling the screens around my bed.

"Time for your bed bath, Corporal Farrell," she says.

Hardly able to believe my luck: I'm about to be sponge bathed by a golden haired angel, I struggle to rouse myself while trying to smile and think of something clever to say. However, all I manage is a pathetic moan, and a grimace as I move too quickly against the pulley system my leg is hooked up to.

"You just lie still Corporal," says the angel, "let me do all the work for you; that's what they pay me the big money for," and her cheeks dimple as she gives me a flash of her beautiful straight, white teeth, while gently adjusting my position.

"Call me John, please," I manage at last.

"Alright… John; let's make this as painless as possible. In my experience you Paras, even as incapacitated as you are, try to take advantage of we poor nurses in these situations. Now… I'm going to wash from your face, down as far as possible; and then from your feet, up as far as possible," and then showing me her dimples and lovely teeth again she says, "And you can wash possible yourself."

The cute little angel's name is Connie and almost straight away we begin a fairly serious relationship. Twelve months later we’re married, and Paddy is my best man. By the time I get my sergeants stripes we have a son, James after my father, and Bobby is his godfather. At twenty-four I’m the youngest sergeant in the battalion, maybe even the regiment.

More than ten years after joining up, just before Christmas, something happens to change the way I look at the army. We've been in Northern Ireland for about a month and I'm in the company offices talking to the clerk when Bobby comes in, obviously troubled.

"John… Paddy was absent from parade this morning… He went out last night and didn't come back."

"That's not good!" It's the first time in ten years Paddy has missed a muster parade.

Knocking at the door to the OC's office I let myself in. Sitting at his desk, Major Fields looks up, pen in hand. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

"Sir, Corporal Mahony is missing."

"What do you mean… missing?"

"Missing… Sir. As in absent from parade, Sir. As in went out last night and didn't come back, Sir."

Looking at me thoughtfully, slowly putting his pen down, he says, "Maybe he got lucky: picked up a girl last night and is running late? After all, muster parade was only ten minutes ago."

"No Sir… trust me… we joined the same day, ten years ago. Paddy's a professional; something's wrong."

He pauses, assessing the situation, and then picking up the phone he dials a number. "We have a man missing… yes… a Corporal Patrick Mahony."

We have the whole company looking for Paddy; searching houses, gardens, parks, garbage tips and the dumpsters behind shops etc. I personally talk to hundreds of people, showing them Paddy's photograph and asking questions. After a week Major Fields officially calls off the search, but unofficially…

"Listen in guys… this is unofficial… so if you're not comfortable with it I'll understand... and excuse you from tonight's patrol." We are about to go on a routine night patrol.

The platoon voices their general assent and I proceed to tell them my plans to split the platoon into sections and make the evening a 'search and find' exercise. "And if there's any repercussions I'll take full responsibility… Alright, let's keep this low key: try not to draw any attention."

I take the lead section along the Shank Hill Road and into the first pub. The pub is busy with people beginning festivities early and quite noisy, but as we enter the place falls silent. Trying to remain affable, we move around asking about Paddy and showing his photograph, but the patrons are resentful and disobliging. Eventually, realising we're wasting our time, I signal to the rest of the section and we start to leave. As we exit the pub comes to life again, and one of the disgruntled patrons voices his vexation: "Fuckin' Paras!… Think they fuckin' own the world!... You'd think they'd give it a rest at Christmas."

"It's been two weeks since Corporal Mahony went missing," says Major Fields. He's not pleased. I've been called into his office to get my knuckles rapped. "We should have stepped down the search a week ago… Now I've received orders – from on high – to stand down immediately. Some local business people have complained to the Commissioner." He sighs heavily and looks me straight in the eye. "You're a good sergeant; I should hate to loose you… Am I making myself clear, Sergeant?"

"Crystal, sir!"

"Good… Off you go."

It's the most miserable Christmas I've ever had.

While 2 Para remain in Ulster, for the next couple of months, Bobby and I haunt Belfast on our off-duty time, dressed in civilian clothes, searching for some kind of closure. There are times when we know we're being watched. Having been sniper trained myself, I get a sixth sense about these things: more than once I feel a sniper's cross-hairs on us.

Paddy's disappearance is simply written off as one of Northern Ireland's unsolved incidents. When we return to Aldershot Bobby buys himself out of the remainder of his contract; he'd only signed back on the previous year. He says he's going to spend some time in London and then perhaps go home to Stranraar, but he drops off the radar.

The week after my twenty-fifth birthday, on the night I take out the ABA championship for the sixth year in a row, a promoter who has propositioned me after each championship, three years running, comes into my dressing-room after the fight.

“John-lad… looking as sharp as ever… even sharper!… How many's that you’ve won by the short route?” he says in his slightly cultivated Lancashire accent.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, “I’ve lost count; maybe twenty-four out of the last thirty fights.”

“Very impressive!” he says, “Actually, you've stopped twenty eight out of thirty… How old are you now, lad?”

“I was twenty-five last week,”

“How many fights, all told?” “Jesus!… Not many these days have had half that, their entire career. Any idea of the tally?”

Without pause for thought I say, succinctly, “Two-hundred-and-thirty inside the distance and three draws.”

After giving a little whistle he says, “A commendable record, lad.”

“What’s your point, Mr Cross?”

“A World Title. A professional ‘World Title’… That’s what I’m talking about.”

Looking at the wily old promoter for a moment, I say candidly, “I’m a good boxer, Mr Cross. The best amateur in Britain, maybe; maybe even in the world. But you and I both know there's a world of difference between the best amateur and the best professional. Besides, only black Americans win professional world titles.”

“Yes, mostly,” he agrees, “but not always, lad… not always!” and then, apparently changing the subject, “How’s the army treating you?”

“Good… as always.”

“Are you in for the long haul then?”

“I think so,” I say, but the conviction is lacking.

“So taking a ‘World Professional Title’ within two years, and all the money that goes with that doesn’t interest you?”

Previously, when questioned about turning pro, the answer had always been clear in my mind. I’d given it some thought, in actual fact I always considered myself good enough to make it as a professional, but the Army had been my home, and the Paras my family for ten years; I was a soldier first, a boxer second. However, recent events had shaken my certainty somewhat.

“This will make the fourth year running I’ve spoken to you at these titles, and I guess what I’m saying is… this'll be the last time I’ll ask you. Next year you will have missed the bus, as far as a world title is concerned. Every man’s time comes and goes; it doesn’t matter what he’s doing, or going to do. And with a very physical pursuit, like boxing, the window of opportunity is pretty small. Because you're so good, your window's probably been the last three years; to make your move I mean. Two years hard work, John… two-million pounds and a world title… What do you say?”

Previously fairly quick with my reply, I hesitate, and his eyes open a little wider; barely perceivable but I recognise the hopeful expectancy.

“Am I tempting you at last, John-lad?”

“Let me talk to my wife tonight, Mr Cross, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“Whatever you say, John,” and smiling he hands me a card. “Call me anytime… anytime.”

I nod; the smallest, enigmatic smile on my lips.

“It’s your life... You do whatever you think is best,” and she smiles, touching my face briefly, tenderly. “I’ll support you in what ever you want to do.”

Of course I knew she’d say that; that was part of the reason I loved her. I had of course already made my decision. The trick now was to keep enjoying the game for as long as it took to win the title.

We buy a house in Hampstead, London, to be close to Mr Cross’ gym, and my preparation for an assault on the ‘Light-Heavyweight Boxing Championship of the World’ begins.

I'd been training almost like a professional boxer for the best part of six years before turning pro: the army is good with its sportsmen, particularly if you keep winning. In fact, over the next two years, as a pro, I spend less time actually in the ring than I did as an amateur: only nine fights. The first three fights don’t last a round, the next three fights go to the third round, then another first round knockout, the eighth fight lasts four rounds, and then a second round knockout. Mr Cross is a little concerned about my fights not lasting long enough to test my endurance.

“I’ve lined you up a Mexican: Hernandez… You heard of him?”

“Of course, Mexico doesn’t produce many light-heavyweights. Gonzáles Hernández, ‘The Mexican Devil’. One tough hombre – southpaw – and never been stopped.” I state, as though reading off his promo sheet.

“That’s the one,” says Mr Cross.

“Then we get Foster?”

“Then we get Foster,” he confirms.

Mexico City is approximately 7,200 feet above sea level and the air is pretty thin, so we arrive two weeks before the ten-rounder to acclimatise. During my morning road work, I see evidence of the poverty that produces these tough, Mexican fighters; and if I need reminding how hard this fight is going to be I see it in the faces of the children who run alongside me while I work hard at the job of getting ready for the hardest, most pivotal fight of my career.

On the night, I receive quite a good welcome, considering I'm a foreigner and a total stranger. I'd be willing to bet that not one person in this huge crowd has ever heard of me, let alone seen me fight. I'm a complete unknown, except perhaps to some of those who've seen me running before dawn just recently, on those dusty mornings before the smog becomes unbearable.

When González, ‘The Mexican Devil’, Hernández steps into the ring I think the stadium roof is going to lift right off. The people of this poverty stricken metropolis are one hundred percent behind this fighter from their streets. When the commentator reads out our professional fight records mine seems ridiculously inadequate by comparison. I think most of them wonder what the hell I'm doing in the ring with their hero; who they obviously consider is going to be the next Light-Heavyweight Champion of the world.

Announcing in Spanish first of course and then in English.

“In the red corner, at one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pounds, with a record of nine fights for nine wins, and all by KO; from London, England, we have John Farrell.” A polite ripple goes through the huge crowd.

“In the blue corner we have someone who needs no introduction–!” The crowd erupts. After a few moments the announcer manages to quieten the crowd enough to begin again. “In the blue corner, at one-hundred-and-seventy-three pounds, a record of fifty-nine fights for fifty-seven wins, fifty-two of those inside the distance… Prom. México Cité… González, ‘Té Mexicana Débil’, He-r-n-a-n-d-e-z!” This time I'm sure they’ll lift the roof.

Hernandez has lost only twice in his career. The first time was a narrow points decision on only his second time in the ring, on a rematch he got revenge by knocking his opponent out in the first round. The second time was also a narrow points decision to the current world champion, Foster himself. Tonight is considered, by most, to be a warm up before the return match he’s been promised.

Over the past three months, I've watched film footage of Hernandez’ last twenty fights; he is well named ‘The Mexican Devil’: fighting with a calculating discipline, combined with a ferocious passion. When he appears on his home turf he seems to absorb the very energy from the crowd and fight as though possessed; a formidable opponent indeed. Anyway, as far as Hernandez is concerned, lacking significant experience, I might be a useful ‘up and coming’ orthodox fighter, but I'm obviously not in his league.

On the other hand, he knows very little about me, and what he does know wouldn't cause him anxiety. He'd know I'd been a successful amateur; so what?! He'd have trouble finding any film footage of my amateur fights; the only fights that are readily available on film are my last two: British and European Championships, and he could hardly work out my range of strategies from them. I've fought away from home on more than half of my fights and never really considered it a disadvantage: when I'm in the ring I'm alone. I depend on no one.

Intending to intimidate me, dominating the fight from the bell – that's his style – he comes out aggressively and I move quickly to centre ring, to meet him. Stepping back at the last moment into southpaw stance, executing a hard right jab through the top of his gloves I catch him high on the forehead jolting his head back a few inches and follow with a body movement – left shoulder and hip – that tells him I'm throwing a straight left. Instead, doubling up the right hand I deliver a viscous right-hook that slips around his left glove…

The referee counts the longest ten seconds I have ever witnessed, in front of a silent, unbelieving crowd.

Back in the dressing room fifteen minutes later – it takes that long for the police and security to get me here – I can still hear the incensed crowd tearing the stadium to pieces.

At the time I wasn't sure whether the hook had connected with his chin or his left glove, but there can be no mistake as I watch the footage for the umpteenth time. I instinctively followed the right hook with a left body rip, a looping overhand right, finishing the crisp combination, driving off the floor, with a left uppercut that nearly took his head off. It will rerun in my head forever.

The hook knocked him out, his knees buckled, and I continued pounding a defenceless body until my final blow connected with his chin, literally snapping his neck. Death by misadventure, the Coroner's Court ruled.

Four months after the Coroner's Court hearing, I'm in a black depression that not even my wife can penetrate. Still not back in training, refusing to come out of my bedroom, I lie flat on my back staring at the ceiling: seeing the fight rerun again, and again, and again.

“John… Mr Cross has gone,” says Connie quietly at the door one day; Mr Cross comes around every day. “Do you mind if I come in?” She tentatively opens the door, comes in and sits down on the edge of the bed, and then in a small voice, barely above a whisper, “John… Darling… I can’t do this any longer… It’s not good for Jamie either.” I hear the words – I always hear her words – I can just never get them to mean anything. “I’m taking Jamie to mum’s… Let you work this out on your own for a while… OK?”

She gets up and walks out of the room. I can hear her crying as she moves around, packing and getting little James ready; he's, long since, stopped coming into the room to see his smelly, bearded, emotionless daddy.

Connie comes back in briefly, kissing me on the forehead and dripping tears on my face, before leaving without another word. I stay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the rerun.

After a few days, without Connie coming in to leave meals that I occasionally pick at, I begin to feel vaguely hungry. Going downstairs to the kitchen, I discover Connie has filled the fridge with prepared meals, ready for heating; there are little notes on each dish with instructions, all finishing with ‘I love you always. Connie’.

My carefully erected walls begin to crack, and then suddenly come tumbling down. Sinking to the floor, staring at the little notes, the floodgates open and I begin to sob; uncontrollably.

Mr Cross finds me in the same position, still sobbing, who knows how much later: the fridge door is still open, it has defrosted and I am sitting in a puddle of water. Coaxing me from the floor, he guides me up the stairs and after turning the shower on leaves me in the bathroom. By the time I've showered, cut my beard off, shaved and returned to the bedroom Mr Cross has laid out a set of clean clothes. He comes back into the room as I'm tying my shoelaces.

“That’s better, soldier!” he says as I stand up. I open my mouth to say something; thank him maybe- “Don’t say a word, lad… not yet,” he says adjusting my tie.

Guiding me out to his waiting Jaguar, we drive in silence for twenty minutes or so. Eventually, parking outside an unfamiliar restaurant, he leads me into a softly lit, elegantly set dining area, where Connie is waiting.

Several hours later, having eaten my fill, partaken of a glass or two of Champaign, and spent some quality time with two of the people closest to me in the world, I'm on the road to recovery.

The following week, with Connie and young James back home, my training is once more on schedule for a world title shot. The media, having cooled off over the period of my self-imposed seclusion, are now back with a vengeance.

‘Does John Farrell have the right – let alone stand a chance – to step into the ring with Foster?'

Some of the in-depth articles are even more scathing:

'The only reason Farrell is getting a chance at this flawless champion is because he killed Hernandez with a lucky punch.'

"That's a pretty warped concept of luck," I comment aloud, "What about these articles, Mr Cross? It seems nobody believes I've got a chance against Foster.”

"Firstly, they'll say anything to sell those rags; I'm surprised you're giving them the time of day… you never used to. And secondly, you know you've got the engine to beat Foster – we've never had any doubts about that – you just need to fuel it with enough desire."

Reassured, I dump the papers in the bin and put my mind back to the task of preparing for my fight with Bob Foster. We watch another of his fights; I'm looking for something I can work on, but can't see it: he seems different with every fighter. "What's his weakness?... I can't see one." It's a rhetorical question, but Mr Cross answers.

"I don't think he has one."

“You once told me that everyone has a weakness, and that it was just a case of finding it, then planning the right attack.”

He gives me the smallest of smiles. “Well lad… it seems the only weakness Foster has is that he thinks he’s invincible, let’s capitalise on that. He has everything to loose… you have nothing to loose – with no option but to go after him – and with the right strategy, which will need some thought, I know you can beat him.”

Attempting to avoid the paparazzi, my morning runs are getting earlier and earlier. On the eleventh of July, two months after my return to training, getting up at 4:00am I go through the same morning ritual I've performed for more than fifteen years: drinking a glass of water and preparing my grapefruit. Only this morning, still half asleep, I cut my finger with the grapefruit knife. Cleaning the wound and applying a dressing, I finish my grapefruit and I'm out of the house by 4:30am. By 4:45am I'm deep in Hampstead Heath and on the first of my ten morning hill sprints up a wooded, eighty metre grass bank.

Reaching the top of the gradient I hear a muffled scream. Keeping perfectly still I take several deep breaths; my recovery takes only a few seconds. Without even thinking about it, I'm in professional soldier full alert: mouth slightly open, all senses attentive to the night. It's quite windy and the woods are full of sounds, but soon my vigilance is rewarded: pinpointing some intense foliage activity forty metres to my left I move silently to the spot.

In a small clearing, two men are securing a naked girl: each holding an arm, twisting them at impossible angles. On her knees, her face in the grass and her backside in the air, a third man is holding a long-bladed knife across her throat while viciously sodomising her.

There's no time to think, or consider risks. In an instant I'm straddling the guy with the knife; reaching quickly down I snap his neck before he has chance to react.

“Where the fuck–?!“ the guy to my left gets out before I spin on him with a right cross, hitting him in the ear and knocking him over. By the time I turn on the third man he's a couple of metres away, sprinting for all he's worth.

Pulling the limp body off the girl, who is now screaming at the top of her lungs, I try to calm her. “It’s alright!... It's alright… you’re safe now!” and she brakes down into heaving great sobs. “Do you know who they are?”

“No!” she sobs.

I know the guy lying face down is dead. The second man – the one I hit in the ear – is now stumbling up a steep incline, fifty metres away. “I’ll be back in a minute!” I say as I sprint off.

Keeping my eye on the stumbling figure just cresting the ridge, running full tilt, I coast up the incline in seconds flat. Reaching the top of the ridge however, barely ten metres further is a road; fifty metres along the dark road, I can just make out a car with no lights, accelerating fast.

Making my way back to the scene of the crime, I can find no sign of the girl, or the knife. And on closer inspection I find the man I’ve killed is a boy: no more than seventeen years old.

I should go straight to the police, but something tells me that, with no girl and no knife, I'm in deep trouble. So I run home, shower, and have breakfast with my family.

“You’ll have to eat more than that if you want to keep up your strength for Foster,” says Connie lightly, as I poke at my steak and eggs. Smiling weakly, trying to hide the emotional storm going on inside, I throw a playful left hook at Jamie, who instinctively balls up his little fists.

Later that day, after a workout at the gym, returning home to find the house empty I go to my study and write out a full statement of the facts of that morning. Signing it, I put it into a sealed envelope, address it to myself and post it. Two days later the local newspaper mentions that a local youth, seventeen-year-old Ronald Jones, has been found dead in suspicious circumstances and an investigation is underway.

Three months later, on September 27, 1976 in Madison Square Garden, Foster knocks me out in the fifth round, and I retire into obscurity with a modest fortune in the bank. Everyone, including Connie and Mr Cross, think that I never fully recovered from accidentally killing González Hernández. That may be true; however, the nightmares are always about the boy whose neck I deliberately broke.

It only happens occasionally now, but in the beginning I’d wake in the night regularly, in a sweat, and feeling so guilty that I’d have to get up immediately and go out for a run, so that I could cry without my family knowing.

Not knowing Glasgow at all, no matter how hard I try to keep orientated, by the time he turns sharply into a doorway and up a set of stairs, I'm lost; that is obviously the intention. At the top of the poorly lit stairway there is a set of double doors, and I'm close behind him as he pushes through two sets of double doors; and then I stop.

To my surprise, we're in a boxing gym; with a training session underway. There are half a dozen heavy bags, three old punch balls on stands, two speed balls and a couple of floor-to-ceiling balls dispersed around the old wooden floored gym. In the middle, complete with badly stained canvas and corner pads, is a full sized ring. There are fighters sweating and grunting at each piece of old equipment, and a couple of guys going at it in the ring with a trainer acting as referee. I don't mean they're sparring: there's a difference between sparring and 'going at it'. There are two more trainers around the room working hand pads with fighters.

The smell of antique leather mixed with old, stale sweat and the rapid smack, smack, smack of leather hitting leather, and the grunting of fighters putting in their effort reminds me, vividly, of a boxing gym I haven't been in since I was fifteen years old.

The young man with the cruel eyes reaches halfway up the gym before realising I've stopped. "This way, Mr Farrell," he says. After watching me take a few steps towards him, he turns and continues across the gym, disappearing through a door on the far side. Pushing the door open I find him waiting just inside. "Y' packin' Mr Farrell?" he asks, giving me a piercing look with those cruel eyes.

Pausing momentarily, I glance over his shoulder; there's another flight of stairs just behind him with a door at the top. I feel a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and the steel fist that has gripped my intestines since the previous Thursday afternoon releases me. This is it! I know, intuitively, that Victor Craven is on the other side of the next door!

Glancing back, into the icy depths of those eyes, I open my jacket and say evenly, "No… but I'm sure you're not going to take my word for it." If he discovers my hidden treasures I'll have to take him out, and then take my chances upstairs.

I can tell he's hoping not to find anything as he steps cautiously forward and gives me a perfunctory pat down.

"Mr Farrell… we meet again." He's sitting behind a desk on the far side of the office, looking relaxed. There are seven serious looking individuals sitting or standing in various positions around the room between us. They seem fairly at ease: as if they don't expect me to do anything… troublesome, but prepared just in case I'm stupid enough to try.

"Where's my family?" I ask bluntly.

"Safe and well," he says; a smile touches the corners of his mouth, but doesn't reach his eyes. "You're quite something aren’t you, John Farrell… You destroy my life's work and you stand there as arrogant as the first time you whispered in my ear, after breaking into my home. I could have you killed where you stand."

"Yes… well, it's fairly obvious that you want something of me before you kill me. And as far as me being arrogant is concerned… You send your thugs to kill my son, and then kill two of your own men to frame me for murder. Further to that you make sure I can't get a fair trial: condemning me to rot in jail for the rest of my life; however short you can arrange that to be. Not to mention having an old man killed for caring about me, and then fuelling a situation that killed my best friend and almost killed me. Have I missed anything?... Oh yes, to add insult to injury, you kidnap my wife and son." At this stage I'm beginning to work my self into a bit of lather so I pause and take a deep breath before saying, "You… conceited, egotistical, egoist bastard!... You sit there and call me arrogant. I could kill you right now, before any of your lackeys stopped me."

The atmosphere in the office changes somewhat during my tirade, and everyone looks ready to burst into action. Except Craven, the corners of his mouth are still affecting the semblance of a smile.

"Yes, well…" he says, mimicking my own reaction to his inclination to kill me, "It's fairly obvious that you want something from me first, too. And by the way, I killed those two 'excuses for bodyguards' for falling down on the job," and his mouth definitely does make a smile as he adds, "After all… you could have killed me, quite easily."

I can't help returning his approximation of a smile and nodding, before saying "Yes, I could have… twice. Do you still have that little reminder?" and involuntarily his hand goes halfway to his throat before he regains control, and instead runs his fingers through his hair; all semblance of a smile gone.

"The difference between what I want from you and what you want from me – apart from me knowing what you want, and you not having the faintest idea what I want – is that I could change my mind and just have you killed, and then kill your family anyway. Whereas if you kill me your death would follow swiftly, and again your family would die anyway." Taking back control, that annoying facade of a smile returns.

"So, what is it you want, Craven?" I say through gritted teeth.

"That's better Farrell," he says, and the atmosphere in the room relaxes somewhat again. "All I want is for you to do what you're good at." My face must have mirrored my bewilderment because he says, "Oh come on, Farrell! Don't be so modest… You were one of the infamous Red Devils and were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for single-handedly killing thirty-odd rebels. You were also, at one time, arguably the best, pound for pound, boxer in the world, and killed Gonzalez 'The Mexican Devil" Hernandez in the first few seconds of the fight. You heroically came to the aid of a victim of a gang rape and, in one foul swoop, snapped the neck of one of the assailants, killing him instantly. Thr-"

"Where's this going, Craven?" I say attempting to cut him off, shifting uncomfortably as all eyes in the room burn into me.

"Hold on John, I'm just getting to the best bit… Three men armed with guns attacked you, and according to the one who ran away, you killed two of them in the blink of an eye – with kitchen knives. And last but certainly not least: you were one of eleven men to enter a gymnasium in Wormwood Scrubs and the only one who came out alive."

"Two." I correct.

"Ah, yes… but I don't consider being a vegetable actually living."

"The point, Craven; get to the point?" My patience is totally exhausted by now as I add, "And before you do get to it… I might as well tell you now: there's nothing you can say or do to me, or my family, that would induce me to kill for you."

A little worked up by this point, I'm trying not to alert the villains in the room to the fact that I'm getting ready to kill Craven and take as many of them out as I can. Connie and James will have to take their chances; I send up a silent prayer for them.

"No, Farrell. I think I know you a little better than that by now: I've studied you for two-and-a-half years," and shaking his head he goes on. "No… when I want someone killed I've got plenty to choose from," he says gesturing around the room. "And there's plenty more. No, Farrell… I want you to fight!... Mind you, you may, inadvertently, kill someone. Because, believe me, they'll be trying to kill you."

"What are you talking about, Craven?" and while trying to appear as compliant as possible: my movements slow and deliberate, I reach for a spare chair; stepping forward, I place it a couple of metres in front of his desk and slowly sit down, folding my arms with my hands inside my jacket. Inwardly coiling, I fill my fists with gun and knife; my mind calm before the storm. 'You don't know me as well as you think'.

"It's known as 'The Real World Championship', and eliminations are fought throughout the globe," says Craven, watching me intently. "It takes place over a period of eight weeks. The district title, which in our case is the UK Championships, is held here in Glasgow; the regional title, the European Championships, is held in Berlin; and the finals take place in Bangkok."

Relaxing, emptying my hands, unfolding my arms, I rest them on my thighs. I have heard of this competition. It's ludicrous that he should consider a man of my years for such a contest, but I have no doubt that during the course of preparing for such an event I will get a better opportunity to save my family, and stop Craven once and for all.

"You do this, and you take your family and get on with your life. If you don't do this however, you, your wife and son all die… it's that simple."

"So… I enter this competition and you let us go… just like that?"

"Oh… no, John. You misunderstand. No wonder you sound sceptical," and he actually chuckles. "You win this competition, and then I let you go."

I think 'This person is mentally unhinged', but I give no outward sign that I'm thinking anything. "So… just to clear up any possible misunderstandings…" I say slowly, and I'm folding my arms again. "If I don't win this competition, outright, we all die?"

"I'd like to think I'm just a bit more humane than that." He says, attempting to sound benevolent. "No, John, not quite. But the only way your family lives if you loose: is if you die trying."

Relaxing again, I empty my hands and rest them on my thighs once more. "When is the first stage of the competition?"

"That's the spirit… tremendous. You've got a little under three weeks to get ready; I know you've been keeping in shape, so that should be plenty of time to familiarise with the rules of combat…" and he chuckles before adding, "there aren't any!" and he chuckles a little more at his own joke before, motioning to one of the assembled group of thugs. "This is MacGreggor…" and a stocky, slightly overweight, thirty-something man steps forward; by his scarred face, broken nose and cauliflower ears he is obviously an ex-pugilist. "He'll be your trainer."

"What are his qualifications?" I ask and before Craven can answer MacGreggor speaks up; his rapid fire Glaswegian accent made even more obscure by a badly broken nose, and a gap where his two front teeth should be.

"A've been init three times," he says.

"Did you win?" I asked reasonably. His facial reactions are enough that I don't need to hear his answer. "Well… I'd hardly say that qualifies you to train me, then."

"That's not fair, John," Craven speaks up in his defence, "he did get through to the district finals all three times, winning them once to go on to the first round in Berlin."

Looking from Craven to MacGreggor, I'm silent for a moment, thinking. "I mean you no disrespect Mr MacGreggor, but my life and, more importantly, the life of my family hangs in the balance here… I will be happy to have you as part of a support team: your insight into the rules of this competition might prove invaluable." I then turn my attention back to Craven. "But to have a fighting chance, I'm going to need a certain trainer."

Craven's eyes narrow to black slits before he asks, suspiciously, "And who might that be?"

"A local man, actually. Hamish Duncan." Before Craven can respond, the young man with the cruel eyes speaks up.

"A know 'im, Mr Craven," and all eyes swivel in his direction.

"You know him?" Craven says, incredulously.

"Well… A don't actually know 'im, personally. He's the highest gradit karate master in Scotland. He's refereed m' fights a few times. A have a noddin'… or, should A say, a bowing acquaintance wi' 'im."

"In other words… you know who he is, but he wouldn't know you from a piece of dog shit?" says Craven sarcastically.

"Aye… a suppose so," says the young man sullenly, eyes downcast. But as Craven turns his attention toward me, the young man shoots Craven a withering, sidelong glance – focusing those cruel eyes, momentarily, on him – and if looks could kill…

"And what makes you think this Hamish…"

"Duncan." I offer.

"…Hamish Duncan will train you for this… competition?"

"He'll train me."

Craven lifts an eyebrow. "Old friends, are you?"

"We knew each other… a long time ago." I say evasively.

"Just don't get any ideas, John." He says in a warning tone, eyes narrowed.

"Look, Craven… you obviously want to win this competition, and for some reason you believe I can take it out for you. And while I'm flattered at your confidence; I for one – particularly as, thanks to you, I have my own vested interests – feel I need as much edge as possible. Hamish Duncan can give me that edge." There's a moments silence as he blatantly evaluates me.

"Very well… take MacGreggor, and young Dinga here, and let them know exactly what you need for training purposes; you might as well get started. But before you go…" and he picks up the phone and dials enquiries. "Hamish Duncan, please." A couple of seconds pass. "No… Yes, that's right. I understand he's connected with karate… Yes, that's him," and after picking up a pen and scribbling down a number, "Thank you." Hitting the receiver, he dials another number. "Mr Duncan?... My name's Victor Craven, I understand that you are acquainted with an associate of mine: John Farrell?..." and he listens thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. "Well… he assures me that you know each other."

"Tell him twenty-five years ago, C Company, 2 Para." I call out.

"Hello, Mr Duncan… I'm told to remind you: twenty-five years ago, C Company 2 Para… Yes, that John Farrell… Ah, good." Craven is now wearing his in-control smile. "I wonder… could you meet with me to discuss training him for a competition?…" and after listening for another moment. "Yes I am aware of how old he is, but I can assure you he is still in excellent condition…" another pause. "Good, I'll be along at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," and he puts the phone down.

"Pay him what ever you need to… he'll be worth every penny," I say standing to leave.

"Farrell?" he says looking at me suspiciously.

"You're holding all the aces, Craven," and I turn my back on him.

Making my way to the door I acquire two new shadows. We shop for some training shoes, shorts, vests, and a tracksuit, but as it's late, anything more specific to fight training will have to wait until tomorrow.

Alec MacGreggor gives me a rundown of all the competition procedures while we eat a late meal at the hotel; he and young Dinga Bell are booked into rooms on the same floor. After dinner, as they head for the bar, I return to my room for an early night; it's been a long day. Before turning in, I check again for monitoring devices, and then phone Bobby from the toilet.

"Hi, Bobby. Any news?"

"Only that I'm up to speed with what's happening with you and Hamish. How did you manage to pull that one off? And what competition has Craven got you involved in?"

After briefly filling in the blanks, I say, "We have less than three weeks to find out where he's keeping Connie and James, or I'll have to fight in, and win, this bloody tournament."

"And it's no rules, you say?"

"That's right… we fight in a cage."

"Don't worry, John, with Hamish on the inside now – that was a stroke of genius, by the way – we'll track them down in no time."

"I sincerely hope so." I suddenly feel very old. "It's been a pretty full five days… I'm going to have a shower and get some sleep… goodnight, and good luck!"

"And the same to you, my friend."

"Oh, by the way…" I say before he hangs up, "tell Hamish to demand a large fee; Craven will pay it."

When World Unity came to power; a hangover from the previous, mainly patriarchal society was an inordinate number of physical and sexual assaults on females; as well as abductions for the international slave trade. The male of the species still possessed far superior size and strength, and because of his ego problems the 'Sting’, as it quickly became known, was considered a giant step forward in the balance of order within that society. Karla, my grandmother, was a pioneer with World Unity for The Sting, leading the campaign that eventually swayed the voters in the world ballot of 2030 AD.

Females were implanted, in early childhood, with a microchip that could activate a stunning charge through the nerve endings. For the female the experience was not unlike a static electricity discharge; for the male it was like being hit with 240 volts of electricity. The first implant was in 2030, and by 2040 The Sting was available to most females.

After the Sting, World Unity focused a major amount of its resources to the study of the ego, and so a debt of gratitude is owed to those pioneers for our current, evolutionary psychic stance within All That Is.

Following the limited nuclear war in the Middle East in 2010, when the most ardent followers of the one God blew each other out of existence – after two thousand years of wars, murder and mayhem, in His name – the general view was that there ‘might be’ a God; although the verdict was still out on that particular theory. Oh yes… Him. Female gods, for the most part, had been thrown out a couple of thousand years previously. Ego focus was considered the only way to view reality; no other state of consciousness was trusted, or indeed recognised. They did not believe that they had any real control over the circumstances of their lives or the events in which they found themselves. Thinking that sleeping was merely for resting, they wasted one third of their entire lives; most of them not even permitting memory of their altered states to register in their totally ego focused reality, remembering little or nothing of their dreams.

I am a third generation ‘awareness child’, I was born on the 10/01/2075, at Sanctuary Forest, WA, Australia, in a refurbished 19th century colonial house that my mother and grandmother were born in, and in which now four generations of my family have lived.

My name is Heather Skye Wilson, and this is my story…

"Halt!... We have a stinger missile trained on you… resistance is futile!" boomed the disembodied voice over a loud hailing system. "You are being monitored… if any outgoing signal is detected you will be blown out of the sky. You will land in the clearing just ahead of you… Now!"

As we faced the ancient helicopter gunship that had suddenly appeared before us across the heat shimmering blue sky, I thought briefly, 'Why would anyone want to attack us?' There were few terrorist organisations still operating in the world; however, obviously, isolated pockets still survived.

After being forced down; surrounded and hopelessly out numbered my personal security, Gerard, put up his weapon. "Do not be afraid, little one, they will probably ransom you very quickly," he said, and then smiling grimly he added, "You won't be harmed: you are an extremely valuable piece of merchandise."

I wasn't exactly small for twelve years old – tall and gangly I would have described myself – but I suppose, compared to an adult, Gerard's habit of calling me 'little one' was not too misplaced; although, 5' 5" already, I was not going to be small. I was still shaped like a boy, almost; sometimes embarrassed because I was beginning to look like a girl, and at other times because I didn't look more like one.

By the time we had landed the reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on me; as they ushered us impatiently from our craft I was so terrified I couldn't stop shaking. One of the dour faced terrorists blindfolded me, bound my hands, and as he started binding my ankles there were, suddenly, two successive gun shots and jumping with fright I nearly wet myself.

"Stand still!" ordered my captor harshly, in Spanish.

"Please sir, I need to pee?" I said. There was a moment's silence, and then I heard my request repeated in Spanish. I could both understand and speak Spanish but, instinctively, I thought it best they didn't know.

Close by, in heavily accented English, someone said, "Go ahead and pee little girl," and when I didn't move immediately he added, "Please yourself… but once your ankles are tied you'll be hung from a pole, and you'll have to pee your pants."

Blindfolded and hands still bound, shaking with fear and embarrassment, I awkwardly pushed my pants down just enough as I squatted. I could hear sniggering as I started to relieve myself, and then someone said, in Spanish, "Look the other way, you perverts! She's only a little girl… and anyway she's far too valuable."

Carried like the carcass of a hunt kill, lashed to a pole; my wrists and ankles hurt so badly at first that I could think of nothing else, but eventually it numbed to a dull, bearable ache. However, with the absence of agonizing pain, I became aware of the ordinary, mundane discomforts: the unbearable heat and humidity of the jungle and the multitude of insects that came to gorge on my blood.

Several hours later when we stopped for a break and the blood was allowed to flow freely, my hands and feet hurt so much I cried. When we set off again, wrists and ankles already bruised, I thought at first I would die with the pain, but again after a while the numbness. When they stopped for the night, of course, I experienced the same excruciating ordeal. Later, after smelling food being cooked, someone hand fed me something spicy and unrecognisable.

On that first night, during the lucid periods – when I wasn't slipping, fitfully, into nightmare ridden sleep – I couldn't help but reflect that this situation was of my own making. From my earliest memories, I was taught: whether we realise it or not, we each create our own reality.

“Heather!… Heather Wilson!… Will you pay attention?” Re-entering my body like a gunshot, I almost fell off my chair.

It was a Friday afternoon in late August of 2080; I had been attending awareness education for a whole week and it was becoming harder and harder not to trip off into less boring realities. I was five years old and Ms Fabian was attempting to instruct me in ‘The Magickal Way’.

“You were at it again… weren’t you?!” she accused and then droned on and on about the pitfalls of drifting pointlessly into other realities, or altered states as she called them. “…and it could be downright dangerous, without solid ground training-”

“Excuse me, Ms Fabian!" I interrupted. There was no way I was going to let her think I was accepting that as fact. "I have tried to tell you on several occasions… I've already had more than basic training, in not only The Magickal Way; which is nothing more than creating your own reality through believable projections of your desired experience, in line with the proper intent; I also alter states of consciousness at will and can already project or astral travel, depending on which term you prefer. And I would thank you not to feed me your negative beliefs concerning what you regard as dangerous.”

Before she had a chance to respond the end of day buzzer sounded and, leaving Ms Fabian open mouthed, I allowed myself to be carried out of the classroom on the tide of noisy, cheering first formers.

“Alright… alright, Heather!… It was just a trial run… to see if, perhaps, interacting with children of your own age would be of any benefit to you,” said my mother.

Looking straight into her soft, brown eyes I felt a twinge of nausea: I’ve always had the innate knowledge of whether someone’s intent, as they conversed with me, was honest, and the more intimate the relationship the more intense the nausea.

"Alright… alright!” she said again, throwing up her hands in submission. “I should have known better than to keep anything from you.” Pulling up a chair she sat down, and with her best 'caught in the act' expression she continued. “I thought, if you liked school, it just might give me some free time.” The nausea abated. “Your father is working really hard on the merger of The Movement with World Unity, and I wanted to help him more.”

She eventually, as always, told me the whole truth. I didn’t always understand the full import of what she said, but that didn’t matter as long as there was no accompanying nausea.

“Alright, Mummy… I’ll go back to school and give Ms Fabian another chance,” I said looking into her, now very moist, loving eyes. Then she smiled; she was very beautiful when she smiled.

“You are, without a doubt, the most wonderful child in the whole world,” she said, the tears making her eyes sparkle. I loved to see her happy and I rushed into her arms. I can still remember, vividly, the salty taste of tears on her cheek, and the heady scent of her perfume, like forest flowers on a warm summer breeze, as she cuddled me close.

Eventually, holding me at arms length and frowning, she said, “But… we won’t send you back to school,” and then, her face transforming with another beautiful smile, she added, “We’ll make arrangements that will suit us both.” And so it was that I travelled the world with my parents, personal tutor in tow, for the next seven years.

August 2087, halfway through my thirteenth year, we were staying in Peru with the President of the United States of the South American Republic. My parents were taking part in a multinational summit to cement plans for the re-cultivation of – what had become a semi-arid waist land – the Amazon Basin. Deciding to go on a sight seeing trip, I was en route to the Andes when the old Dragonfly gunship suddenly appeared, forcing our gyrocopter to land. Quite obviously, a collection of my own choices brought me to this moment.

From the onset, fear, pain and discomfort prevented me from making psychic contact with my mother. However, although I could give no clue as to where I was, sometime before morning I managed to send out psychic confirmation that I was still alive, and immediately received knowledge that the World Unity Special Forces Unit was searching for me.

At the end of another agonizing day hanging limply from a pole in the insufferable humidity of the jungle, while mosquitoes dined on every exposed millimetre of my flesh, we eventually reached our destination. Unbound and blindfold removed, I was locked in a hut.

Alone for extended periods, I was able to project above the area on small reconnaissance excursions, and then send visual references to my mother. The hut was one of several in an encampment, in a valley, in the middle of the jungle about twenty miles from a distinctive mountain formation. A single, steep, narrow track wound its way out of the valley, heading towards the mountains.

The knowing I received back from my mother was that the bandits had already been in touch and were demanding a ridiculous amount of unhampered credits, plus the release of ten captive terrorists; the 'relevant department' was negotiating with them. My parents had told the 'relevant department' to trade whatever, and to pay whatever it took to get me back. However, I could read her fear, loud and clear: the 'relevant department' might not do as she wished.

During the next few interminably long and stiflingly hot days, to help calm my fears and frustrations, I occupied some of my time with my martial arts training. I was aware of course that, half-grown as I was, my skills would be fairly ineffectual against these combat hardened guerrillas. I simply had to trust that WUSFU would find and free me.

On the evening of the third day at the hut, frustrated by the waiting and seeking an alternative solution, I went into deep meditation. I can't say how long I'd been under – time has no meaning in that state – but I began to experience the kind of vertigo I associate with rapid acceleration, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, I was lost. I mean really lost. I didn't know where, who, or indeed what I was, and it seemed to last an eternity.

Out of the blue, I knew who I was. I was me, but another me. I was a male me; a fully adult male me who thought in a language I'd never heard, but understood completely. As I looked around, a bracing wind swept the wild landscape of hills and mountains. Damp, purple foliage caressed my partially bare legs as I walked.

Stepping out with the natural grace of a hill walker, I felt the flush of blood through my veins and the reliable power in my legs as they carried me over the rough terrain: across hills, through glens and leaping from stone to stone over swift moving burns. As the gap between me and the distant wooded mountainside steadily diminished, I also felt the ridged comfort of the claymore, strapped to my back, and the warmth of the sun on my face; and the sensual feel of unmistakable maleness swinging beneath my swirling kilt. And I knew I was Ewan MacGreggor, born the year of our Lord 890. I was first born son of Gregor MacGreggor: the original MacGreggor. His father, Gregor, was sired by Kenneth 'The Great' MacAlpin, first king of Scots and Picts, and my great-great-grandsire was Alpin, king of the Scots.

Twenty summers old, I had a bonny young wife and baby daughter. Tall, lean and strong I was in the prime of my life and had already proven myself in battle – I feared no man – and I was to be the next Clan MacGreggor Chief. Striding confidently, purposefully through my native environment I felt and knew all of this, and much more.

As suddenly as it had begun it ended. Hurtling back through eternity, images relentlessly assailed me, and I became totally aware of my whole life-experience as Ewan MacGreggor, including my eventual death in battle defending the lands of Clan MacGreggor.

Abruptly, I found myself back in the hut. I was hot and sweating, my head ached and my stomach was cramping with pain. I thought to splash my face with water; there was a jug and a bowl in the corner for my ablutions. Rising from the bed trembling, and head spinning I almost passed out as, inexplicably, I felt a flood of warmth running between my thighs. In the next instant I understood; I'd taken the first steps to both psychic and physical maturity: I'd reached my Control Point.

The following morning, when the guard brought my breakfast, he at first thought I had sustained an injured. I'd done my best to clean myself up but I'd had nothing with which to work. However, it didn't take long to get the message across, and soon they brought me fresh water and clean rags to deal with the situation as best I could.

During the course of that day I received more attention than I'd had, in total, since arriving at the camp. Previously, when bringing my meals they'd been courteous, but curt. Suddenly they were attentive, and made a variety of excuses to linger.

Extremely embarrassed by my sudden leap from childhood, and feeling unwell anyway, I wasn't sure what to make of the peaks of nausea I experienced whenever they were around. Attempting to contact my mother, I was interrupted on several occasions, and by the end of the day I was beginning to imagine all sorts of terrible things.

After nightfall, usually left to my own devices, I was beginning to relax. Almost ready to start my psychic transmission, I suddenly became aware of whispering just outside the hut, and putting my ear against the wall I held my breath and listened to the hushed Spanish discourse.

"I don't think it is a good idea," one man said.

"Why not? She has become a woman, now," the other voice answered. I was beginning to feel nauseous again.

"I meant that you are supposed to be watching the encampment, while I am supposed to be guarding the girl's hut," the first man answered. "However… she is still a little girl… the only difference now is that she bleeds,"

"You know what they say?…" said the other in a derisive tone, "Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher', hey!" and to my horror they both chuckled in cynical glee.

"Anyway, you are a fool; you have obviously never felt The Sting?"

"She may not have it… not all do these days," answered the other, "and perhaps I can seduce her without scaring her too much."

"That is true my friend, after all…" and he laughed before adding, "That is why you are fond of the young ones: you have nothing much there to be afraid of!"

I shrank away from the wall in abject terror, but I could still hear their muffled voices banter back and forth, interspersed with ominous laughter.

The door to the hut slowly opened inward, quietly admitting a shadowy figure. Moving silently to the bed, the spectre like shape bent to lift the blanket from my sleeping form.

"Senorita…" whispered the shadow.

In the blink of an eye, before he discovered the pillow and basin under the blanket, moving silently from the dark corner I smashed the jug over his head and he collapsed on the bed, unconscious. In an instant I had the pistol from his belt.

Practicing the martial arts since I could walk, I had also been trained in most small arms, but it needed more than training to give a twelve year old girl enough courage to move with that kind of composure. It required the self-possession of a mature highland warrior, who feared no man.

"Miguel?..." whispered the guard from outside. "Cual era ese ruido?... Espero que usted no el este lastimando, demasiado." (What was that noise?... I hope you're not hurting her, too much.)

Moving silently to the door I held my breath and waited; my mind was racing but I felt surprisingly calm.

"Miguel?..." he whispered again. "Esta el muchacha bien?" (Is the girl alright?)

"Si. Venga y obtenga algunos." (Yes. Come and get some.) I whispered as hoarsely as I could. After a moment the latch lifted, the door slowly opened and the guard's head appeared.

"Miguel?..." he whispered again, peering intently through the gloom.

"Venga adentro lentamente y sierra la puerta." (Come in slowly and close the door.) I whispered as I pressed the automatic pistol against the back of his head. "Soy un poco nervios, así que cualquier movimiento repentino haría ciertamente que exprimo el disparador!" (I'm a little nervous, so any sudden moves would certainly make me squeeze the trigger!) Seemingly in shock, he promptly complied as I ordered him to strip his associate, tie and gag him securely with his apparel, take off his own clothes and sit on the bed.

From behind, swinging the gun with both arms, in a wide arc, as though I were swinging a claymore, I crashed the heel of the pistol grip onto his temple and he collapsed on top of his comrade. After securing him with his own clothing and equipment, a pistol in each hand, I crept out of the hut.

There were two automatic rifles leaning against the wall outside; after a moment's consideration – the weight would be too much of a burden – I threw them both into the undergrowth: better they didn't know exactly how much firepower I had.

Skirting the camp I made my way quickly up the track. In fact so hard did I push myself, with a skinny twelve year old girl's version of a hill walker's stride, that by the time I'd climbed out of the valley, three hours later, I was drenched in sweat and totally exhausted. Turning at right angles into the jungle, I stepped out one hundred paces and turning sat down cross-legged facing the direction of the track. Closing my eyes, I went through some deep breathing exercises, eventually relaxing enough to go into psychic contact mode.

After finding Gerard and the gyrocopter pilot the day before, both shot through the head, WUSFU were actually closing in on the encampment when my mother passed on the information.

Eighteen terrorists were killed during the attack; the only survivors were the two still tied up in my hut. Three hours after first contacting my mother she told me to go back to the track, where I should wait to be picked up.

The WUSFU operatives at first approached me with caution. I must have been a sight to behold: a skinny, dirty, dishevelled and grim faced twelve year old girl sitting cross-legged on the track with a pistol in each hand.

Firstly, my father attempted to lay down the law – only to be curled around my little finger – and then my mother stepped into the breach and put her foot down.

"You are going back home, young lady!" she said adamantly. One day of crying, hugging and kissing and she had regained her composure.

"But Mum-"

"Don't but Mum me… If you hadn't reached your Control Point you'd probably be dead!"

She was right of course. The 'Sting' would have prevented me from being raped, while I was conscious. I might even have survived until the attack of the WUSFU operatives but I may also have perished during their attack: killed deliberately by the bandits, or accidentally by the rescuing forces. However, I had to give it one last try. "But I did survive and now I've reached my Control Point-"

"Forget it Heather! Back you go to Sanctuary Forest!" she said resolutely. "I don't know how much longer we're going to be here and, quite obviously, the time has come for you to spend some time in an ambient environment to allow your psychic development to unfold."

My parents didn't return for five months; it was the first time my mother and I had been apart. We communicated every day of course, both psychically and via personal communicator, but it's not like being together in the flesh. One or more of my various tutors were never far away, and our caretaker, Shane, and his family lived in a house on the property just a short distance away, but home alone for the first time it was a period of maturing for me.

Shane arrived early each morning to begin his day, feeding and exercising our five horses. The high point of that period was when one stormy night, Blossom, one of the mares, gave birth. It all happened so quickly. Aware that Blossom was about to foal, Shane stayed back late along with his wife Shirley and their two boys, seven-year-old Dean and Jason nine.

The beautiful foal was born right in the middle the storm to the applause of tumultuous thunder claps; right from the beginning the colt had an explosive personality and I aptly named him Dynamite.

By the time my parents returned from the USSAR I had transformed from a 5' 5'' gangly adolescent: blossoming into a 5'8" gangly teenager. It was to be another couple of years before I would leave gangly out of my self description. Unfortunately, my psychic maturity seemed to be travelling along the same lines.

I'd tuned into Ewan MacGreggor numerous times, and was fully aware of myself as Ewan MacGreggor while I was tuned in, but the only time I seemed to be able to align was when his consciousness was freewheeling, so to speak, during periods when he was alone; like that first time as he travelled through the highlands alone.

I had been unable to locate any other personality essences. After my unexpected, auspicious awakening I somehow imagined it would come easier.

"Don't get so frustrated, Heather!" my mother said, one day soon after her return; this in response to the tantrum I'd just thrown after her questions pertaining to a set of standard psychic exercises I'd been practicing.

Since my awakening, because of her position, as Awareness Education Minister, I was intimidated by her. I felt pressured to excel in psychic studies; the truth be known, I expected that I would excel and when it appeared I wasn't, that in fact it seemed like hard slog for little return, I did get frustrated.

"Don't try so hard…" she said another time, "just go through the routines… don't force it! Don't expect results… just allow them to come if they do."

Eventually, I did manage to relax and, gradually, I had increasing success and coextensive experiences with Ewan; eventually managing to have duality with him as he interacted with others. I so enjoyed conversing in Gaelic: understanding every nuance of a language that rolls around the mouth like a soft growl. Ewan knew something different was happening to him when I was there; it wasn't as if I could exert control over his reality, more that I added a dimension to his reasoning and his emotions. He began, intuitively, allowing me to come through when my understanding of a situation might help. In fact, at times, I could almost feel him calling to me through our joint psyche, across the void that separates us, when he needed that extra depth of reason. He of course treated me as a part of him, a part of him that was illusive but becoming integral to the Ewan MacGreggor that he recognised, and liked. I became increasingly aware that he considered me to be part of his maturing, and I was, but not quite in the way he understood. He is a young soul, but that's not quite right either; he is a young, splinter personality of the same soul that is me, and I am a splinter personality of the same soul that is him.

"Ewan, mo ghaoil… Tha fhios gur tu, gun teagamh, an duine a b' fhearr a bha riamh ann," (Ewan, my love!... You must be, without a doubt, the best husband there ever was,) said Morag astonished, and with such deep emotion that it both surprised and delighted me.

It was in my sixteenth year that I found myself, embarrassed at first, tuning in as Ewan was attempting to seduce his young wife. But, far from rejecting my contact, he welcomed me into his reality.

Megan had had three children, each of them hard labours and difficult births; the youngest child was barely six months old. At just twenty years old now, she was understandably afraid of another pregnancy and had been rebuking his attentions for some time.

I had read plenty on the subject, as a biological study, and some rather juicy literature pertaining to the carnal appetites but, apart from some self experimentation, I was completely inexperienced. And so it was that my first real sexual experience was as a male. Suffice to say that the love making lasted a long time, and didn't actually involve vaginal penetration.

Another time, under completely different circumstances, I found myself drawn into his reality.

"You're nothin' but a wee scrap o' a boy! How can you expect to lead the mighty Clan MacGreggor?" said Fingon MacGreggor derisively.

The Clan Chief had just died unexpectedly in his forty-second summer. Ewan had barely chance to grieve over his father's passing. The day after the funeral, Ewan was about to stand on the 'Swearing Stone' to swear his oath as the new Chief, when his uncle – his father's younger brother, Fingon: one of the senior Chieftans – barred his way to the 'Swearing Stone'.

Fingon MacGreggor was in his thirty-eighth year; tall, broad shouldered, with quick dark eyes and a thick, trimmed, dark beard, he struck a handsome figure. "What's the meaning of this, Uncle?" I said. (I – Heather – could feel the rage welling within but I helped Ewan check it. He had to curb any impetuousness and display a maturity beyond his years.)

"Nothing against you, Nephew; I know you have been Tanist these five years past, but Gregor could not have foreseen leaving you with such a burden, while still so young," said Fingon evenly.

"And what, pray tell, are you proposing, Uncle?" (That's the way: keep it short, polite and to the point.)

"Just this, Nephew…" and looking into my eyes, unblinking, he said, "I take over in my brother's stead as Chief… and you remain as Tanist: my second in command."

The Clan had gathered for the swearing in, and now they were pressing close to hear what was transpiring. I knew the importance of responding to this challenge in the correct manner. I knew that if I backed down now I'd never be Chief.

As we stared, unflinchingly, into each other's eyes I could feel the force of his conviction. Fingon was a fierce warrior, a veteran of many battles and it seemed he was ready to push his claim as far as he had to. We were both of a size; he was perhaps a little thicker round the waist, but not much. He was darker than I, and my beard was finer than his; I could have been a reflection of him in his youth, and he of me fifteen years on.

"We are blood, you and I… I understand your point of view, but I disagree," I said evenly. And then raising my voice to carry over the assembled Clan I went on in a reasonable tone, "I have prior claim by way of tradition and I believe my father has thoroughly prepared me for the position I was born to…" and I let it hang there for a brief moment. "But I am willing to put the decision in the hands of the Clan."

Subtle though it was, surprise registered in his eyes. He thought I would refuse out of hand, and I believe he was going to appeal to the Clan; I had taken the initiative away from him. I knew I would have the support of the younger Daoin' uaisle and now, with my responsible reaction to Fingon's challenge, I had hopefully stolen support from some of the more mature clansmen also.

"Vote!" someone called and it was picked up and echoed by the assembled clansmen. Duncan, another Chieftan, spoke up then, asking for order and a show of hands.

Since the advent of Christianity, the clan system had become a solely patriarchal society, and although the women certainly had some influence it was indirect; men made the decisions, and only men voted.

Most of the young Daoin' uaisle, as I had thought, gave me their vote; Fingon's entire family group of course voted for him. The rest of the Clansmen were split right down the middle and when all the hands were counted Duncan announced, "Thirty-five votes for Ewan… and thirty-five votes for Fingon… We are at a dead tie!"

"So… what is it to be?" I said; knowing very well what it would be. There was no way Fingon was going to back off now. My heart began to beat in double time. I was afraid of no man, I would face any man in battle, but this was my uncle; my father's brother, he'd bounced me on his knee, for Christ's sake.

"You don't want to fight me," he said evenly, looking steadily into my eyes, waiting for me to confirm his statement.

"I fear no man!" I threw at him. It had gone too far for me to back off.

"You do not want to fight me, Nephew!" he repeated slowly, pointedly,

"You're right, Uncle, I don't want to fight you… but I will, unless you withdraw your claim." The assembled Clan was now abuzz; the dye was cast.

Connor, a young Daoin' uaisle and close friend, stepped up close behind me, "Just say the word and we're with you!" he whispered, and I thought, 'O-oh… the mood is running high'.

With a grim smile, Fingon gave me a curt nod and said, "So be it," and then, "It won't make much difference, but you can choose weapons."

(Ewan was, as a matter of course, going to choose the claymore, but before he could transform the thought into words I managed to influence him.)

"No weapons!"

Appearing relieved, but also managing to look superior, Fingon said, "I'm glad you've seen sense, Laddy; I would not have enjoyed hurting you."

The gathering gave an audible, collective sigh; some of them disappointed, but most of them relieved, and there was a hum of noise as they began to voice there individual opinions.

Raising my voice to be heard above the din, I said, "I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Uncle," and the hush again settled, as they waited to hear what I had to say. "My choice is no weapons… that is, to fight you with no weapons."

"Are you mad?!" whispered Conner from behind me. "Fingon has won the wrestling at every games since Gregor stopped competing."

"You wish to wrestle me for the Clan?!" said Fingon incredulously. And then thinking he had my reasoning – he thought I was actually backing down, but needed to put on the show of a fight without the danger of being killed, so as not to lose face – he laughed good naturedly and said, "Very well… the winner becomes, undisputed, Clan Chief."

It was summer, officially, but the clouds hung heavily and there was a brisk wind whistling down the glen; the day was quite cool as we prepared for the coming combat. Stripping off his heavy woollen shirt, Fingon wrapped the plaid from over his shoulder around his waist with the rest of his philabeg and began doing some knee bends and then running on the spot.

I received some strange looks as I started my warm up: punching the air rapidly, doing some high knee lifts and then stretching my hamstrings, quads, back and shoulders. My body was extremely strong and my muscles responded well to the ministrations; however, when I attempted to do some splits, expecting to flatten to the ground, I was pulled up short, and vowed to remedy that in the future. Stripping my woollen shirt off and wrapping my plaid around my waist I was ready for combat.

Fingon was suppressing a superior little smile as we faced each other; he was totally confident. Crouching down ready to start, he looked at me oddly. "Are you prepared, Nephew?"

I wasn't in a crouch. I stood left foot forward, knees slightly bent, hands raised and open, palms facing him. "Ready when you are, Uncle."

Still smirking, he stalked forward and as he got within range I executed a hard left jab, breaking his nose and stopping him in his tracks. Shocked amazement showed on his face. Tentatively, feeling his broken nose, he looked down at the blood on his fingers and then back at me through watery eyes.

"That was quick, Nephew; that was vera quick! I won't feel half so bad now when I crush you," and letting out a blood curdling yell, hands a little higher to protect his face, he charged in.

Executing a right push kick, I jammed my heel into his solar plexus, stopping him dead, and as his hands dropped involuntarily I followed with a straight right, catching him in the mouth, splitting both lips wide open. He was now bleeding freely from mouth and nose, but his hurt pride was causing him the most pain. Briefly touching his mouth and looking down at the fresh blood, he looked back at me with a newfound respect; and then his eyes darkened as he moved towards me again, cautiously this time.

He made to rush again, and I lifted my knee, as in the first part of a push kick, but he'd been baulking; he wasn't going to underestimate me again, I'd had all the freebees I was going to get. He stalked around me looking for an opening, every now and then making as if to rush in just to check my reactions. This was a canny highland warrior I was dealing with and he intended to win this fight; at least he now knew that he was in a fight.

Deciding it was my turn to take the offensive; switching feet I stepped quickly across to his left, as if to run past him, and kicked his left leg from under him. As I tried to follow with a right, overhand elbow strike he latched onto me around the waist with both arms; he was a little heavier and managed to drag me to the ground.

He was soon on top of me; both legs wrapped around my right leg, arms in a bear-hug round my waist; squeezing with all his might, which was quite considerable, he bit into my chest, tearing and shaking at it like a dog. (The pain was excruciating and I'd never experienced such panic. Luckily, in the height of battle, Ewan MacGreggor had.) I hit Fingon with supported, rigid thumb-knuckle strikes, simultaneously, to both temples.

Disentangling, and kicking his unconscious body aside, I stood up as a roar went up from the assembled Clan. "Ew-an… Ew-an… Ew-an…" At first it was just my most ardent supporters, but soon it was taken up by most of the gathering.

Whilst Megan cleaned my torn, bleeding chest and applied a dressing of a foul smelling fungus, Fingon's supporters tended his injuries. A short time later we were facing each other again. "You are full of surprises, Nephew," said Fingon with open respect, while gently massaging his temples with his finger tips. "Where did you learn such skills?"

"Just instincts, Uncle… just instincts." (Ewan answered honestly)

"You've the instincts of a wildcat…" he said, smiling, "and they should serve your Clan well!"

"I hope you're head's not too sore?"

"I'll survive," he said with a laugh, rubbing his temples again. "How's your chest?"

Touching it and wincing, I said, "I'll survive," and we both laughed.

After the laughter, we hugged as kinsmen and then he said, "I'll be heading out on the morrow, taking my close kin – about twenty five, countin' women and bairns – you'll understand, I have no choice." The prospect made me sad, but I understood. "We are still kin… and your father will be smiling down proudly on you."

"Take whatever you need," I said.

Suddenly, gripped by the now familiar feeling of rapid acceleration, my consciousness was propelled back, across the millennia, to the late twenty first century.

My studies, which had pretty much been limited to my experiences with Ewan MacGreggor, had been successful, as far as they went. My initiation with Ewan had been a positive experience: it basically saved my life; and since then, our coextensive ventures had enriched both of our lives. I'd be sixteen years old in just over a week.

"I think it maybe time to expand your physical world, my little Scottish flower…" said my father, and then leaving that enticing statement hanging, he continued to eat his breakfast.

All my life, I'd listened to my father raise a point of issue or open a debate by making an apparently arbitrary statement. He and my mother often worked in tandem: he would open, giving her a platform to enter smoothly. I stopped eating and looked at her.

"It's time you earned your keep, young lady…" she said smiling indulgently, "and took your place in World Unity. We are initiating a new faze of the Awareness Education Program, beginning at the end of January; touring firstly around Australia and then around the globe. If you're interested, it would mean being involved with the tour as a conduit for the youth of the world. Rather than feel they have no control, as happens with adults making all the decisions; part of the new initiative is to make them more aware of the control they do have; encouraging them to seek out their Control Point."

Initially flattered, abruptly I felt panic rising like bile. "But, Mother… I'm barely scraping the surface of my own Control Point! What on earth do I have to offer?"

"Don’t panic," she said, smiling. "You have two weeks to think about it… See how you feel then. The elections are coming up, and the tour isn't due to begin until after the inauguration."

Reaching across the table and touching my hand affectionately my father said, "You're far too modest, my little flower; you'd be perfect for the job."

I'd stayed in Canberra many times over the years, visiting the Web Centre often, and felt quite at home there. I'd even met the outgoing President, Cyprus Roberts, briefly after my little sojourn in USSAR. She'd been very nice to me and told me to be more careful, as World Unity would need all of its gifted children to ensure a bright and open future for the world.

This Presidential inauguration coincided with the World Unity official New Years Eve, 2090, dinner party.

"Madam President," said my mother, shaking her hand firmly. "I'd like to introduce my daughter, Heather."

Tula Gandhi, her light brown skin glowing with healthy radiance, although a little plump still managed to look elegant in her green silk evening gown. Taking my outstretched hand and giving me a flash of her gleaming white teeth, she said, "I have heard a lot about you, young lady… and, if just half of it is true, I believe you have a big future ahead of you."

"Thank you, Madam President."

"My pleasure entirely… and by the way that's a very good handshake." Her perfect English held the merest hint of her Indian origins. I got a good feeling from her and felt sure the right person had been elected.

Turning to a small group chatting next to her she said, "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr Vice President, but I'd like you to meet the daughter of one of our best emissaries; and who in fact is about to become our youngest envoy." Winking at me she added, "Could even have the makings of a future President."

Smiling, a little embarrassed by her compliments, I shook hands with the Vice President. Calvin Bush was a sharp featured man in his early forties. A little shorter than me, with piercing blue/grey eyes, he was extremely dapper: his hair, already silver grey, was short and obviously manicured on a daily basis, and his perfectly tailored black evening wear made his white, starched shirt look positively luminescent.

"And as beautiful as her mother I see," he said. All his outward signs were gracious, pleasant and correct, but as he shook my hand I felt a definite twinge of nausea.

"Thank you very much; I'm so very pleased to meet you," I said, while cringing inside.

"Not at all… The pleasure is all mine," and while still holding my hand he directed his next comment to the President and my mother. "What a perfectly delightful child."

The fact that I resisted the almost uncontrollable urge to shudder was testament to the political trade I was leaning. As we moved away from the presidential group I said, "There's something very false about that man."

"I know," agreed my mother. "I can never quite put my finger on it; it may just be that he is a lecherous bastard."

The rest of the evening, if a little stuffy, was a pleasant affair; I always enjoyed bringing in the New Year with my parents.

Feeling pretty good about my life thus far, I was nervous about this next faze. Did I really want to put myself out there for the benefit of others? In truth, I was feeling a little selfish about my life, and not at all sure I had anything to offer in regards to awareness education. After all, what did I know? I knew my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had committed their entire lives to The Movement; my mother had just assumed I would want to follow in their footsteps. I was unsure still. As always, whenever feeling troubled, I looked for the answers in deep meditation.

Feeling the familiar acceleration of consciousness I assumed that Ewan must be in need of me.

It was as confusing as ever at first; in that place between where you are and where you are again is all manner of lost-ness: not knowing who or what you are. So when I actually reached there, suddenly finding myself totally immersed in swirling, green water nothing was clear. It was an ethereal, dreamlike experience; I actually thought, initially, I'd stopped somewhere between realities.

Suddenly I knew I was Mary. I thought in a different language, not like the Scots, it was broken and mixed and it jarred on the mind. I didn't have a second name: I never had a father, or at least I never had anyone to call father, or to call me daughter, and my mother had died giving me life; she shouldn't have bothered: it was a short, miserable, painful experience.

I appeared to be breathing the water, like air. There was no panic or fear. Physical reality was slipping away while a comfortable, warm oneness with All That Is was taking place. In fact, the stark, isolated loneliness of physical reality was cold and harsh by comparison.

Born in Northumbria, in the far north of England near the land of the Scots, some time in the winter of the year of our Lord 1202; I'm the bastard daughter of Mary, who I'm told was the daughter of one who was once Lord of this domain. It is said, that I was sired by one of the savages invading from the north, who came with the fierce one called Wallace in defiance of the then King, Henry Longshanks.

The Wallace, apparently, wiped out all who resisted him; it is said that he was always in a rage over some wrong committed against him by the English. Anyway, the nobles were killed and their women were claimed by the Chiefs of The Wallace's savages, as spoils of war. However, when Henry Longshanks, who had been fighting a war in France, came from London with a massive army to attack the heart of the Scots homeland The Wallace left this area never to return.

Brought up by the nuns, when I was only five or six years old I started to show signs that Satan had claimed me for his own. The first time was when I dreamt that Sister Martha, who was going on a boat journey to Hull, was going to drown.

I liked Sister Martha, one of the younger nuns; she had a round, kind face, and sometimes – when the Reverend mother and the other older, sour faced sisters were not around – she almost smiled. I told her about my dream and begged her not to go, but she said I was being silly; it took the Reverend Mother and Sister Bernice to physically restrain me from impeding her way. Two days later we were brought word that her boat had gone down in a flash storm, and all twelve on board had perished.

They treated me a little differently after that; praying over me constantly, and scourging me: stripping me naked and beating me with birch sticks. I was not to cry out when they scourged me; that way Satan could not find relief until he left my body; the Reverend Mother told me it was to save my immortal soul. It seemed to work for a while.

It was five years before Satan managed to touch me again. I dreamt of the coming of a fire breathing dragon; I told the Reverend Mother that the town would burn and many people would die. She told me that my dream was sacrilegious and that Satan, who had possessed me, must be driven out: more prayers, more scourging.

A week later the Norsemen came in long ships with dragon heads. At the first sign of the ships the monks from the monastery by the estuary gathered what holy treasures they could carry and fled to the forest. Passing by the convent, they advised the sisters to do the same; and so it was that they also took to the forest, taking the children in their charge; except me. The Reverend Mother said that I was the Devil's spawn, and that I would lead the heathens straight to them.

After raping, killing and pillaging they set the town alight, razing it to the ground. I had nowhere to go; alone in the woods I feared the wolves would eat me, in the town the Norsemen would kill or enslave me, so I hid in the nunnery. The heathens came and tore the place to pieces looking for hidden treasure; there wasn't any. It was a poor convent and what little the sisters did possess they took with them.

Climbing into the topmost rafters, I hid in the roof. Silly really: the chances were that they'd burn the place and although there was a lot of stone in the walls the roof was made from wood and thatch. But they did not burn the convent straight away; instead, the leader, a giant of a man with a huge, barrel chest, who tied his long blonde hair and beard in many plaits, made it his base. They burnt the alter, and anything else made of wood, in the middle of the chapel; if it had not rained so hard, for so long, and the roof had not been so wet, I'm sure it would have caught alight. As it was, it took all of my self control – learnt at the hands of the nuns – not to cough and splutter with the smoke.

I managed to wedge myself into a crevice, securing myself so that I would not fall. I had not eaten for two days previous to climbing into the roof – doing pennants for putting my finger in the broth and licking it while cooking the sister's breakfast – and at first when they feasted, and the food aromas assailed me, I was tempted to give myself up to whatever they had in store, for just a mouthful of food. However, on that first night they started bringing in girls who hadn't managed to escape to the forest. And the things they did to them so terrified me that I clung there, silently, hidden for three days and nights.

It was on the fourth day that the Norsemen set fire to the convent and anything that remained before they set sail. The pain, as they scrubbed me in the river, was excruciating; I screamed and screamed until I eventually lost consciousness. When consciousness returned the sisters had shaved off what was left of my hair; and although I don't know what a peeled prawn feels like at that stage of its demise I fancy it must be similar.

In the following few months I almost died; I know I wanted to. But smothering me in a disgusting smelling salve every day, the Sisters brought me back from the brink.

"We have to save your miserable life…" said the Reverend Mother, "so that we can save your eternal soul from everlasting damnation, in the fires of Hell."

The prayers never stopped; while I was at deaths door there was a sister praying at my bedside, and as soon as I was well enough, the scourging recommenced and the fight with Satan for my eternal soul began again with a vengeance.

I secretly believe Satan must have enjoyed the scourging, because I started getting dreams again, but this time on a regular basis, foretelling various calamities in the district and some of further a field, but I never told the Reverend Mother. I think she knew, or at least suspected.

"Mary… look me in the eyes… have you had any more visions?" she would say.

Eyes wide… "No, Reverend Mother, Satan is scourged from me for ever!" I would lie.

In the spring of the following year, I was working in the vegetable gardens when Sister Bernice came for me. When I entered the Reverend Mother's chambers I was shocked at first to find a man with her, but then I recognised the robes and tonsured head of a monk. They were seated on either side of her table and he had his back to me. Turning, he gave me a benign look, almost smiling. The round, weather beaten face was old, but not ancient, and there was kindness in it.

"The Reverend Father wants to know if you have had any visions this year about the Vikings?" said the Reverend Mother sternly, her pinched face severe. The Reverend Father held up a hand, as if pointing to heaven, and she gave him a questioning look.

"Could I perhaps have a word with the child… alone?" he said. He had a quiet, gentle voice; but what might have been a request sounded like he would brook no refusal.

"Of course, Reverend Father," she said obediently, and rising she swept passed me, giving me a warning scowl.

As the door closed, he said, "Now, child… come, let me look at you?" again, a gentle request that you dare not refuse. "You look recovered from your dreadful injuries… are you well?" this he said as he took my hands in his; they were strong, thick fingered but gentle hands, and he looked over me with a caring eye.

"Y-yes, Reverend Father," I managed, surprised by what seemed like genuine concern.

"You were very lucky to survive your ordeal. You must be one of God's chosen."

I began to sob then, I don't know why; I had learnt never to show emotion, and during all of my ordeals I had remained stoic.

"Child?... He said quietly, and then held me gently to him. I cried and cried and cried, while he patted me tenderly, and all the while making soothing sounds. When I eventually stopped, he withdrew a square of linen from his robes and wiped my face. "You mustn't fret so; you are a blessed child of Christ," and as he smiled benevolently I smiled too; it may have been the first time in my life. "You are beautiful when you smile, child," he said; my smile widened and I actually giggled and felt my face get hot under his benevolent gaze.

"Now… Mary?..." he started, and then interrupting himself, his face suddenly illuminated by a pious reverence, he said, "Sweet Jesus… child – do you see? – you are blessed with same name as the Holy Virgin."

At that moment his benign smile infused me with a love of Christ I had never felt. I had heard of it; I had been hit over the head with it; quite literally: the Reverend Mother had beaten me about the head with her bible – no small book – and told me I should receive it in good grace as it was the word of the Lord, the love of Christ. But I had never genuinely felt it.

"Mary…" he began again, "have you had any more visions from God?" and when a frown replaced my smile, my face closing, as the dreadful weight of a cold hard stone settled in my belly, he said gently, "It is from God, Mary – the Reverend Mother was mistaken. Your visions are a gift from God." He could see my confusion as I wrestled with his gentle words and the conditioning I had received at the hands of the Reverend Mother and the sisters.

Seemingly changing his mind about asking me more questions he made the sign of the cross, "Nominus patra spirituous sancta," he said and then, "Return to your chores for the moment, child."

Slipping quickly from the room, scurrying past the Reverend Mother who was kneeling at the altar close to the door, I returned to the vegetable garden. A short time later I was on my knees, weeding, when they came into the garden.

"You will go with the Reverend Father to the monastery," she said simply; when I shot her an unbelieving look, instead of rushing to obey, she said, "What are you waiting for child… the Reverend Father doesn't have all day!"

"Yes, Reverend Mother!" I said leaping to my feet, brushing the earth from my legs and hands.

The walk from the convent to the monastery on that beautiful spring morning was the most wonderful experience of my life. The Reverend Father held my hand as we strode along, and he talked about the glory of God; pointing out His bounties: the sun shining, the birds singing and the new lambs chasing after the sheep as the shepherd moved his flock to better grazing.

He was a short, stout man, with a big round belly and it was not hard to keep up with him. When we reached the monastery he took me through the chapel to a little room at the back. Sitting on a wooden pew, he stood me in front of him and held my hands, and we smiled at each other.

"Now child…" he said, "now that you know your visions are from God… tell me about them?" Deflating instantly, the happiness I'd previously felt flying from me, I looked down at my dirty, bare feet. "Mary…" he said softly, and with gentle fingers he lifted my chin, so that I looked once more into his eyes.

"B-but the Reverend Mother-"

"Was mistaken," he interrupted, "and you need no longer worry about her." I was not convinced; she was the all powerful force in my life, the source of everything: she decided if I would eat, or sleep, or be subjected to a scourging. "There will be no more scourging," he said, and when my eyes grew wide in alarm: thinking he'd read my thoughts, he said, "Listen to me child… you do not have to worry about the Reverend Mother, ever again. It is now my responsibility to save your eternal soul; you have been given over into my care."

When at last it dawned on me what he was actually saying, for the second time that day, I broke down and began to cry and again he held me gently to him and patted me until I stopped.

After wiping my face, he said, quietly, "Now, child… the visions?" p>The warm, nest-like, embrace of slumber still clung to me but there was something different; it was warmer, cosier than I had ever experienced. I was dreaming that I was being held in my mother's embrace: she was stroking my head and face and I was snuggling against her warm body. Gently, stripping away my dirty, ragged dress and opening her soft, sweet smelling robe she cuddled me to her warm nakedness and continued to stroke my back.

It was then that the dream began to change: the soft, gentle, stroking became urgent, rough, thick fingered probing and mauling; I woke up to find myself in the arms of the Reverend Father.

"P-p-please, Reverend Father… p-please-"

"Hushhh, my child… I'm just holding you, comforting you; keeping you safe, away from the Reverend Mother," he whispered.

I was terrified and confused; maybe he was keeping me safe, but the sound of his erratic breathing in my ear and the smell of his body, suddenly pungent in my nostrils, did nothing to calm my fears.

"God speaks to me…" he continued, insistently, his voice growing ever more husky. "Just as He sends you visions, He speaks to me… I am the instrument of The Lord and He has sent you to me to give you His blessings!"

Trembling, sweating and nauseous, I came back through the void. It took me the longest time to shake the terrible feeling I brought back with me. What lesson was I repeating? Thomas's life was not as bad as Mary's, but only by degree, ending in a like manner.

I needed some rest and recreation; however, as I prepared to depart for Australia my mother called on my PC. "Congratulations, Heather! I've just heard that USSAR are now going to take in the refugees from the USA. And I understand that you were a key negotiator."

"Oh, Mother… you know how these things are: President Chávez was already well disposed to saving poor, starving multitudes; I just pointed out how magnanimous a gesture it would be to extend a helping hand to a former enemy."

Smiling back at me from my PC, she looked as though she was about to say something profound when my father cut in, "You're far too modest, my little flower."

"He's right you know," and she chuckled before adding, "Well… at least the committee thinks so. They want you to fly straight to the conference in the URSA to help with that one."

"You mean after my summer break, of course?"

"Unfortunately not, Heather; the conference has already started, you need to take the first available flyer."

"But I've already told my security team they could go home today… In fact Case has already left."

"Recall him," she said, "he can't be far away and I know Case; he'd be back in a second if you asked him."

"Oh, I don't even know where he is, and besides… I… he no longer works for us." There was an ominous silence as I watched her image closely. Had I been with her I would have known exactly what she was thinking, or close to it, but all I had was the image of her face; the face of a politician and master negotiator.

"So you go with a team of five," she said eventually.

"No problem."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes…" and I smiled, "better than I've been for a long time, Mother."

Relaxing perceivably, she said, "Good! I'll look forward to seeing you after Africa then."

Like the USSAR, the URSA states had been separate countries up until the second decade of this century. There had been a quagmire of political, racial and religious conflict, causing some of the worst bloodshed and human suffering the world had ever seen; and if you know your history, that is quite a statement.

This was a place where 'World Unity' had its work cut out; and with the help of the Awareness Movement they managed to weld together a nation out of a continent that had been split by famine, disease and bloody civil wars; after being raped, pillaged and subjugation by European and Arab invaders for hundreds of years. Now, Africa was a beautiful place.

The conference was of a similar nature to that held in the USSAR. URSA was being asked to open its doors to the displaced multitudes of the United Republic of Europe (URE). Following the conflicts in the Middle East; when the Muslims blew apart The Vatican and bombed Israel virtually out of existence; the European Union, in conjunction with the USA, had annihilated the then countries of the United Arab Imarets. The whole Middle East region was in effect destroyed; however URE did not completely escape.

Furthermore, due totally to their own arrogance: ignoring the global warming warnings for too long and then doing too little about it, whatever was left of URE, that ancient and once great amalgamation of nations was also all but destroyed – when the very nature of the planet hit back – by the rising waters and terrible storms of the Atlantic Ocean.

So, in this century, the giants of the last century, now crestfallen, were dependant on the once down trodden for their current survival; Kismet.

"Always so good to see you, Heather," said President Maboto. "Your freshness, beauty and intelligence are always a welcome sight at these dry proceedings."

"You are too kind; as always, Mr President," I said, giving the standard, diplomatic reply. And then as we embraced and he kissed me on both cheeks I whispered, "I understand you're giving the Euros a hard time… as usual."

In his fifties, Stephen Maboto was a large, corpulent, black man, with a deep, base voice; and when he chuckled, as he was doing now, it was like the rumble of thunder.

With the laughter still in his voice he said, "When I was a young political, I used to pray that negotiations would break down so that they would send for Kirsty; I had a crush on her, you know. I don't suppose she ever told you that I asked her to marry me once?"

Before managing to regain my composure, my surprise showed momentarily and he gave a deep, rumbling, belly laugh. "Of course, that was before Bobby came on the scene," and then giving me a wink he added, "You're beautiful now… Just think how beautiful you'd be in black!" and he roared with laughter again. "Seriously though…" he said, eventually regaining control of his mirth, "When negotiations get bogged down they either send for you or your mother. You are both shrewd negotiators and of equal beauty. So, let's get this business cleared up, shall we."

The negotiations actually took a couple of days, and when finally they were complete it was several more days before I managed to extricate myself from the Presidents hospitality and return to Sanctuary.

"So…" I said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively after embracing my mother warmly, "I might have been Heather Maboto?"

Not only did she actually blush, after hesitating she said, "Stephen and I were very young… and on different paths," and I sensed a deep truth she wasn't ready to disclose.

When I replied with "Aah… OK…" she realised I'd only been fishing and she'd told me more than I already knew.

Giving me a very convincing scowl, she said. "Heather Wilson!... I do believe you are becoming a very shrewd, political negotiator… and I don't think I like you practicing on me."

"Sorry…" I said holding my hands up. "I've been too long on the road."

"You girls are not talking shop are you?" said my father coming into the room and giving me a big hug and a kiss, before adding, "Please save me from professional women," and then holding my face in his hands he said, "Are you tired after your journey, my little flower, do you want to have a sleep?"

"No, I'm fine," I assured him.

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous!"

"Good… we'll have some lunch by the pool, and catch up. You two go on, I'll do the honours and join you in a few minutes," he said ushering us in the direction of the pool. It was a glorious summer's day and would have been quite unbearable if it wasn't for the UV shields and the fans.

"So how is Stephen?" said my mother, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder. "And what did he say?"

"He's good… He's a very cheerful, character," I said remembering his jolly form. "Was he always… well, you know, a bit on the heavy side?"

"No he wasn't, that's all happened in the last ten years or so," and with a faraway look in her eyes she added, "He was actually a bit of an Adonis in his younger years; very statuesque," she said smiling, eyes unfocused, lost in nostalgia.

It was hard to imagine my mother with anyone but my father; however, I knew that she and my father hadn't got together until she was in her late twenties and although I knew she was dedicated to The Movement, she was a beautiful, sensual woman who would certainly have had her share of admirers.

"So, is it true what they say about black men?"

"Heather Wilson!... I can't believe you just said that!" she said flushing with embarrassment.

"Just joking, mother," I said quickly, but as she looked away I saw the ghost of a smile and sensed a sudden thrill in her emotions.

We were all enjoying breakfast together, a few days after my return, when the door bell rang.

"Don't tell me your return to Sanctuary has been picked up on the local grapevine already," said my mother as she reached for the remote; however, as the image appeared on the security panel, I could see that it was no local boy come a-calling.

"I wonder if I might have a word?" said the dark clad figure, glancing up at the camera, before flashing a WUSFU identity card.

Thirty-something and just over average height; short, thinning dark brown hair and a receding hairline; Graham McKee, with his sharp, not unattractive features and quick, intense blue eyes looked like a solicitor. As my father led him into our spacious lounge room I could sense him drinking in the environment, quickly assessing each of us in turn. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

"Please forgive me for arriving unannounced, and for bringing business to your home," he said, briefly making eye contact with each of us. "I won't take up much of your time." Those quick blue eyes then settled on me and as I caught the intent I sighed inwardly. "My business is actually with you, Miss Wilson."

As I led him through the garden to the poolside, melancholy began to assail me as images of Harry came floating back. Graham McKee was head of undercover operations for the Antarctic region.

"Miss Wilson-"

"Heather… please?"

"Heather… Do you know a character by the name of Kareem Hespal?"

Shaking my head, I was about to answer in the negative when I suddenly remembered… "I met a boy in Malsi called Kareem a few years ago but I never knew his full name."

"Kareem Hespal is from Malsi, and he is twenty years old," he said, watching me expectantly.

"Then I suppose it might be the same Kareem…" I said, butterflies fluttering in my stomach; I knew it was him. "Has something happened to him?"

"You could say that," he said, his gaze was penetrating; I could imagine an adversary squirming under that intensity. "He's become a Messiah."

Remembering the shy boy who'd helped me find Shona, I found it difficult to picture him in that role. "Are you sure we're talking about the same Kareem?"

"There's only one way of finding out," he said succinctly.

"Now we're coming down to it. What is it you want me to do?"

"Kareem Hespal, in conjunction with a religious sect known as the 'Trilogy of the one God', is travelling around Antarctica, and wherever he goes people rally to him."

"Yes… but what do you want me to do?" I said pointedly.

That penetrating gaze was unfaltering. He seemed to be assessing me, gauging the best way to approach the subject. Eventually he said, simply, "I came here to recruit you."

So there it was; I was being recruited by the cloak and dagger boys. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to be recruited. "What makes you think I'd be interested? Or indeed suited to you're line of business?"

He smiled then, changing his whole appearance. "I was barely out of training, on my first mission with a front line special operations group. We were on a search and rescue mission, attacking one of the last terrorist cells who were based in a jungle enclave. Resistance was heavy; sustaining several casualties ourselves, we had to kill all but two of the group. A fairly successful operation except that our prime objective was nowhere to be found..."

At this point he stopped and looked into my eyes before continuing. "I'm going to tell you something I haven't told another living soul… Around that time I was having serious misgivings about my chosen profession and when I thought we'd failed in our objective that day, I made the decision to leave the agency."

Surprised a little by his honesty, and I knew instinctively it was the truth, I said, "What made you change your mind?"

"The two terrorists that did not die were naked, trust up like chickens in one of the huts. They told us a story which, initially, we were not inclined to believe. However, receiving more information from base, sometime later we rendezvoused with the objective. It was a twelve year old girl, and we found her sitting cross-legged on a jungle track, an automatic pistol in each hand."

Suddenly, assailed with a flash of memory, I could hear, smell and feel the jungle all around me; just a few metres away several soldiers approached, cautiously, and the face of one of those soldiers – much younger, intense, almost disbelieving – was indeed Graham McKee.

"You inspired me, Heather," he said, the hint of a smile softening those intense blue eyes. "You've been on our files ever since that day. If not for the importance of the work you've been involved in we would have recruited you long before now.

"In fact, un-requested and against all advice, you successfully completed a very delicate operation that would have been an extremely dangerous task for a fully trained agent. And by the way, a little late I know, but I'm sorry about Harry; he was not only an outstanding agent, he was my protégé; I recruited him from Armidale University."

From Graham McKee's arrival Harry had not been far from my thoughts, and although thoughts of him these days usually prompted fond memories, melancholy was today's flavour and mention of him now had me almost in tears. Here then was another set of circumstances where a chain of events, initiated by 'yours truly', led to Harry's demise.

"Alright Mr McKee-"

"Graham… please… We may have just officially met but we go back quite a long way," he said, that smile again transforming him.

"So… Graham; are you recruiting me for a specific task, or are you aiming to bring me into the fold, so to speak?"

Barely perceivably, his smile widened; and he took his time to answer. "Which, do think, would be my best bet?"

"Probably the specific task… at least initially," I said smiling.

"I thought so."

"So… the Messiah is it?"

"The Messiah it is."

Prologue

The Land

The story of The Land was handed down from generation to generation since The Dreamtime. The Great Ancestor Spirits created The Land, all that grew in it and all the animals that inhabited it and they gave it into the keeping of the Caretakers; entrusting it to them so that they might live in harmony with it. Taking their place in the natural order of things, they took only enough to sustain themselves; always giving thanks to the spirits of their brother and sister creatures – be they wallaby or mutton bird – for their part in the grand plan. The coats of the kangaroos, wallabies and wombats taken for sustenance provided them with ample warmth for the colder seasons. They also gathered from The Land's abundance of fruit, vegetables, nuts and herbs for their health and wellbeing; moving periodically to different locations so that The Land could replenish herself.

Respecting the fine balance of The Land the Caretakers kept their numbers in line with its consistency. Father taught son and mother taught daughter and this fine poise was maintained for more seasons than is possible to count. They did their job lovingly, knowing the simple joy of living.

The Great Ancestors looked after the Caretakers by granting long, mild seasons of plenty; and seasons of scarcity that were not as long and not so severe as to cause too much suffering. The Land, with its temperate climate, ample forests, pristine, crystal waterways, and generous access to the teeming oceans, provided the Caretakers with everything they could possibly need.

A nomadic people, they moved around with the seasons; sometimes leading a coastal existence: feeding from the ocean. At other times moving further up the rivers and tributaries that poured their sweet waters into the ocean to seek the shelter of the forests.

Although a nomadic people, having their own area of preference, they kept to their own region; like the people of the coast and islands of the south east, who were well disposed to the conditions of that region. Life was joyful, abundant and self perpetuating.

Living in clans: small villages of large extended families, the home structures for the warmer seasons were light and easily movable; the colder season's dwellings were sturdier, of a more permanent nature and were inevitably returned to each cycle. All the clans of a region, who spoke mostly the same language with small differences in their clan dialect, cohabitated to an extent; trading various dyes, shells and cooking or hunting tools; and of course intermarrying for diversity, strengthening bloodlines and clan bonds. Communication with the Caretakers of other regions was more infrequent, and the language from one region to another could vary considerably. Sometimes there might even be conflict; usually arising over a misunderstanding: perhaps some perceived transgression where regions merged. Mostly, however, it would be quite accurate to say that the Caretakers lived in a perfect, natural and blissful reality.

* *

The Prophecy

Raggera looked around his village; the good humoured hustle and bustle of his people, as they prepared for the coming celebrations, pleased him. He had led the people of the Nuenone Clan for fifteen summers now and his people never failed to show him their love and respect. He was also well respected outside of his own clan; even though they lived on an island he and his people were respected, accepted and welcomed anywhere on the mainland in the south east region of The Land.

Today Raggera was playing host to Kleeba and his people, of the Mouheneene Clan, from the mainland of the Great Southern Bay. Chuurneen, Kleeba's daughter of fifteen summers, would marry Mangana, Raggera's son of seventeen summers.

The canoes of Kleeba's people arrived and were welcomed ashore, their contribution to the wedding feast was taken to the preparation area and the throng of activity increased as the clans took advantage of the rare opportunity for social intercourse and trade.

The festivities, held in the season of new growth and time of plenty, were a joyous period shared by all, and the merrymaking continued for two days and nights before Kleeba and his people set out for home; leaving behind his daughter, Chuurneen, who was now a Nuenone princess.

One beautiful, clear day, several moons after the beginning of Mangana and Chuurneen's sixth cycle of seasons, a group of children ran hysterically into the village telling of the appearance of a strange apparition. "It must surely have come from the Great Spirits!" said Wooroowooroo, one agitated young boy. Accompanied by Mangana and the strongest of his hunters, Raggera went to see this apparition for himself.

Sure enough, floating far offshore like a huge magnificent bird in the shimmering noon light, it seemed the gods were indeed visiting their island. They watched as a small craft, alighting from the apparition, came ashore carrying several large beings of strange appearance.

Raggera and his people treated the bizarre, multi coloured creatures with reverence. After considerable, unsuccessful attempts were made to communicate with the strange beings, they presented gifts of baskets of fruit, vegetables and herbs, a generous portion of the day's catch of shell fish and a supply of sweet, crystal clear water. Happily, after receiving these tokens, the strange beings departed. Unsure if they were spirits, gods or demons, Raggera was pleased they were so easily placated.

Such an event, the subject of wide speculation, prompted mixed emotions: fear, excitement and foreboding; but eventually, as was their nature, the islanders settled once more into their harmonious existence, with another story to become part of their folklore to pass down through the generations; the day the strange spirits visited.

Mangana and Chuurneen enjoyed a relationship of such closeness that is rarely experienced. As the seasons passed, although Raggera privately agonised over his son's lack of progeny, the young couple were perfectly happy to remain childless. Their enjoyment of each other, on their perfect island home, was such that neither desired the added responsibility of children, yet, to alter their ideal relationship. And, although such things were never spoken of, Mangana was fully aware that Chuurneen took the secret women's herbs to discourage pregnancy.

"My son… Perhaps you should take another wife?... It is necessary that you continue our linage and it seems that Chuurneen is destined not to carry your child."

Mangana had been expecting something of the kind; for some time his father had been hinting that he would soon be called upon to shoulder his responsibilities. After all, as his father put it, 'It had been seven cycles of fruitless union,' and soon he would be expected to 'step up' to relieve his aging father of the responsibility of leadership. He was destined to be the head man, the chief decision maker; soon he would be 'Chief' of the Nuenone People.

"If Chuurneen is not carrying my child by the next 'season of new growth' I will take another wife."

"Pah!... It has been seven cycles! What difference is one more going to make?! You should take another, young wife, now!"

He understood that his father would be losing patience with him, but there was something else he sensed: there was desperation in his father's anger. "What difference is one more cycle going to make, father?... I pledge to you, if Chuurneen is not with child by the next season of new growth, I will take a younger, fertile wife."

"Hmm!..." Raggera grunted, before turning away.

Mangana watched him stalk moodily into the forest. There was something else bothering his father; something he obviously wasn't ready to tell. Raggera, like all the Caretakers throughout all of The Land, never deliberately misled by word or gesture; 'the way things are' was so much a 'given' that there was no understanding of the opposite, and no word for it. There did exist however everyone's innate right to withhold personal information, and Mangana knew intuitively, for whatever reason, that was what his father was doing.

Chuurneen had been little more than a child when she arrived on the island; worried about moving away from her family, she had been more than a little afraid of taking on wifely duties. Mangana had been a pleasant surprise; for one so young not only was he gentle and caring, he was immediately smitten by her as she was by him. Now, seven cycles on, they still never tired of each other and often marvelled at their magical good fortune. When Mangana came to her and told her of his talk with his father, she agreed that it was now time; Chuurneen assured him that she would indeed be carrying their child by the next season of new growth.

"Raggera is worried about something that he is withholding. I hope that we can at least give him something to cheer his spirit," and smiling, his eyes betraying the adoration he still felt for her, he added, "And anyway, it is time we thought more of the clan and less of ourselves."

"I will give you a son, my husband; I will give you a son to be proud of."

As the next season of new growth began to show signs of its promise so too did Chuurneen. As the proud father and the grandfather to-be watched her, swollen belly and all, set out with the other women to collect shell fish, Mangana said, "Soon our linage will be assured, father," and then turning to look into the old man's eyes, "Will you not tell me now what is troubling you?"

Looking directly at his son, Raggera took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed to Mangana it was the first time for many seasons he'd seen his father relax.

"Before the strange alien craft came, Leelinger told me of the coming of the ghost skin devils. He said that one day they would be as a plague upon The Land." Leelinger was The Ancient One of Raggera's people, one who conversed with the spirits.

"But they never came back," said Mangana.

"They will return… again and again, and each time there will be more. Leelinger has foretold this." Raggera paused, as if assessing the weight of what he was about to say. "Leelinger has also foretold that you will be the last son of our line… And your daughter will be the last Caretaker to walk The Land."

"Surely you are not saying that our entire clan will perish?!" he said, shocked by such a revelation.

Raggera shook his head sadly, looking spent and weary… "Listen to what I am saying, my son…" clearly Mangana had not understood the magnitude of Leelinger's prophecy. "Your daughter will be the last Caretaker…" he began slowly, "in all of The Land!" Mangana was still struggling with the enormity of that statement as he went on… "In her lifetime she will suffer such pain as has never been felt in all of the seasons of the Caretakers! She will witness the end of our world! The end of the Caretakers' world! And she will be forced to experience the world of the ghost skins devils before she is finally free!"

Listening in awe, the enormity of the prophecy bending his mind, Mangana could still not wholly envisage it. The fate of his unborn daughter… his people… his world! "How can that be?!" he lamented. He was destined to spend the whole of his life never quite coming to terms with Leelinger's prophecy.

By the time the aliens next arrived on the island Mangana had (quite deliberately) almost forgotten about the prophecy. Four seasons of plenty had come and gone; Chuurneen had blessed him with two beautiful daughters, Lowhenunne and Maggerleede, and it had been six moons since Raggera had moved on to be with his ancestors.

Word of the aliens landing on the mainland had reached the island from time to time; one disturbing report in particular of the aliens hunting kangaroo and wallaby with thunder and lightening; Mangana, being a sensible man, chose to consider it just a fanciful story.

The next time the aliens came to his island, remembering their last visit, Mangana met them on the shore with similar gifts and supplies. However this time, making their intentions clear, they stayed several days, cutting down trees, making repairs to their vessel. Seeking to placate and be rid of his unwelcome visitors Mangana complied with their wishes.

When the huge craft eventually departed he was left with vague feelings of foreboding but put it down to the stories his father had told him about Leelinger's prophecy. However, no sooner had they departed when he was confronted by a distraught woman. "They have taken my baby!" said Winneranerra. "They have taken my little girl!.. She is just a child!"

Winneranerra, recently widowed, had been the young wife of his father's closest friend, Tookee. Mangana actually suspected that it was the sudden departure to the spirit world of his father's last boyhood friend (they had become hunters together) that had prompted Raggera too to join his ancestors.

"Are you sure that Kirrawakiki is not just hiding or playing with her friends?" said Mangana, as a picture of the bright eyed little girl of ten summers sprang to his mind.

"I have spoken to everyone and looked everywhere!!" she wailed.

Mangana immediately assembled the clan. "I want the entire island searched from end to end, with no stone left unturned-"

"It will be of no consequence!"

Everyone turned to see who dared interrupt their Chief. Leelinger, The Ancient One, had appeared from the forest. He was rarely seen these days. "The ghost skin devils have taken her," he said. Without another word, seemingly fading from their sight to become one with the forest, he disappeared.

Turning once more to Mangana for guidance they waited expectantly; after a moment he said, "We will mourn the loss of Kirrawakiki and burn a pyre so that her spirit might find its way to her ancestors," and looking out across the Great Southern Bay to the main body of The Land he said, quietly, "It has begun!"

* *

Invaders

When the enormous vessels first appeared off the coast of the mainland, initially the people watched from hiding as the aliens were ferried ashore. From the very beginning there had been something ominous about these strange interlopers; they treated their own clan so abominably as to leave in no doubt how they would treat others.

One day, landing in the Great Southern Bay, they brought several poor, bound wretches ashore and tied them to trees. When their captors ripped a thin covering from their backs their skin was seen to be the colour of the ghost gum tree; combined with a foul stench it gave them the appearance of week old corpses. While they were beaten with a devise that cut and ripped until long after the ghostly skin was torn from their backs they screamed and writhed in agony. It was only then, when the blood flowed thick and red, that it was known for sure these beings were truly living creatures and not ghost spirits.

Whether any of those scourged that day survived is not known; for some appeared to have perished while two of them managed, incredibly, to stagger away. Whatever the reason for the terrible torture it certainly demonstrated the hardiness of this strange clan. The fate of two of the unhappy group was left in no doubt however: still bound, they were suspended by their necks until their struggles ceased and the stench of their waste was in evidence as far as the eye could see.

Their weapons, although far different from the Caretakers', could be clearly identified as weapons and some of those proved to be terrible indeed. Again they demonstrated upon their own kind that terrible power; within the space of half a moon three of them, obviously wishing to leave the clan, stole away in the night. The following day a group of hunters from their clan easily tracked them half a day's walk along the shoreline. Determined not to return, however, they put up a valiant fight but were cut down with a terrible ferocity by thunder sticks. The Caretakers would eventually discover just how devastatingly effective those thunder sticks, or 'muskets', could be.

There was another strange thing about this bizarre clan; they brought no females with them. Observed using other males as females, although that was not unknown, it seemed to be their way entirely; until eventually some of the Caretakers became so curious as to be careless and were captured. When others attempted to free their brothers they were massacred. Some of those who didn't die straight away were tortured until they revealed where their village was; then the real horror began.

In one foul swoop, the rest of the clan: young ones, women and babies were savagely slaughtered; except for some of the young females, particularly those between ten and twenty cycles. Used terribly for weeks, and some of them months, most of them eventually died; if not deliberately at the hands of their rapists then via the diseases contracted from them. Two of the poor wretches eventually escaped into the forest and were taken in by a neighbouring clan; only to spread disease there, effectively almost entirely wiping out yet another clan.

It was not long before another great vessel came; in time they became a common sight in the Great Southern Bay. Eventually, unfortunately, the Caretakers would get to know, more intimately, the mighty ships of the ghost skins.

They had first arrived when Lydider's mother was a child, and by the time Lydider was the young, second wife of Mangana – who had once lived exclusively on the largest island in the Great Southern Bay – the invaders had begun to spread across The Land; their settlements an all too common disfigurement. Wherever they went they cut down the great trees, put up their ugly, permanent shelters and defiled the sacred places.

There was no way of cohabitating: they would brook nothing but their own degenerate culture. Educated by early encounters the Caretakers avoided contact, moving away from them whenever possible; however, as their number increased that became an ever more difficult task.

I have so far spoken of the invader as if they were of one line, and although they were so similar in appearance as to be thought brothers, they behaved as if they were coexisting groups of enemies. Large numbers of them were treated like possessions; slaves, bound for most of their lives; locked up, tied up and worked: cutting down trees, breaking the earth and rocks, and erecting more of their shelters. Certainly not thanked for all their labours, they were beaten and punished and sometimes killed in a most barbaric fashion.

Eventually they brought some of their females to The Land and they also were seen to be in different categories: some used in the worst possible way, some treated as slaves, and yet others – along with their mates – given the reverence one might give to 'The Spirit Ancestors' themselves.

The complex societies of the invaders were impossible to understand, and although they were possessed of knowledge and understanding the Caretakers could not hope to comprehend, they were completely devoid of empathy and the simple joy of living, which they were determined to strip from the Caretakers.

Mangana was a caring Chief, who led his people with wisdom and compassion; however, he was not equipped to deal with the deceitfulness of the ghost skin devils; although it should be added that no one would have been up to such a task.

Treachery, deceit and defilement seemed to be part of their cultural design. Clearly, they could never co-exist with any other culture. They meant to make The Land their own, while using and abusing everything upon it including the Caretakers.

They cleared the forest as they saw fit, whether the Caretakers were in evidence or not; having no regard or respect for The Land or the Caretakers. Initially, the people of The Land tried to avoid them but the invasion of aliens was relentless, and conflict became inevitable.

There was bloodshed on both sides; however, the far superior weapons of the invaders guaranteed that large confrontations were a fairly one sided affair; with the wholesale slaughter of the brave young men of The Land.

In the early times, while the ghost skins were relatively few, Mangana even tried to negotiate a kind of co-existence with them.

One day, leading a party of about thirty of his people, he approached a handful of the ghost skins who, having cleared an area of forest, were erecting one of their permanent buildings. Initially, thinking that Mangana and his people were attacking, the ghost skins reacted aggressively, but as it soon became obvious they were approaching peacefully the unarmed Mangana was allowed to draw near, accompanied by Chuurneen and Lydider, with an offering of fresh caught mutton bird, crab and lobster.

Handing over the fresh catch, attempting to communicate, Mangana said, "This is a token of peace and a message from our people that there is enough bounty provided by The Land to feed all, and there is no need for our clans to quarrel." However, failing to understand, the gifts were received with blank expressions and grunts. He tried to communicate through signs, and scratching drawings in the earth, but it seemed they were incapable of any real communication.

When they were discourteous, not returning his friendly gestures or inviting him to share the meal – careful to mask his disappointment, and disgust at their rank, unwashed odour – he stayed in their company only long enough that it would not seem impolite. Making friendly gestures and happy faces he and his wives left the stern faced invaders.

Returning to his people he told them that the first step had been taken and he was hopeful this might be the beginning of a peaceful co-existence.

There followed a tentative period of peace and it seemed that perhaps, while avoiding each other by mutual consent, the two cultures could co-exist on The Land.

One warm, balmy day just before the fall of leaves, when the days begin to grow short, Chuurneen gave birth to a baby boy.

After having difficult times with the births of both daughters, in fact barely surviving, fearing she would never give him the son he so desperately wanted it was Chuurneen who had encouraged Mangana to take Lydider as his second wife; however, after all these years, it was she, his first love, who had presented him with a son.

A few days after the celebrations, Larkikoka led a small group of families from Mangana's village to a place where the water falls from the mountain before its final journey to the ocean. Mangana entrusted him with the responsibility of looking after his youngest wife, Lydider, and their daughter, Trucannini, of just three summers.

While the men were fishing around the deep pool; the women were a little further along filling baskets with shellfish and the six small children played in the shallows.

Standing motionless, waist deep, in the crystal clear water at the edge of a deeper pool Larkikoka waited, barely aware of the steady, hypnotic thunder of the waterfall. All his focus was on the big fish turning this way and that as it fed on the bottom. Waiting for the moment when it would pause near enough for his spear to reach, he was thinking that, along with the rest of the catch, this would be enough; he would then gather the rest of his little group and return to the village.

"Larkikoka!!"

Startled, he turned; fifty paces away six ghost skins were bundling the four women into a small boat, brutally subduing them; while a little way off the children screamed hysterically.

"Aaarrgh!!" yelling out his frustration and anger he started towards them. A puff of smoke from one of the ghost skins' weapons was followed by a 'Boom!' like the sound of thunder, and then a hardly perceivable splash in the water just in front of him was followed by a sharp pain in his right thigh and he fell clutching his leg. As he tried to stand there was another 'Boom!' and Wangegamon, one of the other hunters, was thrown backwards never to move again. Larkikoka groped for his spear, looking up just as another shot was fired, 'Boom!' and Mammalt spun backwards, screaming: his left shoulder a bloody mess.

Woreguimoni, the last remaining hunter, now within twenty paces of the boat launched his spear and one of the ghost skins, dropping his oar, grasped in vain where it had gone straight through his neck, while he choked to death on his own blood. One of the other ghost skins, managing to reload his musket, turned on the still approaching but now weaponless Woreguimoni just as Lydider, who had managed to get loose, threw herself screeching on his back. Woreguimoni was almost upon them when one of the others, managing to reload, turned his musket on him… 'Boom!' hitting him point blank in the face, and without pause, using the butt of his musket he caved in Lydider's skull like a ripe melon; before throwing her lifeless body into the river.

By the time Larkikoka pulled the badly injured Mammalt from the river the ghost skin boat was rounding the headland at the mouth of the river, apparently heading towards the shelters where Mangana had taken the gifts. A short time later, accompanied by the hysterical children, Larkikoka staggered into the village carrying the dying Mammalt.

After retrieving the slain bodies of Lydider and the others; while the women, old men and children collected wood and prepared the funeral pyres, incensed with grief, Mangana led an angry party to the shelters of the invaders.

A woman was hanging washing on a line and a man was chopping firewood as they entered the clearing in front of the invaders' dwellings. The man went down in a hail of spears before he realised what was happening. The woman ran, but a spear in the back stopped her scream; looking down in bewilderment at the half length of spear protruding through her chest, she sank to her knees and died. Oblivious of the attack, a couple were having sex on one of the beds when Mangana and his clan burst in and beat them to death with waddies.

Making a wide circle around the invaders' dwellings they came across the other two men cutting down a tree and skewered them with spears before they could pick up their dreadful weapons. There was no sign of the missing women.

The next day the clan were wailing and crying, streaked with ash from the funeral pyres when Teekooltermee, one of the missing women, staggered into the village more dead than alive.

After being repeatedly raped by the ship's crew, the last of them had fallen into a drunken sleep on top of her; managing to squirm out from under him, she had slipped over the side and escaped from the ship that was anchored way out in the bay. It was one of the ships that hunted the giant fish.

* *

Restless Spirit

Before long, more invaders came to replace the ones Mangana in his anger had wiped out; and not just a handful this time. On such a small island, Mangana knew he would not be able to avoid further conflict for very long and thought it prudent to move the entire clan onto the mainland.

Soon the Bay was busy with ships that came and went, and many permanent structures were built by a seemingly endless army of slaves. It was not safe to stay within striking distance of the ghost skin encampments: without reason or warning they would attack, reaping death and destruction. Mangana had to take his people further away, deeper into the forest. All of the clans were constantly on the move to stay one step away from the invaders as they spread like a fungus across The Land.

One day, three seasons after the murder of Lydider, while the children of Mangana's village were gathering berries; his eldest daughter, Lowhenunne, and her young sister, Trucannini, took a little known path to where their father's favourite sweet, purple berries grew.

Having reached a bush full of the coveted purple berries, Lowhenunne fashioned her wallaby pelt mantle into a container and was filling it with the juicy berries while Trucannini, face and hands now purple, gorged herself on the sweet fruit.

Grrrrrr!

Initially too terrified to move, the girls froze, but as the growling continued they turned slowly to find themselves confronted by two of the striped predators with the large teeth.

The striped ones did not generally come near the Caretakers, usually preying on easier pickings: experience having told them that a well aimed spear could quickly end their existence. However, they did sometimes take a baby left unattended, or a little one. Having strayed from the main group, the girls were now in an extremely vulnerable position.

Trucannini sobbed quietly, quaking with fear… "Trucannini…" whispered Lowhenunne. "Remain quite still, and stop crying. We must not let them know our fear. We must blend with the bush. We must become the bush, so the striped ones will not see us as prey." Very slowly, taking her sisters hand, Lowhenunne lifted both of her hands in the air and began to sway like a bush blowing gently in a breeze. Ceasing her weeping, lifting her other arm, Trucannini followed her sister's lead.

The growling slowly abated and the striped ones' fearsome teeth disappeared. Looking unsure for a moment, the predators then slunk away.

"How did you know?" said Trucannini, eyes still wide, watching the undergrowth where the predators had disappeared only heart beats before.

Lowhenunne swallowed with difficulty, she hadn't realised how dry her throat was. Quickly popping a berry into her mouth and chewing, she said, "When the time comes for you to take responsibility… you too will know what to do," and then looking into Trucannini's eyes she added, "Father must not know of this, or he will be angry with me for putting his favourite, baby daughter in danger."

Looking at her sister with adoration, Trucannini said, "It will be our secret." They exchanged secretive smiles before making their way back to the others.

Four summers after the incident with the predators; Trucannini, with her bright, beautiful eyes and cheeky smile, was still her father’s favourite, even more so than his son, Roberriddy, though he would never admit it. She was still tiny even by the Caretakers standards; smaller even than her brother and his little friend, Larkiwoora, a boy of just six summers.

Since the alien invasion of The Land the Caretaker's lives had become one long game of hide and seek, and the consequences of being found could be dire. One day Trucannini and her sisters and brother, along with five other youngsters were collecting shellfish off a rocky peninsula, near yet another new encampment.

"Invaders!" a distraught Lowhenunne called, sprinting into view from the far side of a rocky outcrop. "Run!!" she yelled.

Taken by surprise, Trucannini and the others paused just long enough to see three, blood splattered, ghost skins lumbering into view carrying long, blood covered clubs, and now yelling and howling. No sooner had they turned to flee towards the forest when they were confronted on the landward side by another bloodied, howling group. Screaming with fright, the youngsters scampered up the rocky embankment and a terrifying chase ensued.

The landscape was rough, the children were quick and agile and used to moving swiftly over such terrain and, adrenaline fuelled, they pulled away from their pursuers; who were, although huge and fearsome, awkward and slow by comparison.

However, as they crested the embankment, they faced a third group bellowing their triumph. They had been herded into a trap by the wily, experienced killers of the furry ones of the ocean: the sealers.

Coming from a ship anchored off shore, they called themselves hunters. They were no hunters – a hunter lives by the code and takes only what is needed, as the Caretakers did – these creatures, typical of there kind, slaughtered the young furry ones in vast numbers, way beyond anything that could be called need. Bashing the baby seals heads in with clubs, they skinned them and, leaving their carcasses to rot in the sun, took only their pelts.

In blind panic, the children scattered. Anticipating the children would go landward, toward their village, the trap closed and the sealers had most of them boxed in. However, cutting back towards the point, Larkiwoora, Trucannini and Roberriddy almost slipped through…

"A-a-a-h… Trucannini-i-i-i!!"

Glancing backwards, Trucannini stopped dead in her tracks… Caught by one of the sealers, lifted into the air, her brother was struggling futilely. With no idea what she could possibly do, she had started towards them when another sealer ran past them in her direction; turning again she took off and a new surge of adrenaline aided her flight. It wasn't long however, before she could hear the clump, clump, clump of the sealer's boots through the undergrowth and soon she could almost feel his laboured breathing on the back of her neck. 'How could this be?' she thought, demanding more of her fatiguing body, as he gained on her. A quick glance behind told the story. This sealer was much younger than the others: he could not have been more than fourteen summers. Suddenly, he tackled her and they went rolling through the undergrowth.

Although younger and much smaller than the other sealers, he was wiry, strong and very much bigger than the tiny Trucannini, easily pinioning her. Exhausted, and realising the futility of trying to match strength with him, she allowed him to subdue her; but when instead of getting to his feet and taking her back to the others he forced her legs open, groping roughly between her thighs, while panting his stinking breath in her face and uttering something in his alien language, it was obvious what her immediate fate was to be.

Terrified, her initial shocked response was a paralysing numbness which the young sealer took to be acquiescence. Holding her down with one hand, he fumbled with his free hand, exposing his ardent young manhood. Suddenly, seizing, she had his exposed testicles gripped in her tiny hands and was wrenching as hard as she could and then, as he instinctively clawed at her fingers, she latched onto his face with her teeth, biting and ripping like a wild animal. As the panic stricken young sealer tried to restrain her hands, while pushing away the snarling, biting little face Trucannini latched onto the top joint of his little finger. Biting down hard, she wrenched her head from side to side until there was a popping, crunching sound. His scream was deafening as, jaws tightly shut and still vigorously shaking her head from side to side, she tried to sever it completely. Between the agony of his mangled testicles and his mutilated finger he was screaming as though the Rageorapper was tearing his soul apart until,

abruptly, his head flew sideward and he was silenced.

Trucannini looked up in amazement into Larkiwoora's wide, frightened eyes; he was gripping a broken branch almost as big as himself. In an instant she was on her feet. One quick, cautionary glance at the groaning, senseless sealer and they were running full tilt again towards the peninsular.

Realising they were no longer being chased she quickly found a hiding place among the rocks and undergrowth. Regaining his breath, Larkiwoora began to sob uncontrollably.

"Shhhh!!... If you do not keep quite…" she whispered, "they will find us."

"Aaaaheeeee!!!… Aaaaheeeee!!!" Penetrating the still, hot summer afternoon air, the echo of horror-filled screams reached them from far away and Larkiwoora instantly fell silent.

"W-w-what was that?" he whispered, petrified; eyes large, dark pools.

Trucannini was terrified also, but trying to appear calm for the sake of her younger charge, and remembering Lowhenunne's wisdom when they had been confronted by the striped predators, she whispered, "Shhh!... We must become the rocks, so that even if the monsters were to walk over us they would still not know we are here."

It had been Maggerleede's horror filled screams of pain as she was brutally raped that had quieted Larkiwoora. After those initial screams she and the others were gagged, less their screams bring the adults, armed and dangerous.

All but Trucannini and Larkiwoora were caught: five girls and two boys. The ten sealers raped the children indiscriminately, boys and girls alike. As Lowhenunne was being brutally taken from behind another sealer, tearing away her gag, forced himself into her mouth…

"Aaaarrrgh!!!" he screamed, as Lowhenunne bit down so hard her teeth almost met and with grim determination she held on as her two attackers beat her relentlessly with their fists, while blood pumped forth in great spurts from the injured organ. Eventually another sealer put a pistol to her slender back and blew her spine in two and with one final convulsion, completely severing the offending organ, she died.

The maimed sealer continued to scream, while futilely attempting to stem the flow of blood.

Some time later as the cool of evening approached, and they were still undiscovered, Trucannini led her young charge out of their hiding place back along the peninsular, and as night fell they came upon a devastating scene of carnage.

Fearing the shot would bring warriors with their spears, the sealers had bludgeoned four of the children to death with their clubs; before making good their escape; Maggerleede and Roberriddy were nowhere to be found.

The poor little corpses were strewn around with their heads bashed to a pulp, already covered with ants and others of nature's six legged cleaners as the last rays of sunlight glinted off the thick, bright blood.

Mangana had taken out a hunting party that day and it wasn't until they returned, in the late afternoon, and a single shot was heard from the direction of the peninsular that, alarmed, they set off in search of the children. Trucannini was still crying, Lowhenunne's head cradled in her lap, with Larkiwoora kneeling at her side when they found them.

Scouting the peninsular they discovered the pale, bloodless body of a dead sealer and took the corpse back to the village with the bodies of the poor little children.

"Cut this savage into pieces." said Mangana calmly. "We will spike his head in a tree near the place their canoes come ashore to serve as a warning." Separated from his head, the rest of his remains were thrown into the sea to feed the sharks. His restless spirit would wander, lost for eternity.

While preparing Lowhenunne for her cremation, Chuurneen discovered the severed portion of male anatomy in her mouth. Already distraught by the fate of her children, she became so distressed that she had to be physically restrained from throwing herself onto the burning pyre. The families of the dead children covered themselves in their ashes and for three days and nights they wailed their anguished grief. On the fourth night Chuurneen disappeared into the forest. The Ancient One said she had gone to join her children.

* *

It seemed the island would be their prison until, one by one, they all died; and at their current rate of decline that would not be long. Tanleboneyerr went down with the coughing disease and died within two days, devastating her husband. Henry Nickolls had Mannalargenna physically restrained and locked up until after the burial to prevent him from putting his dead wife on a funeral pyre. Not permitted to cremate her remains and say farewell in the proper manner; Mannalargenna retreated completely from the world. Taking to his bed, he refused to see or talk to anyone. Wymurrick tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Trucannini, who the old warrior had come to look on as a daughter, could get no response. It was as though he had already retired from this world and it was only a question of time before he crossed to The Land of Dreams.

Trucannini was becoming resigned to the inevitable fate of her people and her place in the prophecy. With their rituals and most of their natural inclinations and pursuits denied them, the Caretakers were gradually falling into the habits of their alien captors: tea, sugar, tobacco and alcohol; giving the aliens an even larger measure of control. With her only stimulation the odd confrontation with Henry Nickolls, even Trucannini was succumbing to the ghost skin indulgences.

"You need the attention of a good man," said Tunnerminawait. He and just about every other man on the island, Caretaker or alien, had propositioned her in some way or other, and Henry Nickolls was certainly a supercilious fool; however, if not for him the soldiers would probably have taken her by force. Starved of affection and in need of love and nurturing, she was still the most attractive woman on the island.

"Have you any idea where I could find him?"

"What?!"

That was half the problem: she was so much smarter than any of the available men. "Never mind, Tunnerminawait, you are such a sweet talker I can resist you no longer."

"What?!"

His persistence had paid off; that and the fact that she was growing tired of fighting them all off. "Anyway… it might be nice to be married again."

When it had sunk in that she had agreed to be his wife he was overjoyed. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, he told any who would listen of their betrothal. In general, the news was received positively: the other women were happier now that their men would no longer hanker after her, not so openly anyway; Henry Nickolls was happy, relieved that at least one bone of contention was no longer on the table. He even tried, very much in vain, to persuade her to let him join them in holy matrimony. Regardless, it was an occasion to celebrate and everyone was pleased about that.

The supply ship was two moons overdue and they had been out of essential supplies for almost a moon; so much so they had recently been allowed to plunder a neighbouring island – Barren Island, a virtual bird sanctuary – for eggs and whatever birds they could catch.

"Sail ahoy!!"

When a sail was spied on the horizon the whole island populace gathered at the little jetty with an air of excitement.

"Look!... It's George Robinson!!" cried Pagerly, excited. Even at quite some distance, they spotted his bulk climbing down into the little rowboat to be ferried ashore. Even Trucannini found herself caught up in the enthusiasm. When it came down to it, George Robinson was just another ghost skin and basically out for himself but, she reasoned, he came closest of all the aliens to understanding.

As the boat drew closer they could see that he had aged; he was heavier, his jowly face even ruddier and his red hair was turning grey. It was also obvious, as he approached the little jetty, that he was still ill at ease on the water; seeming ready to throw up at any moment. However, as he stepped ashore to cheers and acclamation, like some homecoming hero or visiting royalty, and overjoyed to be once more on terra firma, his face transformed and his smile went from ear to ear. "My lovely people… How nice it is to see you all again!" he said.

Henry Nickolls shook his hand, but fearing he was being replaced or supplanted was observably uncomfortable.

George Robinson shook hands with and greeted everyone who jostled around him but his eyes flitted hither and thither, not resting until they found Trucannini at the rear of the crowd, and then pushing his bulk through the throng he finally reached the tiny naked form that still captivated him… "Trucannini," he said smiling but it was lost amid the general hubbub; raising his voice, he added, "You look well."

"And you look… prosperous," she said tactfully.

"Maybe we could… talk, later," he said with subtle innuendo.

She smiled then and he was definitely getting the wrong impression until she said, "You remember Tunnerminawait?" Eyes only for her, he had not even noticed the diminutive, unassuming Caretaker at her side. Tunnerminawait could converse in the alien tongue to a degree, as could most of the island's inmates; he had not, however, followed the nuances of their conversation.

"Yes…" he said hesitantly, offering his hand to the little man smiling up at him.

"He is my husband now."

"Oh…" he was clearly flustered, momentarily lost for words; however, quickly regaining his composure, attempting to cover the sudden downturn of his mood, he said, "Then congratulations are in order," Close by, Henry Nickolls had missed nothing.

"Mannalargenna's wife died half a moon ago," said Trucannini interrupting his melancholy. "He has not left his hut since, and will speak to no one… I think he is close to joining her."

Thankful for the distraction, he said, "Oh… poor man! Take me to his hut. Perhaps he will speak to me?"

Reaching the door of the hut and peering into the dank, dark gloom there was no sign of life. "He doesn't appear to be here," said Robinson, hopefully.

It was then that, emanating from the dark interior, a barely audible, ghostly whisper was heard. "Is that the lutetawin nowhummoe?" Ashen faced, Robinson looked in askance at Trucannini.

"Yes…" said Trucannini. "George Robinson is here."

"Come… lutetawin nowhummoe. You alone... I have been waiting for you."

"Go in," said Trucannini, eyes wide, "he will talk with you."

Tentatively entering the hut a pungent stench met him – the reek of death – and he gagged. Pausing just inside to take control of his senses, his eyes straining in the unaccustomed darkness, he said, "Mannalargenna, my old friend… where are you?"

In the corner of the room, cloaked in the gloom, something stirred. "Come closer, lutetawin nowhummoe."

Robinson did not understand what he was saying. Mannalargenna had always refrained from learning the alien language, except for the odd word or phrase to convey his acquiesce or resistance to something or other; and Robinson's knowledge of the Caretakers' tongue, as there were many dialects, was vague and general at best. "Mannalargenna… It is me: George Robinson, your friend. What is this… lutetawin-nowhummoe?"

"You…you are lutetawin nowhummoe: the ghost-skin devil!"

Chilled to the bone, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Never considering himself a brave man he had faced dangerous situations with a degree of audacity and daring, and having felt the rush of adrenaline had responding appropriately, with flight or fight. This fear was different, rendering him incapable of either response. With his intuitive senses screaming – although he would never admit to such a thing as intuition existing – and his skin crawling, he edged forward until he could make out a sleeping pallet and a shadowy form upon it.

"Take my hand!" hissed the old man, an order rather than a request. Getting slowly to his knees, Robinson took the extended frail, bony hand in his. Suddenly, that fragile hand grasped his pudgy fingers in such a vice-like grip he almost cried out. Attempting to pull away, he found he could not; with a strength far beyond the shrivelled, corpse-like body the old man drew him closer until their foreheads were touching. "I want my funeral pyre."

Unaccountably terrified, cold sweat trickling down the side of his face, all he could do was nod, and say, hoarsely, "Of course."

"If they put me in the ground…Be warned lutetawin nowhummoe…Rageorapper will come for you…at night…in The Dream World! Your god will not protect you…Rageorapper will come for you and use you like a woman!"

With the clammy, corpse-like skin against his and the reek of death in his nostrils Robinson felt his blood turn to ice and once more fought down his gag reflex. The death rattle was in the old man's throat as he took in one last ragged, breath. "Remember my words…if they put me in the ground…you cannot escape him… And when you finally pass from this world to the next Rageorapper will be waiting…He will take you for his bride and use you until the end of all things!" and with one final sigh, expelling the last of his stinking breath into Robinson's face, he died.

Emerging, blinking into the sunlight, face more ghost-like than ever, the self-styled 'Protector' of the Caretakers said, "Mann-" before catching himself, "I mean… A great man, a great leader has passed away."

Although Mannalargenna's death was expected, most of the gathering erupted into the wailing of grief. The joy that Robinson's arrival had previous initiated was instantly forgotten, superseded now by the sorrow associated with the death of a loved one or the loss of an iconic hero; Mannalargenna had been both to Wybalenna.

Robinson wasted no time in getting as far away from the hut and the wailing, grieving Caretakers as possible. Exhausted by his journey and the disturbing affair of Mannalargenna's death, all he wanted was to be shown to his bed where he could rest, sleep and forget about the whole, dreadful experience.

As he waited for blessed sleep to engulf him he thought about the last few moments of Mannalargenna's life. 'I cannot honestly be expected to pander to the fancies of that poor, dying heathen,' he thought to himself, 'but I did the right thing by pretending to acquiesce to his whim so that in his dying moment he could be at peace,' he reasoned. As a 'good, God-fearing Christian' he could not possibly actually condone a heathen ritual; and the threats – although spine chilling at the time – could not possibly be taken seriously. As he drifted off to sleep his last conscious thought was, 'And what sort of faith would mine be if I believed that my God could not protect me from their superstitions and their fanciful Rageorapper. He protects me from Satan. What is this Rageorapper compared to Satan?.. Such nonsense!'

Doctor Henry Nickolls, as had been his habit in light of the rampant spread of infectious diseases, organised the immediate burial of Mannalargenna without the slightest consideration for any other means of disposal. The populace of Wybalenna of course by now expected nothing else. Mannalargenna was buried that day in the little, fast growing cemetery. Nickolls considered for a moment postponing the burial until the following day when George Robinson might attend, but dismissed it by reconciling to hold a service in the chapel the next day that Robinson could attend, take part in, perhaps even give a eulogy.

"Lutetawin nowhummoe…"

He could hear someone calling that dreadful name, from somewhere far away it seemed.

"Lutetawin nowhummoe, I am here to keep you company."

Rising from his bed, annoyed, he went to the door to reprimand whomsoever it was; he would no longer permit anyone to use that name. Opening the door he found no one. The night was dark and warm and there was no moon by which to see.

"Lutetawin nowhummoe…"

There it was again… Apprehension rippled through him like an icy wind.

"Who is it?... Who is calling lutetawin nowhummoe?" he said, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up; apprehension turning to stark fear.

"Lutetawin Nowhummoe… I am waiting."

The voice was closer now, and had taken on a much deeper timber, but in spite of his mounting fear he found he could not help but gravitate towards the voice in the darkness. "Mannalargenna, is that you?" he heard himself ask.

The black night held swirls of darkness, blacker than black, and he could not, in spite of his growing dread, help himself but move toward the ghostly voice.

"Oh please Lord?" he said into the darkness. "Please help me?"

"Ha ha ha ha ha… Were you not warned that your god would not protect you here?"

"Yaeh, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil-"

"Ha ha ha ha ha…" Breaking into his prayer it was then, out of the darkness, that Satan himself suddenly appeared, towering over him. Recognising him instantly as the biblical Devil – pictured from the fire and brimstone descriptions he'd had since childhood – huge and powerful upper body, muscles bulging grotesquely under black skin, with a large angular, almost simian head and eyes like glowing coals; twisting, ebony horns protruding from a low brow; and lower body, partially concealed by thick, course hair, was obviously bestial with cloven hooves.

"Come… Let us not waste the night!" bellowed the beastly abhorrence. It was then, to his abject horror, that Robinson saw, emerging through the shaggy hair at the crotch of the beast, an enormous black phallus.