Magic in the Kerry Sky

Sometimes my breath is taken away by the majesty of nature, like this morning when the sky above seemed painted by the hand of a genius. 

I wanted to share some amazing photos I have managed to click on my phone over the months.

This mornings sky on my way to bed.

The Magic of Banna Beach

Lofty getting in the picture.

 Fire on the Mountain.

 A procession of fluff.

 Holly with a peak of the man above. 

Freedom

The door of the cafe squeaked as it opened and a wave of conversation washed over me. At once I felt at home. The air was filled with the smell of roasting coffee and chocolate. The room held every kind of person imaginable, all happily rubbing along together. There's nowhere in the world like a New York coffee shop...nowhere.

I spotted him straight away, Zak could always stand out in a crowd. He shone, it was his greatest gift and his ultimate failing. His hair swept back from his forehead in a jet-black wave. He was good looking in the way that middle aged men can be. He wore a tailored three-piece-suit, in tweed, and looked cool despite the springtime heat. As if sensing my presence he let the corner of his newspaper drop and glanced in my direction. To say we were friends would be stretching things a long way, past colleagues would be more accurate. I walked across and sat down as he put his newspaper away.

"Of all the coffee shops, in all the world, you had to walk into mine," he said with a smirk. The Bogart quote suited him, he had the same laid back swagger, the same level of disinterested elitism.

"Zak," I said in greeting and draped my jacket over the back of my chair. I should be suprised to see him, but I wasn't. He had a habit of popping into my life when the mood took him.

"Judy," he said and grinned. There was a smarmy tone in his voice because he knew he was pushing my buttons. My name is, Jude, not Judy. I knew if I snapped at him, or showed my annoyance, it would only make his day. I decided to play him at his own game and said nothing. I waited, and little by little the humor vanished from Zak's face. It was he that broke the silence.

"You're looking well," he said and smoothed an already razor sharp crease in his trousers.

"That's nice of you to say," I said and refrained from repaying the complement, another tiny victory. Instead I asked him, "What brings you to New York?"

"I had a bit of business to take care of, a few contract defaulters."

"And you came all the way here to do that yourself? I thought you'd have minions for that kind of thing."

"I shouldn't have to tell you what idleness makes. Anyway its good to step down on the shop floor from time to time. You can miss a lot of the subtleties when you rely on second hand information."

"I guess that depends on the quality of those you have reporting to you." I couldn't resist having a pop at him. He abandoned our organisation a long time ago and set himself up in opposition. Nobody could deny the level of success he enjoyed but he never managed to get the upper hand on my boss. To give Zak his due, he never stopped trying.

"That is a bit judgmental, don't you think? Aren't you the one who is always saying there is good in everyone."

"Some more than others. Look, Zak, you know I shouldn't be talking to you."

"But you are talking to me," he said with a wicked grin.

"It's a free country but..." Zak jumped on that like a dog pouncing on a dropped sausage.

"Free country? Ha! Freedom - the greatest lie of all."

"Are you going to start preaching? If you are I've better things to do," I said, not relishing one of the long winded rants he was famous for.

"Freedom is a myth used to control the masses so the powerful can get more powerful, so the rich can get richer."

"And you are complaining about that? I thought something like that would have been your idea, if it had an ounce of truth in it."

"That particular trick came from your camp. I thought you'd have known that," Zak said talking to me as if I was an idiot.

"You do come up with some rubbish," I said and sat back in my chair.

"It's not rubbish. Your boss is always harping on about how open his company is, how everyone is master of their own destiny and in the next breath he is listing all the stuff you can't do. He makes me look like an amateur when it comes to pulling the wool over peoples eyes."

A waitress appeared to take my order and as she left, her gaze lingered on my companioin and a flush coloured her cheeks. Zak noticed and gave her a smile.

"Still got an eye for the women I see," I said when she was out of earshot.

"And why wouldn't I?" he chorkled then sipped his espresso.

"In our of business, women are weaknesses."

"Hummh! Timber with no knots has no strength! Why don't you come hit the town with me, take home a blond at the end of the night, or two and ...."

"That will be the day! Why have you tracked me down... again," I asked starting to growing weary of him.

"What's wrong with catching up with old friends?"

"We were never friends," I said crossing my arms.

"At least we are old." he said and grinned.

"True," I said, I did have to give him that one. Then it struck me - the real reason Zak was here. "You're lonely, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said dismissively but he crossed his legs at the knee, a sure sign I'd hit a nerve.

"You are! You're lonely," I said and slapped my own knee while I let out a belly laugh. Zak tried to control his emotions but he was never any good at that. His skin flashed an alarming shade of red and something dangerous crossed behind his eyes.

"I've got the world at my fingertips!"

"A world of what? Drooling idiots? Self centered egotists? The dross of humanity?"

"At least I chose my own path. What about you? Incredible power at your disposal but power you can never use unless your handler bids it. A brain in your head that you can't exercise. A heart in your chest you're forbidden to follow."

Handler he'd said! He was trying to make me sound like a trained mutt, and it stung.

"Are you are trying to goad me into doing something stupid!"

"How is it stupid to follow your heart?"

"I already follow my heart! I also follow my head!"

"You do what your told!" he said, getting a little bit loud and attracting a few stares.

I sat back and took a breath before I answered him in more controlled tones. "We can't go around acting like toddlers, doing things just because we get the urge. We have responsibilities to uphold."

"Responsibilities my fucking ass."

"Very eloquent."

"You accuse me of acting like a toddler when the truth of the matter is you, and the rest of your kind want the general public to believe they are free while even you are shackled."

I waved Zak's accusation away. On the surface I refused to be drawn into his madness but deep down I felt a pinch of doubt. In my darkest hours I'd wondered such things myself. I knew the importance of what we did but I could see the double standard at work. I followed the company line because I believed it was for the good of all.

"You're blind, Jude. You're a prisoner of your own making."

"Just because I don't see the world the way you do does not make me blind."

"Have you tried to see things from my point of view?"

"You know I can't do that."

"See? A prisoner. "

"Ok, I don't want to see your point of view. How's that for using my free will."

"Ha! That's not free will, it's doing as your told."

"It's because I believe...this is a ridiculous conversation."

"Freedom of choice is ultimately good."

"Yes I agree but not freedom without control."

"Surely you can see that controlled freedom is no freedom at all."

"No I can't."

"All I'm saying is that freedom and truth are subjective. A man kills his neighbor for trying to steal his wife and it's murder. A country goes to war over land or some high moral code and it's justified. Because it's a whole country it becomes acceptable but the truth is, it's all murder. You dip your hand in a man's pocket and it's stealing, a country sticks it's hand in your pocket and it's tax. I can prove I'm right."

"Are you playing games again, Zak?"

"Not at all. What harm could a small experiment do?"

"When you're involved, lots."

Zak smiled. He liked his rebel persona. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took out an expensive wallet. He selected a hundred dollar bill and let the note flutter to the ground behind his chair.

"You'll never change, still trying to hoodwink people," I said, draining my cup.

"Not at all. Its money I don't need and won't miss. There's no way I can prove it's even my note. No one can be sure where it came from. It's a windfall, a bit of luck."

The waitress who had served me walked behind Zak with a loaded tray. She spotted the note and stooped to pick it up while we continued talking. She paused for a second before continuing to her next order. Zak smiled in victory and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.

"I don't know what you're smiling about," I said, "she just exercised her freedom which goes against all you were saying."

"Not really. She's proven that YOUR idea of freedom, YOUR idea of right and wrong is unnatural. It flies in the face of what people do when they have the opportunity and that is why YOU and that sanctamonous asshole you work for will never win."

Zak didn't see the waitress stop behind him and he jumped when she tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, I think this fell out of your pocket," she said. Zak looked at the money she was holding toward him, and although his lips were smiling, his eyes were furious.

"Thank you so much," he said, taking the note and placing it on her tray. "A tip," he said and the woman's jaw fell open.

"There is no need, its far..."

"I insist," said Zak and gave her a killer smile. The woman beamed and hurried away with her eyes glued to her huge gratuity.

"What was that you were saying?" I asked leaning back to bask in Zak's fury.

"She must have thought we saw her pick it up," he said like a sulking kid.

"Or she did the right thing because she's a good person and good people choose freely to respect the world they live in and the people they live in it with."

"If you're so sure of that, why don't we up the ante?"

"In what way?"

"The next person through that door," Zak said pointing at the entrance. "The very next person! I'm going to make their dreams come true. Everything they ever wanted will become possible, but only if they choose it."

"I don't see how that will prove you right or me wrong."

"Like all freedoms, there is a price. I'm betting when the offering is big enough, even the most righteous person will abandon all notion of society and gorge himself on pleasure."

"Only if they are already that way inclined," I parried.

"Then you pick the subject," he said, and I saw the trap. He wanted this experiment to be mine. I was no wet-behind-the-ears-beginner in this game.

"This is your game, Zak, nothing to do with me," I said, and saw the twinkle in his eye when he realised I was not falling for his lure. Whatever would happen was Zak's doing but I was still interested to see the turn of the card. As if on cue the door opened and a mailman walked in. He approached the counter and delivered some envelopes, exchanged a friendly word and then turned to leave. Zak stood and intercepted him. They both moved left in unison, then again to the right. The mailman smiled and said, "My first tango in ages." He stood still and allowed Zak to move around him.

"Mine too - Simon," said Zak, reading the man's name tag, "but hopefully not our last."

The mailman watched my colleague go to the cashier with a frown. It was certainly a strange comment for a complete stranger to make but unfortunately for Simon, Zak wasn't just any old stranger. I watched the man shrug to himself then leave the cafe. I knew from that moment on, nothing in the mailman's life would ever be the same again.

The End...or is it just the beginning. 

Megan

"Megan!"

Her name echoed through the house and she knew by her mothers tone, she was in trouble. She shuffled off the bed but decided to say nothing, if she was quiet enough, her Mom might give up calling her.

"Megan!" her Mother yelled again. Looked like that plan backfired.

"Coming," she called, opened the door and stepped out on the landing. She looked over the banister and saw her mother standing in the hall with her fists planted firmly on her hips.

"You brought more of those pests into the house, didn't you?" demanded her Mother which made Megan look down at her shoes. Now all the yelling made sense.

"They're not pests," she whispered into her chest.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said sadly, twiddling her fingers in front of her dungarees.

"Get down here before I start squishing them!"

"Mom! You can't!" she said rushing down the stairs as quick as her eight-year-old legs would take her. Her Mom wasn't joking, she would squish them, she'd done it before. What Megan didn't understand was how her Mom had found them. She had been very careful to keep the box hidden when she came in from school. She didn't even take them out of her bag. By the time she got to the bottom step everything became clear. Her school bag had fallen from the hook on the wall, her math and English books were lying on the floor along side an empty box with it's lid half popped off. All over the floor were silver snail trails. It was no wonder her Mom was going crazy. Megan scooped up the box and started collecting the snails and popping them back in side.

"They're disgusting!" said her Mom poking one slow moving guy with her foot.

"They can't help the way they look," said Megan, stooping down to gently pick up the snail before her Mom did more than nudge the little guy. Megan didn't understand why people thought snails were icky, she thought they were great. In her opinion they were the best pets ever.

As she gathered the rest, her Mom noticed a particularly wide slime trail vanishing into one of her shoes lying on the floor. She bent down and picked up the bright red stiletto and peered inside.

"That't it!" yelled her Mother as she began whacking the shoe against the banister to dislodge the snail inside.

"Stop, Mom. You're frightening him."

"I'll do more than frighten him when I get him out. Those shoes cost me eighty euro and now they're covered in slime. Look, look! What's that stuff?" Inside the shoe the snail was blowing white foam everywhere, making an already bad situation worse.

"That's Ed Sheeran and he is doing that because you're trying to bash him," said Megan, holding out her hand to take the shoe. Slowly her Mom handed over the footwear, like the guys on TV do with a gun when a cop tells him to. Perhaps that was what she was - Megan, the snail squad. Now she had the shoe she was able to see the mess Ed had made but it was but noting a cloth and some washing up liquid wouldn't fix.

"Come on, Ed, she didn't mean it," said Megan gently picking her hard shelled friend out of the shoe. Ed made a little squeak which was why she'd called him Ed Sheeran. He was a great singer, for a snail that is.

Once she had all the snails gathered she put the lid back on the box and made sure it was secure. She had her foot on the first step of the stairs when her mom said. "And where do you think you're going, young lady?"

"Up stairs," she said, which was silly because anyone could see she was going up the stairs.

"Not with those you're not. They're going back in the garden where they belong. I am not having a repeat of the bat situation."

Oh! The bat situation - again. Grown-ups never let things go. Megan didn't understand what all the fuss was about. A while back, Dad left the attic ladder down and Megan went exploring. She had found the most gorgeous creature. It had dark fur, nearly black, and was about the size of her hamster. Best of all was he had wings! A hamster with wings! She called him, George. Gorgeous George, and she fell in love with him. He was really quiet and slept a lot but that was only to be expected because George was a bat. He only woke up at night when she was asleep. Megan thought George would be hungry when he woke up so she went to get him a snack. She got a block of cheese from the fridge and left it beside him. The next day she pulled a chair onto the landing and managed to get the attic hatch open with the stick Daddy used. The ladder came down and Megan was able to go check on her friend. She was very upset to see that George hadn't eaten any of the cheese, but he was still there, sleeping. This time she left George some ham.

Everyday she brought George something new but he didn't eat anything. One day she was trying him with some carrots when the lights came on and Megan turned to see her Mother's head poking up through the trap door. She got so mad, she said the place was full of rotting food and the rats would come. Megan told her the food was for George, the bat, not rats. When Mom saw George she said he was not sleeping at all. That night Megan cried so hard she thought her eyes would break. Bat situation or no bat situation, Megan thought her mother was being a meenie about the snails.

"That's not fair, its cold outside," she said, crossing her arms and stamping her foot for emphases. Megan was not about to give up on her friends, not without a fight.

"Either you do it or I will," said her Mom, crossing her own arms and putting on the face she thought was scary, but it wasn't.

Megan shook hear head and tightened her arms across her chest.

"Megan," her mom said. This time her name was said in the voice that was serous, not pretend serous, or serous that Megan could wiggle out of, this was serous serous and Megan knew she had lost.

"OK," she said and dragged herself toward the front door as if the worst possible thing waited on the other side of it. Megan could feel little tears at the corner of her eyes but she wasn't going to cry, she didn't like crying even though sometimes she couldn't help herself. Her mom opened the door and stood to one side as Megan walked to the bottom of the garden and sat down at the base of the wall. She opened her box and picked out the snails one by one, resting them under leafs and flowers, where they would be sheltered from the worst of the night. She left Ed for last and whispered to him as she held him against his favorite place, under the lip of concrete at the top.

"I'm sorry Mom scared you, Ed. She just really likes her shoes, like really really. And you're not disgusting, you're handsome, and talented, and really really wonderful. I guess we might look weird to you too." As she spoke, Ed slowly began to poke out his head and uncurl his eyes on the end of stalks. She kept whispering secrets to Ed until he had a good hold of the wall and she could finally let go of his shell. The very last secret she told Ed was to hold on till tomorrow and she would pick them all up again on her way to school.

Megan turned and walked past her mother sulkily, taking each step up the stairs like the sad girl she was. When her Mom came to her room later with a bowl of ice cream and kissed her head, she was still worried about Ed having to spend the night out in the cold. As her Mom left the room she turned and said, "They like it out side, really." Then she pulled the door closed. Megan put the ice cream on her bedside table and took out six boxes from under her bed and opened the lids. Every box was filled with snails.

"Do you like it outside better?" Megan asked. From deep inside a box came a little squeak and Megan smiled. "I didn't think so," Megan said to her friends and began feeding them tiny bits of ice cream which they seemed to love.

Bang Bang, Baby.

Granny Begley had her brood reared by the late seventies, most of them had already started families of their own. Only Uncle Mike and PJ were still living in the little cottage with Granny and Granddad. The cottage stood on top of a hill and was surrounded by fields, hedgerows and scattered stands of trees. It was an ideal place to call home.

PJ and Mike were typical young lads, always on the go and only seemed to pass through the house. They would fly in the door, wolf down whatever Granny had dished up for dinner, then scoot off on another great adventure. When they weren’t taking cars apart, or working, or planning some stunt; the two brothers loved to go shooting. Both of them had shotguns and brought home the odd pheasant or rabbit. Nothing went to waste in the Begley home and whatever the boys shot ended up in the dinner pot.

Ireland was far from ideal during those years. Our island was still divided by conflict. We were an occupied nation for over eight hundred years. The six counties in the north were controlled by England which was the cause of a violent conflict. On one side lay the nationalists, who wanted Ireland reunited and on the other side lay the unionists, who wanted to remain part of the United Kingdom. It was a dark time in our history and I don't believe any right-minded person would ever willingly return to it. The blood of both camps had stained our nation.

Around that time, a wild cat started turning up Granny Begley's yard, and he was one savage feline. He'd clearly had a tough life and was somewhat of a survivor. Around the cat's neck hung an old rabbit snare and it seemed to have been in place for a long time. Granny tried to take it off but the cat would let nobody go near it. The animal would spit, hiss and growl when anyone approached it. He reminded her of the Reverend Ian Paisley, a particularly confrontational leader of the Unionist movement and who was famous for his thunderous preaching against anything nationalist. That was how the cat got the name, Paisley. Uncle Mike had the bad luck of accidentally cornering Paisley in the turf shed one night and received a dozen claw marks in a dozen sensitive areas for his trouble. After that night, Mike and Paisley were sworn enemies.

One evening, Granny Begley was listening to a news report when Mike came trundling in from work. During the report there was a clip of the Reverend Ian Paisley loudly proclaiming that, "Ulster says NO!" to whatever the other side had just suggested.

"Holy God, that Paisley is an awful thorny yoke," Granny said, shaking her head. Now to his credit, Uncle Mike was half listening to her as he struggled to get out of his concrete stained overalls.

"Thorny is right," agreed Mike, before lumbering away toward the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

"Somebody is going to shoot him one day," she professed aloud.

"What was that, Mammy?" yelled Mike from the bathroom.

"I said, someone will shoot Paisley!" she called back, and started dishing up Mikes dinner.

A minute or two later a shot boomed through the house, causing Granny to clutch her chest in fright, but sadly she was holding Mikes dinner at the time, and it ended up all over the place. Then there was a second deafening explosion from the direction of the bathroom. Granny raced into the hall to find a half-dressed Mike coming out, with a smoking shotgun in his hands.

"What the blazes are you doing!" yelled Granny.

"Shooting Paisley," said Mike, bewildered.

"Not that Paisley!" said Granny, swatting Mike with the tea towel.

"Oh feck!" said Mike realising his mistake. "Tis alright, Mammy, I missed the slippery yoke. He escaped down the field."

When PJ got home and was told the story, he laughed so hard he got a pain in his side. Over the coming weeks, the story of how Mike tried to shoot Paisley made the rounds of all the pubs in South Tipperary, and by accident, he became a local legend.

Understandably enough, the furry Mr Paisley never set foot inside Begley's yard again, and to my knowledge, neither did his two-legged counterpart.

Shuffling Joe

I didn't set out to become homeless, but it still happened. Now I call a whole city home.

Before, I thought there were plenty of spots to take shelter in New York: shops, subways, doorways, malls, libraries, museums. The city seemed littered with warm welcoming places but by my second night sleeping rough, those doors started to slam in my face. Day by day I drifted further into invisibility until the multitudes passed me blindly.

Everyone has their own route to the street and mine was booze. It was a slow decay. First, I didn't even notice it myself. It was a beer after work, then a few more. Then came the liquid lunches and a quick shot in my morning coffee to stop the shakes in my hand. As things gathered momentum, I kept telling myself that I could stop, if I wanted to. By the time I admitted the truth, my job was hanging by a thread and my marriage was on the rocks. The only sensible thing to do was to take a few more shots to block out the pain.

The last months of my old life went by in a haze. When I finally woke up in the shadow of a dumpster, it was too late for anything. The cold of the concrete soon seeped into my bones and I began to hate the people who dropped quarters in my cup. Assholes, one and all. I did manage to make one spot my own; a tiny arch under an overpass. It smelled of trash but it was dry and protected from the wind. It was here that I first bumped into Shuffling Joe or more accurately, Shuffling Joe bumped into me.

It was a terrible night; the rain was coming down in sheets while I lay cocooned like a human taco in my alcove. I’d nearly drifted off, with the help of a bottle of Tequila Rose, when something crashed down on top of me. I lashed out at my attackers, fighting for my life, or so I thought. The truth is, when you live on the street, life is cheap and nobody much cares if yours gets taken or not.

"God-damn-it! Get the hell off me!" I screamed as I battled my way out of my sleeping bag. I expected to feel the bite of a blade, or have my brain rattled, but none of those things happened. Instead, my attacker scrambled away and huddled in the far corner with a haunted look in his eyes.

"Get out of here, this is my place!" I yelled and managed to sit up. The traffic rumbled overhead, the wind made the weeds outside dance, and water dripped through the cracks in the roof; but my uninvited houseguest was as still as the grave. He just crouched there, with a box cradled to his chest, and gazed out into the night.

"Can't you hear me? GET OUT!" I yelled, but he didn't budge. I thought about getting up and evicting him, but this guy’s elevator didn't go all the way up. He was damaged and damaged people are dangerous. Hell, who wasn't dangerous? The tequila was wearing off and I was feeling less than brave if the truth was known, so I decided to stay as far away from him as I could. As long as he stayed in his corner, I'd stay in mine.

"Crazy as a bag of frogs," I huffed, and pulled my sleeping bag around me once more. I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I did, and when I woke the stranger was gone. I jumped up and checked my stuff. I was sure the guy would have robbed me, but he hadn't. Well, I guess we can all be wrong about people from time to time.

A few days later I saw my visitor again, this time in the food queue at St Mary's community centre. It's a good spot for a warm meal but he arrived late. The kitchen was about to close and only the dregs were left in the soup pot. I watched as he edged up to the counter and stood there. He didn't take a tray like the rest of us did, he didn't try to pocket a few extra bread rolls like I had done. He just stood there as the volunteer apologised for the condition of the liquid being slopped into a bowl. The man just nodded his thanks and hurried over to an empty table on the far side of the room. I could tell he was starving by the way he lapped up the first four or five spoon full of the grease-covered liquid. But something happened, I saw it in his face, it was as if he had been caught doing something naughty and he slowly straightened up, forcing himself back from the steaming meal. With a shaky hand, he laid aside the spoon, then slowly stood. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

I wolfed down my own meal. I had a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey that the Holy Rollers would confiscate if I broke it out here. As I passed my visitor's empty seat, I spotted his half-full bowl and an untouched bread roll. I checked nobody was watching as I slipped the roll into my pocket, then made my escape. He might be a looney-tune, but I wasn't.

That night, winter kicked in for real and the raindrops were so cold, they pinged as they landed. He appeared out of the night like a ghost, I nearly thought it was my double vision playing tricks on me until he moved into my cave and hunkered down as far from me as he could. The box I'd seen before was with him but nothing else. How could he have so little? Even on the street, we all have possessions, this guy didn't even have a blanket to throw over his shoulders.

"So, your back," I slurred. The ghost said nothing.

"God damn cuckoo. That's you? Are you a cuckoo going to shove me out of my nest?" I asked. It made sense in my head. "Well, I'll cuckoo you if you try it!" I slurred and rolled into the corner, turning my back so I didn't have to look at him lurking in the shadows. I felt the bread roll press against my leg. I’d forgotten I had put it there. I took it out and held it in front of me. There was nothing in my stomach but gut-rot hooch.

"Cuckoo," I said to myself and devoured the bread. It was a dog eat dog world and I would have two if they were on the menu.

After that night he started coming more regularly, particularly as the winter closed in on us. No matter what I asked, he never spoke a word to me. I thought he must be mute, but he sure as hell could hear. I knew he was clever, an educated man, you can just tell, even though the dirt. The more I got to know him the more I was convinced he was different to other street-folk. He was still crazy, bat-shit-crazy, just different crazy than the rest of us. After a while I christened him Shuffling Joe, because of the way he walked. It was as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.

Over the years, I got used to having Shuffling Joe about the place, and as hard as it is to admit, I missed him when he wasn't there. His silence suited me. I talked enough for the two of us, particularly when my tongue was loosened up by cheap whisky. We were like an old married couple in the end, right to the end.

Joe left this world as he lived. Silently.

I woke one morning and found him still rolled up in the corner. I got up and gathered my belongings but Joe didn't move.

"Up you get," I said, giving the soul of his boot a gentle nudge. His foot flopped over and settled at an unnatural angle.

"Joe?" I said, my voice hushed, my heart heavy. I knew he was gone before I laid my hand against his cheek and found it cool. I sat back and rested my head against the concrete.

"Guess I'll never know your name now," I said to my cooling friend and felt something hard try to climb its way out of my throat. I forced that feeling back down, right back down, and hammered it home before it got the better of me. Joe's troubles were over but I had issues of my own. It was a new day and it wouldn't block itself out! Time to feed the beast and quench the thirst. I thought about dragging his body outside, where someone else would find it, but I didn't have the heart. I decided just to give my cave a swerve for a while, surely someone would find him, eventually. I was about to leave when I noticed Joe's box, he still had one hand wrapped around it.

"You don't need this no more, Buddy," I said, pushing his stiffening fingers from the aged cardboard. The box was secured with string. I pulled one end and the knot fell loose. I lifted the lid with no idea what I would find. Money, I hoped. What I did find left me baffled. Inside the box, on a bed of crumpled newspaper, lay a small pair of pink ballet slippers and nothing else.

"You really were a screwball, Joe," I said to my recently deceased cave mate. I was about to toss the box aside but then I remembered how much Joe cared for it. As stupid as it seemed, I couldn't make my fingers let go. With a roll of my eyes, I put the lid back on the box and stuffed it in my pack with the rest of my stuff.

"If they guys down the mission see you with these," I said to myself, "you better stay out of the showers for a month, or even a year." I shouldered my bag and left the cave for the last time. I took a last look at Joe and wondered who he was. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in rags.

That night, I got more out of my head than ever before. The booze blacked out everything and it was only when I found the shoes in my pack the following day did that I thought about Joe again. I sat on a bench in Central Park and took out one of the slippers. It wasn't new, I could see the way the inside had been moulded to fit a delicate foot after hours of practice. Although the Satan still was lush, it held a smudge here and there. Whoever wore them had a tiny foot. It hadn't been Joe, that's for sure, but it might have been someone Joe loved. As I sat there, I knew I had no right to keep these things, they meant nothing to me but someone else might treasure them. I rummaged through the papers but there was nothing else in the box. That was when I spotted a yellowed label on the underside of the lid. It had the name of a shop on it. Suzette's. The address was in the West Village which wasn't so far away. With nothing else to do and a hangover to walk off, I headed south into unfamiliar territory.

I never felt comfortable in Manhattan, I guess I was never a Manhattan kind of guy. When I eventually found, Suzette’s, it turned out to be a brownstone building on an idyllic tree-lined street. It was a dream place to live, a dream from a life I once knew. I tried the door but it was locked. I pressed the bell, but nobody came. I was tired so I took a seat on the steps to rest. About an hour later, a lady in her sixties mounted the step and gave me a wary look as she swerved around me. She smelled expensive and existed in a cloud of floating scarves. She put a key in the door and I decided to ask if she was Suzette. The lady stopped with one hand on the key as she turned to look at me.

"In a way, I guess I am. Why do you ask?" she said, her accent sounded like money, but it wasn't hard. Still, she was far from welcoming. I took out the box and handed it to her.

"I have these," I said and handed her the box. She opened the lid, as if she expected to find a turd inside. When she saw the shoes, her face softened and she lifted one out with great care.

"I haven't seen any of these in...well... twenty years or more. Where did you get them?"

"A friend of mine had them. I was hoping to get them back to his family if I could." I said.

"And what was your friends name," asked the lady, still stroking the side of one pretty slipper.

"That's the thing. I don't know." The woman looked at me and I could see all the questions flitting behind her eyes but she chose not to voice any of them. Instead, she turned over the lid of the box and gazed at the label which had got me this far.

"You're lucky that this is the original box. It has a ledger number on it. Wait here and I will see what I can find out." The lady unlocked the door and once she was inside, I heard the security chain rattle. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't have let me in either. When the door opened again, she had the box and a piece of paper in her hand.

"I'm sorry to say but I have very little. It's a girl’s name, Annie Leisman, but the delivery address is an investment house on Wall St. That’s all I have. The bill was paid in cash so it's a bit of a dead end."  She handed over the box and the piece of paper and regarded me earnestly. "I hope you get these to Annie. A lot of love went into these. I'm sure she will want to have them back."

"Thanks, Lady," I said, hoisting myself off her stoop. I hadn't got to the sidewalk when I heard the chain rattle again. Wall St? Could Shuffling Joe and Wall St have ever gone together? Only one way to find out I guessed and headed south once more.

It was a long walk, and by the time I reached the address on the paper, the doors were locked for the night. So, I panhandled a few bucks from passing people, got myself a bottle, and spent the night in Battery Park. The next day I went back to Wall St and the address I had for Anne Leisman. It was a typical building for this neck of the woods; old stone, new glass and miles of brass. I got as far as the lobby before a suited guerrilla blocked my way.

"Not today, Buddy," he said, shepherding me back toward the door.

"I'm looking for someone," I stammered, trying to stand my ground.

"And who would you be looking for here?" he said with disdain in his voice.

"A friend," I said, and it was the wrong thing to say.

"Yea, right." This time the hand was less shepherding and more shoving.

"I'm looking for Annie Leisman."

The guy grabbed me by the jacket and half lifted me out of my shoes, "You're looking for a slug in the kisser. Nobody here knows no drunken bum, now beat it," he said, shoving me through the door. I’ve been thrown out of enough places to know how to keep my balance. From the sidewalk, I give the guard a one finger salute and hot-footed it before the cops appeared. 

That night, back in Battery Park, I held shuffling Joe's legacy in one hand and a bottle of cooking brandy in the other. I was on the verge of giving up when I felt Joe's ghost watching me. A shiver ran down my spine and I knew I had to do this thing. I owed it to Joe.

The next morning, the tattered box and a still full brandy bottle were in my pack when I returned to the investment house on Wall Street. I ducked my head in the door but didn't enter. The same suited guard recognised me straight away but instead of going in I beckoned him over to the door.

"I told you yesterday to beat it," he said, as he got closer.

"I know. Just hear me out for a second. I really am looking for someone. I have a box I got to give them."

"Just leave it with me, I'll take care of it," said the guy. I knew the kind of taking care of he would do. Joe's box would be in the first trash can he passed.

"Can't. Got to do it myself. Look, I just want to ask that lady at the desk if Annie Leisman works here. And, I'm stone cold sober," I said hoping the guy would see that letting me ask the lady would be the quickest way to get rid of me. But it turns out he was not that kind of guy.

"You might be sober, but you’re still a bum so, OUT!" he said, spinning me out the door again.

"God damn corporate Nazi," I shouted and snapped out a straight-armed salute. I goose-stepped up and down the steps and could see the guy getting ready to come knock my block off. His huge muscles were straining under his suit. I turned my back on him and moved to the pavement. I sat outside the building with my cup on the ground to collect quarters and asked all the women who went up the steps, "Are you Annie Leisman?"

Three days I stayed sober, and three days I stayed at the door calling out for Annie Leisman. It was looking like a lost cause when a man entering the building heard me ask if a passing woman if she was Annie Leisman. The man stopped and came back down the steps. He was forty or so, rich as hell, with the slicked-back hair of a guy who thought he was the bee’s knees.

"I knew an Annie Leisman," he said, standing before me.

"Does she work in there?" I asked, throwing my thumb toward the door behind my back.

"No, but her Popps did."

"Popps?"

"Yea, the Annie I know is eight. Was eight. She's dead now," said the guy and he genuinely looked sad about that.

"Is her Popps still here? I got something for him." I said, taking out my box and holding it out to the guy. He didn't take it he just looked at me as if trying to make up his mind about me.

"What's in it?" he asked at last.

"Ballet slippers, Annie Leisman's ballet slippers."

"Christ! You got to be kidding me?" The man went pale under his year-round tan and lowered himself on the step beside me. The shock of whatever he knew stopped him from realising he was sharing his seat with a bum.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked, the box still in my hand.

"Charlie Leisman was a senior partner in this company when I was doing my internship. The big cheese, you know what I mean. He was married, with one little girl, Annie, she was eight. One morning, they were all rushing around the house, getting ready for work and school and such. It can be crazy; I got a little girl of my own, so I know. Well anyway, Charlie's wife was going to drop Annie to school and Charlie was coming to work. The all left the house together but Charlie took a call on his cell. He didn't see Annie get out of the mom's car and go behind his. He backed out... backed out... and well he just didn't see her. She’d forgotten her ballet shoes. The next day, Charlie vanished and took nothing with him except those shoes. That was twenty-five years ago. Never been heard of since." The man looked down and seemed really broken by the story. Was it possible that my Joe had been this Charlie Leisman?

I described Joe and the guy sitting beside me nodded his head, "Sure sounds like him."

So, Charlie Leisman, my friend Charlie, was a Wall St guy. You live and learn. I handed the box to the man sitting beside me and said, "Could you get these to Mrs Leisman and tell her Charlie never forgave himself for what happened. He's gone now too, I guess that's all she needs to know."

"She's dead. Five years ago, breast cancer or so I heard."

"Perhaps they will fit your little girl so," I said, and shook the hand of the man who put a name to my friend. I put my bag on my back, the still full bottle of cooking brandy rubbing against my shoulder blade, and walked away from the steps. I saw the man lift up the box and take out one of the shoes that lay inside.

I was on the crosswalk when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guy I had been talking to.

"Hold up! Have you seen this?" he asked, holding out the box. I look at the pink shoes and said sure.

"NO! These!" he said, picking out one of the crumpled pieces of paper.

"The newspaper?"

"Jesus Christ! They're not newspaper," he nearly yelled, but then remembered people were standing around us. He lowered his voice and put his arm around my shoulder to draw me away from curious ears. In a quieter voice said, "They're bearer bonds. Hundred-thousand-dollar treasury bearer bonds. Dozens of them!"

"I don't understand," I said, gazing into the box.

"Its money, lots of money. Could be two million or more!"

"I swear I didn't steal it," I said, throwing up my hands and backing away from the box. The guy started to laugh.

"I know you didn't, but you have them, which makes them yours."

"They were Charlies, not mine."

"Charlie has nobody left. If they go back into the system they will be gobbled up by taxes and fees. I think Charlie wanted you to have them. Look, come up to my office and I will talk you through it. You can't go walking around New York with millions stuffed in a shoe box."

"Charlie did."

"I guess he did," said the guy, patting me on the back. I carefully put the lid back on the box and followed the guy up the steps to the investment brokers. I didn't even register the furious look the security guard gave me as I passed, I was in too much shock. I was a millionaire.

That was five years ago and now I have a small apartment of my own. I still go down to St Mary's, but as a volunteer. I miss my friend all the time and often think the world would be a nicer place if we all talked a little less. I could never get the hang of calling him Charlie, he would always be Shuffling Joe to me. It turned out there was 2.9 Million dollars in his box and although the government took its share, I have more than enough left to see me off to the next world. At home, my home, I have two things that I will never part with. One is a pair of pink ballet slippers, sitting in a tatty cardboard box and beside them stands a still closed bottle of cooking brandy.

I often think of my friend and wonder if he found peace at last.

The Road to Glencoe

Hope you like the little clip of my visit to Scotland.

The Day the World Went Black.

Ben patted his pockets for the tenth time. Where the hell were his keys? He'd checked the bowl by the front door; the kitchen table, the pants he'd worn yesterday, his jacket, under the couch cushions and on top of the TV. He was going to be late for work. Where the hell could they be?

"Daisy! Daisy," he yelled up the stairs and heard something unintelligible being mumbled from under a duvet, so he shouted again. "Did you put my keys someplace?"

There was a heavy sigh followed by the soft padding of naked feet on the landing. "Where did you leave them?" she asked sleepily as she reached the top of the stairs.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for them, now would I?" he snapped. She plodded down the stairs, her blond hair a messy cloud. She reached the bottom step, paused, and lifted his keys out of the bowl with the tip of her finger. He’d checked there; twice! She gave him a dirty look as he took the dangling bunch.

"They weren't there earlier," he said, embarrassed.

"Huff," she puffed, and turned her back on him before drifting back upstairs for her second sleep. He stormed from the house, late for work and he knew the traffic on the freeway would be terrible. That was a bad start to a day which got steadily worse. It was a day crowned by actually losing his car. He searched the multi-story car park for twenty minutes before finding the car five spaces from the exit. He never parked in that part of the building! How could he forget where he left his car?

When he got home, he vented his frustration at Daisy, not that she listened. She'd given up even pretend these days. It surprised him when she raised her head and asked, "Why don't you get Dave to check you over?"

"I'm not sick!" he snapped.

"I didn't say you were but it's not like you to lose things. Can’t do any harm to check," she said, then shrugged her shoulders and went back to eating. The rest of the meal passed in sulky silence but he was sure of one thing, he wasn't running to Dave about a set of lost keys.

Over the next few days, there were more...slips. He filled out the home insurance renewal, stuck it in an envelope for posting but when it arrived, they said it was blank. After that, his presentation went wrong. He'd spent hours working on a proposal for a new client but when he presented it, the slides were a mess. Full of misspellings and errors, it looked like a five-year-old had done them. There were other things but nothing as bad as the presentation. Normal stuff, like being sure you put something one place and finding it somewhere else. Small or big, these slips were starting to worry him and it was making him cranky. Daisy and himself were constantly at each other's throats. It all came to a head the day he arrived home to find Daisy and Dave waiting for him.

"What's she been telling you?" he demanded before they had a chance to say anything.

"Daisy is worried, and from what she told me, she has a right to be," said Dave, sitting forward on the couch, stabling his fingers like some dime-store headshrinker. God damn Daisy for dragging Dave into this. She had no right, no right at all.

"It's nothing. Have you never made a mistake?" he asked, his tone grumpy and defensive.

"Of course. Now and again, but Daisy told me these incidents are becoming more frequent and then there's your behaviour to..."

"What behaviour?"

"Aggressive, depressive, irrational," he listed coldly, each word like a slap to Ben's face.

"Jesus! You're making me out to be a looney!"

"Easy, Ben," he said, holding up his hands soothingly. Ben realised he had been shouting and in doing so he confirmed at least two of his friend's accusations.

"Sorry," he said, and let out a deeply held breath. He rubbed his hands through his thinning hair to steady himself. He knew his moods were swinging a bit but was it any wonder? He put his briefcase on the coffee table and flopped down into an armchair.

"All I...we're asking, is that you come in and let me check you over."

"And what will you be checking for?" Ben asked, sitting back in the chair.

"There could be hundreds of reasons for your symptoms."

"Such as?"

"Stress, depression, exhaustion, hormone imbalance, the list is a long one."

"Alzheimer's?"

"You would be abnormally young to develop Alzheimer's, but it's not impossible," said Dave, clearly reluctant to discuss the subject.

"What about brain tumours, or just going nuts?" said Ben angrily.

"Stop being ridiculous," he snapped.

"I'm not being ridiculous; I've been doing my own checking!"

"On Google, I bet?" Ben said, clearly annoyed at the suggestion a computer could know as much as he did. "Most often, the simple answer is the right one. Why don't you take some time off work? Relax, take time to unwind? It's not like you need the money." Dave was talking about Ben's inheritance. He wasn't rich but two million dollars from a maiden aunt he had barely known was better than a kick in the ass. The truth was he liked his work; it gives him a purpose for his days. Being stuck in the house day in and day out would drive him round the twist.

"I'll think about it," he said, sounding less than enthusiastic.

Dave stood up and gave him a steely look. "Think about it all you like but be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. I'm charging you for the session whether you show up or not."

"Alright, you bully. Are you leaving?" he asked seeing Dave getting out his car keys.

"You're not my only patient you know," he said with a wink as he bent down to kiss Daisy reassuringly on the cheek.

***

The following day, Dave gave him a full service, bloods and everything, before sending him back to work. Two days later Dave was on the phone at stupid O’clock in the morning. Ben wasn't even out of bed when he answered the call. "Your blood tests have come back. You need to come in to see me before work."

"That doesn't sound good."

"There’s nothing definite, but there are a few indicators...look, it would be better if you came in."

"Don't nanny me, just tell me what it is."

He heard Dave exhale loudly. Eventually, he began speaking. "You have unusually high levels of Adrenocorticotropic Hormone or ACTH." 

"And what's that in English?"

"It’s a hormone produced in the Pituitary Gland, part of the brain."

"Jesus," said Ben, sitting up in the bed. Daisy rolled over to watch him talk.

"I don't know what it is. It could be nothing but I’d feel better if you had a CT scan."

"I guess. If you think I should."

"I do and I've pulled a few strings to get you in early next week."

"Is it cancer?"

"It most likely nothing. I'll email you the time for the scan. And Ben..."

"Yea."

"Don't worry," he said, and was gone off the phone. Ben threw back the covers and sat on the side of the bed. How could he not worry after a call like that? The rest of the day was a blur. He couldn't help typing in, Pituitary Gland Problems, into Google and it made for terrifying reading.

***

Between that, and the day of the scan, he had a few more senior moments. People started to comment on it at work. His moods got worse, and he made Daisy cry a few times by being overly sharp.

When he arrived at the hospital for the scan, he found Dave waiting for him.

"What are you doing here?"

"What kind of a friend would I be if I wasn't," he said, giving him a hug. Ben felt a thousand times better having Dave by his side. The day was punctuated by periods of waiting, in between efficient bursts of testing. At the end of it all, Dave discussed the results with the consultant before coming to see Ben. 

"Good news; there's no tumour, or cancer, but the area is inflamed. You’ll need to take a course of medication to bring your hormones into balance and improve your mental state."

"Mental state?"

"You've been exhibiting signs of depression, which is likely down to your hormone imbalance. Antidepressants will help."

"I'm not depressed."

"Your brain is a complex system and it’s not running properly at the moment. You need to take the medication if you want to get better."

Ben didn't like the idea of being medicated, but he trusted Dave. "If you say it’s for the best, it’s for the best." Dave wrote a prescription before he went back to his practice. Ben left the hospital and filled the script on the way home.

Over the following weeks, Ben's condition got worse, not better. He felt strung out, more confused than ever, and his temper was all but uncontrollable. He went into melt-down-mode at the drop of a hat. In the end, he had no choice but to go see Dave again.

"These pills are doing nothing but making things worse," explained Ben after telling Dave he was going to stop taking the medication.

"You can't do that. You'll be taking a huge step back if you stop at this stage. It could be just a bad reaction to this drug. I'm going to move you onto something else. You should see a huge improvement."

Ben filled out the new prescription and like Dave had predicted, things improved, well they did up until the blackouts started. The first one was just a few lost hours on a Saturday afternoon. Daisy had gone out shopping when he started feeling funny. The next thing he remembered, he woke up on the couch and the house looked like a tornado had hit it. He tried to straighten up before Daisy got home but she knew something was wrong the minute she got back.

That night the dreams started, the most horrific and vivid dreams he'd ever had. He woke up crouched in the corner, beating himself around the head and screaming. Daisy was right in front of him, in floods of tears, as she tried to calm him down. There was a bruise on her cheek which was growing darker by the second. He was still panicking when the paramedics arrived. They treated him for a panic attack but made more than a few comments about Daisy’s injuries. They wanted her to come in and have an x-ray but she refused. In the end they left, but made them both promise to see a doctor in the morning.

***

Ben got to Dave's practice first thing but had to cool his heels in the waiting room until Dave's first patients had gone through. When a nurse finally showed him into the examination room, Ben was shaking and as pale as a ghost. His head was spinning and he could feel reality starting to slip.

"Crikey, you look like hell," said Dave, easing Ben into a chair. He took a tumbler from his desk and passed it to Ben. "Here, drink this."

"I don't feel well. There is something really wrong with me,” he said, once he finished glugging the water, not that water would help him. If anything, his panic was getting worse. His chest raced, gulping air into his lungs. Dave just looked at him, and Ben didn’t think he was taking him seriously. "You’ve got to help me, you've just got to!" yelled Ben, dropping the glass as he grabbed at Dave. He felt his feet go rubbery as his brain was hit by a vision so harsh, it was like being kicked in the head. He staggered and felt Dave's hands go under his armpits. That was when he blacked out.

As he came around, he felt someone tugging at him. It took a second or two before he recognised the tightness on his wrists as handcuffs.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled but whoever was at him persisted. “I said, get off me!” he snapped and tried to kick himself free, an act that earned him ten-thousand volts from a cops tazer. As he shuddered on the ground, he saw Dave come in. His face was bloody and he seemed dazed.

"Take it easy with him," he said through a split lip. "It's not his fault, he's a sick man, a very sick man." His friend's pleas fell on deaf ears as Ben was hauled roughly to his feet, and frog-marched to a waiting state cruiser.

What happened next was all so muddled, it felt like it was happening to someone else. The court appearance; being remanded to custody, then being sent to the state-lockup. Some court-appointed lawyer had represented him, but he was so out of it, he couldn't even remember the man’s name. When that same lawyer came to see him in prison, he broke the news they were charging him with, assault with intent.

"What intent?" demanded Ben, "I can't even remember doing anything!"

That started his, hand-me-down idiot, talking about a diminished responsibility defence. Ben's next court date was set, but Daisy still hadn’t been to see him. Perhaps the cops wouldn't let her come? A week after he’d been locked up, Daisy finally arrived.

Ben was shown into a visitor cubicle; Daisy was already seated on the other side of the glass. He smiled at her but she just glared back at him. He picked up the handset hanging to his left. Daisy paused for longer than he liked before doing the same.

"It's good to see you sweetie," he said.

"I never thought I'd see you in a place like this," she said coldly.

"Me either. I have no idea what happened, you got to believe me," he said, desperately needing to hear some comforting words. Instead, she asked a question.

"Are you still having the blackouts?"

"Not since that day. A few terrible dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever they are, but even they are going now. I’m actually feeling a lot better."

"Are you still taking your medication?"

"Yes. I must be getting used to it."

"That's good," she said, and looked down sadly.

"When are you getting me out of here?" he asked, leaning forward and placing his hand against the glass, as if he were trying to touch her face.

"That's why I've come," she said, but her voice held no joy. "I don't want you to come back to the house."

"I told you, I'm getting better. I'd never hurt you, you know that, right?" he said, trying to put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his words.

"You don't get it. I don't want you coming home...ever. You're not the man I married; I don't know who you are."

"What are you saying?" he demanded, his voice rising enough to make the guard at the end of the room rise out of his chair.

"I want a divorce; I've already started the application. The papers will be served, any day," she said, and wiped away a tear.

"You bitch!"

She took the phone from her ear when he screamed it again, "Bitch!".

She dropped the handset and rushed away as Ben attacked the glass, screaming and hammering it with the heavy plastic handset. The truncheon blow caught him below the ear and sent him sprawling sideways. Back to black again.

***

The prison gate rattled back so slowly; Daisy felt they were doing it deliberately to extend her torture. She just wanted it all to be over and get as far away from this place as she could. She promised herself she wouldn't cry when she told Ben, but she’d failed. He’d been her partner for so long, it felt like he’d always been there; now that was over. 

Outside the gate, Dave was waiting to collect her in his sleek new Cadillac. He reached over and popped the passenger door for her. Once she was in, he pulled away.

"How did it go?"

"He went crazy, started screaming and smashing the glass," she said sadly.

"To be expected, I guess," Dave said matter-of-factly, as he maneuverer the car out of the prison car park. 

"I still feel guilty about it all."

"You shouldn't, it was the only way."

"To get the money?"

"And me!" said Dave, with a cheeky smile. "We won't have to sneak around anymore; I can have you as much as I want now."

She leaned across and kissed him deeply while he tried to keep one eye on the road. Having him all the time was the only reason she had done any of it. Even on the day of her wedding she knew she was marrying the wrong man. It always should have been Dave.

It had started by accident. A look, a touch, an unspoken desire, until the inevitable happened. An intertwining of two, paired by destiny. Ben was all that stood in their way. It was Dave that insisted she should have half the inheritance Ben refused to touch; it was he who masterminded the plot but it was she who had made it happen.

She was the one who’d hidden Ben's keys and then moved his car with the spare set. It was she who had replaced the insurance forms with blank ones, then sent them in. It was she who messed up his presentation in the middle of the night. She had done all that, but Dave had a hand in things as well.

He’d given her pills to exchange for Ben's prescription. He’d given her the liquid LSD to slip into his drinks, and told her how much to give. The time she gave Ben too much and he started fitting in their bedroom, she nearly called it all off. Instead, she rang Dave and he rushed over. He was terrified that Ben would OD, and the drugs in his system might be traced back to them. She pleaded with him to call an ambulance, demanded he come clean. He lashed out at her, catching her on the cheek with the back of his hand. He said it was an accident; the pressure just got to him. He gave Ben an injection of something, and soon, he stopped shaking. Only when it was clear that Ben would be ok would he allow her to ring for help. When she thought back on that night, she couldn’t help remembering the look in his eye after he’d hit her. There was cruelty there.  

She could have stopped it then, she should have stopped it, but she didn’t. She’d given Ben a half dose of LSD before he went to see Dave at his office, just enough to make him off balance for the final act. She was right there, hiding in the closet when Ben came in. She overheard them talking and knew Dave had given Ben another dose of LSD, a big one. When Ben was out, Dave called her out and said she had to hit him. She didn’t want to, but he said it had to look real. Before she swung, he stopped her and said, "Not the nose." She balled her fist and let one fly, barely touching him at all. Then she remembered the look in his eye when he’d slapped her and put a measure of intention behind her fist.

"Enough!" he said, after taking a couple of hits, and he pushed her away. He pinched his burst lip, drawing blood, which he smeared over Ben's hands and shirt. Daisy slipped out the back door as Dave got Ben to his feet, then he stumbled into the waiting area where a shocked receptionist called the police. After that, it was plain-sailing.

The divorce would go through and she stood to gain one point six million. Dave had his eye on a love-nest on the coast. He said he would put the deal in his name, it was much easier than joint ownership. Now that they had the money, they could live like they always wanted to.

Dave flashed her one of his devilish smiles. "Only we matter now," he said, and went back to watching the traffic. Daisy noticed the way one corner of his mouth curled up. Light danced in his eyes and she knew she’d seen that look before. It was the moment his hand connected with her face.

She felt a shiver run down her back, but she shook it off. Nothing was going to wreck this for her. Nothing.

The End