The hot, dry wind carried the scent of the great bull directly to He who Walks with the Wind. This was an old bull and would be  tasty meat. It had probably been driven away from the herd by a younger bull. If He who Walks with the Wind was lucky, it would have been wounded in the fight that ousted him from the herd and, as a result, would be weakened.
Walks with the Wind sniffed the air again, checking his sensing of the beast. There was the rich deep muskiness of an old bull. It has a richness that was so different from the shallow smell of the young males of the herd or the tenacious stink of the rogues. The scent though, was overridden by the sickly sweet scent of putrefaction. The animal has surely been wounded, and the wound had turned bad.
Walks with the Wind had suspected the beast was wounded when he had first seen it ambling across the plain. He had not known, however, how bad the wound was. A slight injury would annoy the great bull and make him more dangerous than usual. Liable to attack without provocation. A significant wound would hinder the animal, maybe even slow it down, making spearing it easier and less risky.
The sound of two Digda birds caused him to look up. Here possibly was the answer to his question. They were descending to land on the bull, their raucous cries announcing their arrival. That meant that the wound was maggoty, and they had come to pick it clean. That told the old man that it was at least ten days old. It, therefore, could not be critical. If it had been a severe wound, the old bull would not have lasted for more than a few days. The large cats of the plain would have taken it, in its weakened state. As it was the wound, although no doubt painful and unpleasant, did not adversely hinder the beast. It would still be fast and robust. To have survived to its age it would also be cunning.
Walks with the Wind eased himself back against the trunk of the fallen tree whilst he considered the situation. The tribe did not usually hunt the great cattle of the plains. They were known for their strength and their courage. Furthermore, the herd would act as one to charge any attacker on mass. Something no huntsman wanted to face. However, the single bull by itself was a viable target for the hunt.
In normal times, as leader of the hunt, Walks with the Wind would not consider taking on such an animal. There was always easier prey. These were not normal times; there was no easier prey. There was no other prey.
The rains that usually fell as the tribe trekked across the high mountains had this year not fallen. They had not turned the vast plains green with growing grass, and the great herds had not been drawn here to feed within the tribal hunting grounds. This year there had been no abundance of jumping deer or wild horses that were  the usual prey of the tribe.
The herds had stayed well away from the brown arid lands of the plains. Only the rogues and the outcasts had come onto the dry wilderness below the mountains. There had been little hunting for the tribe. There had been little for the great cats. Deprived of their usual prey, the cats had started to hunt the tribe taking from it both strength and knowledge.
She that Dances like Fire had been taken while digging for the roots that eased the pain of childbirth. Who else in the tribe had that knowledge? She had been an old one amongst the females. One whose moon blood no longer flowed. With her death, much wisdom and experience had been lost.
Worse though had been the loss of He who Knows the Water. Knows the Water had been stalking a loan buck antelope when one of the great cats had taken him. With him was lost vast knowledge, especially on the catching of the great fish when they came close to the shore of the tribe's winter grounds.
Walks with the Wind contemplated that soon the warm months would be on the turn. Already the guide star was low on the horizon. It was time for the tribe to return to the sea. The time by the sea would be hard without the knowledge of Knows the Water. Even when the tribe had made the months-long trek through the mountains and down to the shore, who was there who could lead the fishing? Who was there who could call the great fish into the bay to be speared to feed the tribe?
Walks with the Wind acknowledged, to himself, that there were still the shellfish and crabs. These could be harvested, and the tribe could live on them. It would not though be a feast as it would on the flesh of the great fish. They could not dry the meat to give them sustenance for the trek back to the plains once the warm weather and the rains came.
Indeed, thought Walks with the Wind, might it not have been better for the tribe to stay down in the caves by the sea? They could live on its harvest in the warm months as well as the cold, rather than making the trek to the plains. Had not She who Gathers stayed last season and survived? They had not been able to take her on the trek after she had stepped on a stonefish and her leg had swelled. They had expected her to die and be lost to the tribe, yet when they returned, she had survived. She had lived on mussels and crabs that she collected from the rocks, and on the grasses that grew on the shoreline. Also, she had told tales of a great run of fish that arrived a month after the tribe had left, and of the abundance of the catch she had made in her fish traps.
Maybe the tribe should stay down by the shore and gather from the sea, Walks with the Wind thought. Even in the span of his life, the bounty of the plains seemed to have got less. There seemed to be more and more dry years when the game was scarce. The tales of the old ones, told around the fire, did tell of such years, but said they were few and far between. They said a man might see one in his lifetime. He who Walks with the Wind had seen four, and this was now his fifth. Things were changing, and if they were, then the tribe must change how it lived.
If there were going to be more such dry years in the future, could the tribe count on the game coming to the plain? Maybe it would be better off staying by the sea. There may not be such an abundance of meat, but there was always food to be gathered.
Now though, the tribe needed meat. The season had been lean, and no meat had been smoked and dried for the trek through the mountains. They must feast on fresh meat to get their strength up for the journey. They needed dried meat to eat on the way. Without meat, the tribe would die.

Miss Jenkins concentrated on her image in the mirror as she pinned back her silver-grey hair into the bun that was expected of a spinster of her age. It was, she had found out years ago, always better to do what people expected; saved a lot of trouble that way, and at her age (which she admitted was the wrong side of seventy) trouble was something best saved. So she pinned back her hair into a bun and wore a grey tweed suit, so practical, so hardwearing, just right for a spinster who wanted to make sure her money lasted.
Not, let it be understood, that Miss Jenkins was without means. It was quite clear to everybody that she was comfortable — maybe only just comfortable but comfortable nonetheless — though she would be the first to admit that the extra income from her occasional work was more than useful. It paid for such nice little things; those small extras that made life worth living, like her monthly trips up to the Isle of Wight. She so looked forward to those, but they did cost, and every little extra helped.
It was not just a case of the money that kept Miss Jenkins working. It was also a matter of keeping one’s hand in; of having something to do, something to be proud of. There is not much of a role for elderly spinsters in English villages nowadays. People did not conveniently dump dead bodies in the vicar’s library, thereby providing one with a few days’ cerebral activity. Anyway, so far as Miss Jenkins knew the village did not have a vicar, though she suspected there was more than one homicidal maniac. One only had to look at the way they drove!
She had checked the weather forecast that morning, both on the wireless (she still insisted on calling it the wireless; she could not get used to ‘radio’ as she knew it should be) and on the Internet (such a useful addition to her life, allowing her to find out what was going on in the world around her). David, her great-nephew, had arrived one weekend with the computer for her, installed it and showed her how it worked.
“Yull sun gat te hung ov hit Aunty,” he had assured her.
She only wished that she could get the hang of the dialect that the youth seemed to speak today; it had so little connection with the Queen’s English that she had learnt so carefully all those years ago. She did, though, admit that she had got the hang of the Internet quite soon and found it so very useful, especially eBay. There were so many odds and ends that one needed to dispose of at times and it was such a convenient way to sell them. Edith Jenkins had really got the hang of it; she had even managed to email David to thank him for sorting it out for her, though she had not been able to make sense of his reply, which seemed to be written in a foreign language.
Having decided that the day would be dry but chilly, she picked up a lightweight overcoat and a pair of fine kid gloves. That was one thing she would never skimp on: gloves. You always had to have good gloves, ones that you could feel through, there was so much in feeling things. Then, pinning a small black hat to her head with a couple of extra-long hatpins and picking up a rather large but eminently sensible handbag she was ready.
The bus stop on the route that would take her into town was conveniently close to the front door of her cottage. Not too close (one did not want people queuing up outside your windows!) but close enough that one did not have to walk too far.
The bus arrived only a couple of minutes late. That was one advantage about the nearby airfield; the servicemen stationed there meant there was a good demand for bus travel into the town, so the village had a regular service.
Miss Jenkins mounted the boarding platform and showed her pass to the driver. Not that George really wanted to see it, he knew her well enough and knew she was entitled to free travel. It was, though, Miss Jenkins thought, only correct that she confirmed the fact. She would not want people thinking that she was taking advantage of things. That would never do!
The bus was full; that was the disadvantage of the early bus, it so often was. Angus Protherow’s girl, Milly, was seated near the front with a young serviceman. Miss Jenkins saw Milly give the young man a sharp dig in the ribs with her elbow as she spoke into his ear. He stood, indicating that Miss Jenkins should take the seat. She smiled at the young man and thanked him, settling down next to Milly. Such a nice practical girl, she thought; always considerate. She queried Milly about her health and asked when the baby was due, though judging by the lump the girl was displaying it could not be long. Eight weeks. Longer than she thought, though maybe it was twins. Still enough time to get matched before the birth; not that Miss Jenkins put much store by such formalities. She and her Albert had never bothered about such things and it had been no problem, but then there was never any question of children.
That was why she was still known as Miss Jenkins, even though she and Albert had been together for over thirty years. They had just never got around to formalising the arrangement. Of course, in the early days there had been the problem of Gladys, Albert’s wife. She had been totally opposed to a divorce, being Catholic, and back then they were not so easy to get. Then when Gladys had gone and had that accident on the underground and was no longer a problem, there had just seemed no point. Why change something that was working? Anyway there had been benefits, like when Albert had been in that bit of trouble with the tax man, they had not been able to touch any of the property; it was all in her name.
Miss Jenkins lightly touched her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief; thinking about Albert always made her a bit emotional. All right, they had their arguments, but who didn’t? On the whole, though, they got on well together; well, they must have done, having been so long together. It was quite an emotional hit when he was taken, which was one of the reasons she had moved to the village; getting rid of the baggage that went with the house where they had always lived. Anyway, she was known in the village. Her uncle had been vicar here, many years ago, but her aunt had lived into her late nineties, and Miss Jenkins had regularly made the trip down from London to visit her, often staying for a week or two. Never, of course, with Albert. Aunt Maud had never approved of Albert or the relationship they had.
It was almost as if Aunt Maud had been waiting to see him off. The week after he was taken, she took ill with pneumonia and within two weeks was dead — only a month short of her century — leaving Miss Jenkins the cottage. It was too good an opportunity to miss. London house prices were rising and she was on her own in a house that was far too big, with a nice place in the country waiting for her. Miss Jenkins had let the place to the first decent offer that she got, which had been well over what she had expected, and moved down to the country. That had been, what, eight years ago? Eight years since Albert was taken!
She almost missed the stop at the station, so deep in thought had she been. If Milly had not prodded her because she wanted to get off, Miss Jenkins probably would have stayed on the bus. Well, at her age one did let oneself drift a bit. A very bad habit, but old ladies seemed to get into it so easily.
The train trip to London was its usual tedium. Once upon a time she had looked forward to such trips, but now, well she wished she could avoid them. There was no longer the service there once had been. Even in first class you had to go to the buffet to get a tea or coffee. At her age the idea of walking along a moving train with a paper cup of hot liquid was not one that appealed to her.
Then there were the phones and the laptop computers that everybody seemed to take out and put on the tables. They were not travelling, they were working. This, to Miss Jenkins’ mind, was a mistake. Travel was something during which you should relax and enjoy the experience. How you could relax in what was a mobile office was something that eluded her. Increasingly these trips were causing her to think about getting one of the boys to come and collect her by car, but that did not feel quite right to her. A trip to London should be made by train. That was the way it was done.
As usual the train, for some reason not announced, was late arriving in London. Outside the station a queue of people stood waiting for non-existent taxis, looking in anger at a single black cab parked across the road, its light out. Miss Jenkins walked a bit down from the queue and raised her umbrella. The parked cab sprang into life and shot across the road, the driver leaping out and coming round to open the door for the small woman.
“Where today Aunty?” Miss Jenkins gave him the name of one of the more exclusive shopping streets in London and indicated a specific store.
Climbing back into his cab the driver took a deep breath. “Rather upmarket, you’re sure you want to do there?”
“Of course, Stephen, quality counts, and one has to go for quality these days. How’s the family, that eldest boy of yours, Michael, still having problems?”
“Not really, that run-in with the police last year knocked some sense into the lad. Uncle Harry went berserk you know?”
Miss Jenkins nodded, she knew Albert’s brother’s opinion of Michael.
Stephen, observing the nod in the mirror, continued, “anyway, he’s out working with Harry, down Brick Lane.”
Miss Jenkins nodded, then asked about Neil, Stephen’s younger son, and Ruth , his daughter.
“Oh they’re fine, all ready and waiting, just where you told me to put them. How long should they wait?”
“I’ll need at least forty minutes, probably longer. You know how these things go.”
The driver nodded as he pulled into the kerb, allowing his passenger to descend.
The Miss Jenkins who got out of the cab, looked nothing like the drab spinster who had got in. She spoke to the driver for a few moments, checked her handbag, corrected her smooth white kidskin gloves and then made her way to the door of the jeweller’s. It was one of those where you had to ring the bell and wait for a member of staff to open it. The staff, though, were very attentive and had seen the cab pull up. The moment she pressed the bell the door was opened.
“Good morning, Madam, so nice to see you again,” the door opener commented, only to be cut off in his welcome by an older man: the manager, who had appeared, magic-like, at Miss Jenkins’ elbow. He guided her to a chair next to a leather topped table, at the side of a display case.
“We were not expecting to see you again so soon,” the manager stated in a manner that almost became a question.
“An unexpected need to come to London so I thought I would get some shopping out of the way,” Miss Jenkins replied. She seemed to have lost the accent of Kent and now spoke with a slight hint of French to her voice.
“Ah, Madam, we are happy to assist. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”
“Nothing particular, my great-niece’s twenty-first in July. I was going to get her something from Bulogni in Pisa, but won’t be able to get there now, so I thought of yourselves, and seeing I was in town...”
The man smiled and quickly indicated to assistants that display cases should be opened and trays of items brought for the elderly woman to examine.
Item by item she looked through the contents of the cases. Some pieces she would briefly look at, others she would hold up to catch the light, moving them between her hands. The way she moved them made her look almost like a magician flashing baubles on a stage. In fact, Miss Jenkins had been a magician’s assistant many years ago. In that role she had learnt a lot. It was at the stage door that she had met Albert; he had taught her much more. He showed her how to appreciate what she was looking at and how to lull people so that they did not know they were watching a show. Now she was an expert and the fine jewellery pieces danced across her hands.
Most she handled briefly, rejecting them to be returned to their trays. Others she would hold for moments; touching them, bringing them close to her face, then rejecting some for no clear reason, and selecting others to be put to one side so she could look at them again. A diamond and emerald pendant, a rope of black pearls, and sapphire festoons; all of these she looked at, handled and considered. She made comments about each piece, identifying the stones, designers and workmen, showing an understanding of fine jewellery that few outside the profession would possess. Then she selected, not the most expensive piece nor the most ostentatious, but a piece that all who assisted her had to agree would be a perfect piece for a young woman starting out in life. It was a single grotesque pearl, caged in a lattice of fine gold wires and suspended in a hoop of diamonds and sapphires.
Miss Jenkins handed over a black charge card (which was not in the name of Jenkins) and, once the charge had been cleared, accepted the small, discreetly wrapped package that the opener of doors handed her. This she placed in her handbag, at the same time pressing the call button on the small mobile phone concealed within.
As the door was opened for her she stepped out into the path of a large, slightly balding man. The two of them exchanged looks for a moment and she recognised the famous Detective Chief Inspector Mainley of New Scotland Yard. He looked at her for a moment with a feeling that he should recognise the elderly lady before him, then made his way towards the shop, the fourth upmarket jeweller he had visited that day. Miss Jenkins looked around seeming confused, then stepped into the path of a skateboarder who was proceeding rapidly down the road. By a miracle of manoeuvring the young man just managed to avoid a collision, though there was a very brief, minor contact between the two.
Miss Jenkins raised her umbrella and as she did a cab that had been cruising with its light off, lit up and pulled in to pick her up. Miss Jenkins climbed in, glancing down the road, to see the young skateboarder once again just miss a collision, this time with a uniformed nanny pushing her charge along. At this sight Miss Jenkins smiled, then told Stephen where she wanted to go.
The Chief Inspector showed his warrant card and was admitted to the shop. He requested the presence of the manager, explaining that he was on a routine crime prevention visit. As he waited he wondered to himself why he had the feeling he should have recognised the elderly lady he had seen leaving the store. Then he remembered: it had been eight years since he had last seen her, in the public gallery of the Old Bailey as he had given evidence. He knew what he had to do but sensed it was a waste of time.
In the back of the cab, which was making its way into the East End of London, Miss Jenkins took care of her appearance. The violet blue contact lenses that made her eyes so distinctive were removed, revealing her normal grey eyes. Also removed was the cheek padding which had given her face a much rounder, fuller appearance. The loose, slightly dull, as befits an older woman, wig of red hair came off revealing her grey hair below. She slipped out of the elegant Italian styled twin set and donned her serviceable tweed. For the second time that day the women who got out of Stephen’s cab bore no resemblance to the one who had got in.
Miss Jenkins entered a small eating-house in a London side street. Today it was empty; it was not a market day when the place would be full. She moved to the table at the back. As she passed, the woman behind the counter nodded to her, then poured scalding water from a boiler into a pot. Taking the pot and a mug to the table where Miss Jenkins had seated herself she placed them before the elderly lady.
“Good day, Aunty?”

In what was once the undercroft of a long-demolished church, the dim lighting lends a sense of calm to the club members as they move about. In an alcove sit two figures, both somewhat paler than the usual nighttime inhabitants of this establishment. The older of the two presses the younger for full details of events that had taken place earlier that day. Well, one has to deal with gossip, doesn't one?
Okay, then I'll tell you—but no interruptions and no questions! I really didn't want to participate. Marcus, however, was persistent. He said we should stand up for our own kind and argued that we had to do something to avoid being discriminated against. Not that I'd experienced that much discrimination—at least not since I admitted what I was.
OK, there was a time when my family realized what I was, and after that they took me out of the house and would have nothing to do with me again. Well, that was hard for me—especially since I hadn't yet come to terms with who I was. Well, we find it hard, don't we? Is there any of us who can truthfully say that we've never tried to deny what we are; that we just want to be 'normal' (whatever normal is these days)? I mean, I've never met anyone who hasn't been in denial at some point.
Anyway, as I said, Marcus was persistent. As he said, I don't know who found out about the meeting. Well, actually, it's not the kind of thing you can announce in the local press or by posters on lampposts. The local paper, however sensitive it may be to the views of local people, wouldn't accept the advertisement for fear of alienating its readership. Did they never think we might be among their readership? As for the posters on the lampposts, they would soon be torn down. Can you imagine how Brother Michael in the Church of Christ the Born Again, and his fate as a fundamentalist Christian, would react to the idea of us holding a meeting? I strongly suspect they would have come and occupied the Assembly Hall with us in it. You know... you hear about this kind of thing, don't you?
That was another reason I didn't like going—I thought there might be trouble. And what I didn't want was trouble. I mean, I'd just gotten my life nice and settled. I was having a really tough time coming to terms with who I am, and it wasn't easy. Then I met Marcus, and the two of us got on brilliantly... well, maybe that's not the best. Given my earlier comment about the fire, that's not a good way of putting it, but you know what I mean. We'd found this wonderful place, with neighbors just like us, and we'd settled in well. I know we're not a big community at this end of town, but it's nice and comfortable, and we all support each other. All right, I'm complaining about Trixie's dog. I'm sorry, but I don't think it's right to have a dog in a place like that—there just aren't any facilities for it—but I have no problem with Trixie and her partner. I actually get along pretty well with her partner, who, by the way, shares my opinion of the dog, but for God's sake, mention that to Trixie. She's absolutely infatuated with the mutt.
As I was saying, after a few hard years, I've got it all sorted and I'm happy with who I am. Well, darling, you must be, don't you? If you're not, you'll soon find that you're isolating yourself. It's like the two old ladies in St. Cuthbert's. Everyone knows what they are, but they're in denial all the time. They try to act as if they're perfectly normal and you can see the strain it puts on them. Like they... I don't know if they've managed to go on for so long. I know I couldn't have, but then again, I'm not a Christian fundamentalist - or any form of Christian, for that matter.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Christians. I've met some very nice Christians in my life, and some who truly understand the concept of Christian love. I just can't understand how people like us can reconcile who we are with what the Bible says. In my opinion, the two simply don't fit together, but that's just my opinion. I'm sure you have your own.
Anyway, Marcus dragged me to this meeting, and I mean, dragged me. It was in this assembly hall just off Brown Street; used to be an old chapel. You wouldn't normally find me down there. Part of town, you know the reputation it has. But Marcus insisted we go. Well, it's fine with him; he's 6'4" and built like a tank. No one seeing him would suspect for a moment what he is. They probably think he's a rugby forward out for a night on the town. As for me, well, darling, you really can't mistake me. I don't try to look the part; it just happens. I told Marcus I wasn't happy living in this part of town. Well, you heard what happened to that poor lad in April—that was just off Brown Street, as I explained to Marcus. He told me not to worry, he was with me. He was right; who's going to take on Marcus? No one with half a brain. The problem is that some of these gangs that hang out there, part of the city, seem to have significantly less than half a brain between them, let alone each individual.

“Damm it man, I did everything right, can’t understand it.” Keith was annoyed. He usually got annoyed when things did not go the way he expected, and things were definitely not going the way he expected. It was like this when I refused to move in with him (a good thing as it turned out). I liked Keith and we had good sex together but as for living with him, well, that would be another matter. A boy has to know when to say NO, and Keith is somebody who does not like to hear ‘no’. Despite that he was probably my best friend. Oh, let’s be honest: he was my only friend.
I picked up a stack of books from the floor and started to pack them into one of the cardboard boxes we had managed to scrounge earlier in the day. As I did so I looked up and caught Lyn’s eye. She smiled and shook her head. We both knew Keith well enough to not give too much attention to his ranting.
“This should not be happening!”
With that I had to agree, which was unusual. If Keith had given a bit more attention to the practicalities of living in the 1960s and a bit less to the esoteric study of the traditions of the whatever people he had been studying for the last few months (it was difficult to keep up), this would not have happened. But it was happening. He had not paid his rent and now his landlady wanted him out: today, now, presto.
One can’t really say it was a surprise; indeed the surprise was that it had not come sooner. For the last month she had been insisting that the rent must be brought up to date. How he had managed to stay as long as he had is something of a miracle; London bedsitter landladies are not known for their generosity. Then again, Keith’s life seems to be filled with miracles, mostly brought about by his charm and wit. Given his talents in that department I am fairly certain that talking a landlady around to giving him a bit more time had not been that difficult a job.
No matter what else is said about Keith (and a lot is) one cannot deny that he has both charm and wit, coupled with dashing good looks that he uses to every possible advantage. I should know — I fell for him the first time we met. Unfortunately that does not quite make up for his shortcomings. He has absolutely no sense of responsibility or respectability. He has a distinct lack of morals. When caught in bed with the husband of a popular TV star, his only response was to invite her to join them. Strangely enough it seems that she accepted, somewhat to the annoyance of the husband, and the resulting scene ended with the neighbours summoning the police. A complicating factor was that the husband was also his boss, so Keith subsequently found himself without employment.
It must be said that, other than the lack of income, Keith did not really notice any change. As before, he seemed to spend most of his time in the Reading Room of the British Museum investigating rare and arcane texts. Whilst anyone else would have gone out and looked for a source of income, Keith was quite happy to continue life as if he still had one. Not surprisingly this created problems when it came to paying the rent. I was quite happy to feed him when he came round to my place and to sort out clothing for him when it became a dire necessity, but rent was one thing I could not cover. After all, nineteen-year-old assistant sub-editors are not paid that much. I could barely cover my own rent.
I packed away another set of books, noting that the sale of one of them probably would have paid Keith’s rent for the next three months. Knowing what the response would be, however, I refrained from making such a suggestion. I had made that mistake a couple of weeks before. Despite the verbal lambasting I had received, I still found it difficult to understand why he needed three different versions of the same work.
Lyn, who was packing away the contents of the kitchenette, asked Keith about a rather battered teapot which, clearly, had seen far better days. Keith agreed that it could be disposed of.
I looked at the grimy copy of Dracula that I was about to put into the box — at least the third version I had seen of that book — and considered raising the point again. I had second thoughts. Keith might be my somewhat effeminate boyfriend and I may be a fourteen stone amateur rugby player, but I knew from experience that he could pack one hell of a punch. It seemed that not all those rare books he read were about the esoteric.
“I just don’t understand it,” Keith commented. “I did everything just as directed. For five days I fasted. Since then I have only eaten of those foods allowed according to Leviticus.” Lyn commented that she had not appreciated that he was Jewish. Keith replied that he was not, but that when undertaking a magical rite one had to follow the traditions of the rite to the letter. In magic, detail was everything.
That was when I made the mistake: I asked him what the rite was. I am not a student of the esoteric but I do have an interest in it.
Keith launched into a lengthy explanation. Rather than just saying what it was that he had been doing, and why, he started with a whole history of Cabbalistic magic going back to Sumerian times. I wasn’t sure that his understanding of the tradition was correct, but I had the sense not to raise that point. We were there to pack up the bedsit, not to have a debate about esoteric traditions.
It was, though, quite clear that Keith had decided that his time was far too important to be wasted on trivialities such as having to work. Therefore he had decided to use magic to solve his financial difficulties… specifically a rite he had found whilst delving into some of the more obscure traditions of a breakaway group of seventeenth century Cabbalists. The purpose of the rite had been to draw money to him, and it appeared to involve long periods of meditation during which he sat and visualised money cascading around him. Apparently he had done this every day for three weeks. According to everything he had read, it should have been fulfilled that day. Keith had fully expected the money to arrive and to be in a position to pay his rent. 

I thought about the old saying that ‘God helps those who help themselves’. That may be true about God; it is definitely true about Magic. For it to work you not only have to perform the necessary rites, you also have to undertake the practical steps that will allow it to happen… like getting a job. If Keith had gone out and got a job after he started to work the ritual, then — allowing that he would have had to work a week in hand — he would have got his first week’s pay the previous day. He would have been able to pay the rent. As it was… well, here we were packing the place up.
It is surprising how many boxes it takes to pack somebody’s life away, especially a life like Keith’s. Sometime just after one the landlady popped her head round the door and asked how much longer it would take. She was a friendly sort, especially when she saw that Lyn was mopping the floor of the kitchenette. Shortly after that she appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits and told us to have a short break. It was clear that if Keith had only made some effort to pay the rent she probably would have allowed him to stay.
Once the tea and biscuits were finished there were only a few more things to pack —the main one being the pile of games on top of the wardrobe. Keith was a keen games player. He was the devil at Monopoly, which he played regularly and which he always seemed to win. There must have been twenty games up there… Cluedo, Scrabble, Link Word, and a host of others that I had never heard of. On top of the pile was his luxury Monopoly set.
Keith got a small footstool to stand on so he could reach the pile of boxes. When Lyn told him not to be stupid and to wait till she had finished with the steps he just brushed her off and reached for the boxes.
Rather than taking one box at a time, however, he tried to grab the whole pile. The Monopoly box slipped off the top, fell forward and hit the top of the wardrobe. The lid of the box shot off, allowing the contents to spill out. Monopoly money cascaded down upon Keith, and ten, fifty, hundred, and five hundred pound notes surrounded him… just as in his vision.

To say the weather had been bad was an understatement. It was bloody awful. The whole day had been bloody awful… and then my father had to turn up. Why, oh why, today of all days? Why could he not just leave things alone? But no, he had to turn up in person to pay his respects, having had no face-to-face contact with my mother for at least the last seventeen years. Probably for the last twenty: so far as I knew they had never met since my birth.
Oh, don’t get me wrong; she had not been abandoned to her fate like so many other unmarried women who find themselves with child. My father had taken care of his financial responsibilities. He had made sure that she was well provided for. And me, for that matter. But he never came to see us, and it was well understood that we were not to go and see him.
They did write to each other, and they spoke on the phone — but that, if anything, only made things worse for my mother. Once I got to the age when I could understand the niceties of the situation, I spoke to him on the phone, too. Even when I was at the Catholic boarding school that he had arranged for me, he would phone occasionally and chat. He’d congratulate me on doing well in an exam or playing rugby. He actually made a point of coming to see me play sometimes, but it was made clear to me that this could not be seen as a personal visit; it had to presented as a general visit to the school.
Those visits got less and less as he rose in the hierarchy. I suppose he thought there was just too much risk: too big a chance of gossip catching up with him. There had been some gossip around the time of my birth. The moment it became clear that my mother was with child, he left, went off overseas, and did not return to the country for a good five years. By that time he had moved up within the organization — and he continued to climb.
Mother, of course, followed his success. She was proud of what he was doing. She accepted fully the idea that his work was more important than us. Why? What was so important about his work? Anyone could have done that, but only he could have played the roles of husband and father.
She never loved anyone else. There never was the slightest hint of anyone else. Right to the end there was only him. His photo stood in a silver frame on her bedside table. As you would expect, it was the official photo of him standing in that holier than thou attitude that seemed to go with the job. She kept the real photos out of sight, stored carefully in a suitcase below her bed. The two of them: out walking along a beach; sitting chatting on the sands. How anyone could have missed what was going on between them, I don’t know. But then, as she said, in those days no one expected a girl like her and a man like him to get involved with each other.
She was proud of what he had become, and she did not want to do anything that might upset things. Even when we knew how ill she was she refused to let him know. It was only when it became clear that the end was near that I disobeyed her and sent him a message. I did not expect him to come but I hoped that he would for her sake. He did not.
And now he turns up. He could not make it to her dying, which was a private affair — but he can turn up for her funeral, which is public. Don’t ask me to make sense of that. Not only does he turn up, but his aide informs me that he wants a private chat. The local priest has made his study available for us — the man will be able to dine out on that for weeks.
He was already there when I got to the study, seated behind the big desk. No doubt he was well used to the position of authority.
“Nicholas, I’m sorry I could not be here earlier.”
I was surprised. There seemed to be genuine regret in his voice.
“I suppose you had more pressing business?”
“No, I just did not know.”
“I sent you a message three weeks ago.”
“I know, but I did not get it till Friday, my staff kept it away from me.”
“They what?” Now I was angry; he could have been here while she was still alive.
“Oh, don’t blame them. They kept everything away from me for the last two weeks. I’ve been in hospital.”
I looked at him, puzzled. I had not known. Surely there should have been something in the press.
“It was kept very quiet. If word had got out it would have caused problems in both political and financial circles. Fortunately we have the resources to deal with these things.”
I had to ask… he informed me that it was a heart problem. It went with the job, he joked. You got the power and the glory but you also got the stress.
“Why now then, now it is too late?”
“I have wanted to come for years but she would not let me.” His voice sounded soft, regretful, and truly sad. Then he looked at me and saw the puzzlement on my face. “I know, it sounds petty… one of the most powerful men in the world, and she would not let me do something, but that was the way of things. It was always the way of things; she was the boss.”
In a way I could understand what he was saying. My mother was always the boss. The small woman… dark hair… steel gray eyes that could bore into you… riveting you to the spot, whilst she gave you a verbal bashing. Then, just when you felt ready to crawl away to a quiet corner where you could get lost forever, her arms would wrap round you, pulling you into her and hugging you.
Yes… if my mother said something you went along with it.
He sat back in the chair and looked lost. There was a frailness about him that I had not seen before. A sense of indecision, not knowing what he should be doing. It seemed strange in this figure I was so used to seeing on the television, lambasting heads of state or the whole General Assembly of the United Nations. Somehow he seemed smaller, yet more human.
“You know I wanted to marry her?”
I shook my head in a lie. My mother had told me that, but I wanted to hear his side of the story.
“I was prepared to give it all up… resign… go to London or Birmingham and get a job. I’m a qualified teacher and there is always a demand for teachers.
“She would have none of it. She said I had a destiny and that I must not deny it; if I did it would make both of us unhappy. Told me that I could change things. In that she was right. I have changed things. A couple now finding themselves in the same position as your mother and me are no longer faced with such bleak choices. Don’t get me wrong; things are not easy for them, but the absolute choice between two opposing options no longer applies. There are alternatives in place; middle ways. I was able to get that change made… but by that time it was too late for us.
“She told me, ‘No use going back now. Anyway, you have too much left to do.’ I have and it is not as easy as you might think. Yes, I’m the top, I’m the man, but there is a massive inertia in the system working against my doing anything that might bring about change. I think I am starting to get some of it through, though.
“Of course, the reformers are all praising me for it. It’s her, your mother, they should be praising. Once she forced me to give up our relationship, she lit the blue touch paper which has resulted in the changes I have introduced… but that does not make life any easier.
“They say there has to be one great love in everybody’s life. I loved your mother. That’s why I had to come.”
There was the hint of a tear on his face. I picked up a box of tissues from the table and passed it to him.
“Thanks son.”
“So, now what?”