Fade out

It was a board room of the dyslexic variety. The tedium hung heavy in the air, the asphyxiating monotone of the speaker reverberated round the room until only a dull hum was heard, this nearly, but not quite, drowned out the decisive whir of the fluorescent lights, with their cold blue-white flicker, coming from the ceiling, sucking the very last drops of human emotion from the already drained faces of the listeners. The far wall contained a large window, of the variety that wouldn't be broken even if a steel chair was hurled at it in desperation, something which, at this moment, seemed likely. Outside, the normal ways of life progressed, but that wasn't known to those inside, the glass stopped that, all sounds were from inside, nothing penetrated. The view through the glass, though at night spectacular, was, during the day, just of a dizzying fall of too many floors below, a thrill-seeker's dream. The main furniture in the room was a long table, glass in construction, with a selection of chrome legs to stop gravity in it's progress. Down each of the sides were chairs, metal frames, with a comfortable backing in a variety of browns none of which succeeded in being pleasing to the eye. Opposite the window, at the far end of the room was the orator, placing various sheets of clear plastic on a projector, images of graphs with distinct downward trends appeared on a white background. The outlook didn't look rosy.

In the chairs the victims waited. One of them prayed for divine inspiration, another was thinking how much it would hurt trying to slash your wrists with a tie-pin and a third wasn't exactly sure which day, month, year, decade, building, city, country he was in, and so the presentation fell on deaf (literally) ears.

'And, as I mentioned before,' the man at the front intoned, replacing a sheet of acetate on the projector, 'we have shown an annual decrease of four percent on last year, this can be emphasised by this months figure of twenty three point nine five drop. Now looking back to last years plan, as you can see we had the idea of an advertisement, this worked well in the way that it gave us somewhere different to waste our money, but that was all. I have heard it suggested among the development staff that it would be advisable to make a product people want and need, more than fluffy toys. Well as you can expect I laughed in their faces. I mean imagine something, mummy, mummy, more important than say, furry dice, the ultimate motoring accessory.' Only one person noticed the slip, the tone had changed completely, a lot younger, probably infantile, and with more feeling than the entire speech before hand. But the continuation made the observant one ignore it, just a delusion, a mirage, an oasis of intrigue in the desert of uniform dreariness. 'I can but say that things will pick up as Christmas approaches. I hope so. I do.' It was a trifle optimistic thing to say in June, but that is probably due to a lack of business acumen.

A growing realisation that the talk had finished spread round the room like butter from a fridge. It finally reached the suicidal one who had currently decided that an American Express card would be more appropriate than a tie pin, and was about to prove it, when he heard. The brief round of applause, that was more out of gratitude than common courtesy, was swiftly followed by a rapid departure of all but three, the speaker, the confused and a third who until this time had been virtually asleep, yet listening, it was the observant one. The speaker walked over to the other two, a folder of clear projector sheets held in front of him as if afraid of imminent castration, he smiled. It wasn't natural.

'Very interesting wasn't it dad,' the observant one said nudging the confused.

'Eh?' If it wasn't for the lack of a shell on his back, and the fact that the Galapagos islands were not his home, a casual observer would have thought he was a picture from the 'Guiness Book of Records' under the section 'turtle longevity'. 'Yes please, milk, two sugars.'

'I think that means approval... Normally he only has one sugar.'

'Thanks, I appreciate it,' the speakers youthful face was returning a more healthy, pleasant grin, relaxing a lot, and discarding the flat voice. 'It's such a shame the news wasn't good.'

'Is it really that bad?' the observant one, incidentally father of the speaker, had a vested interest, it being a family business. 'People don't want quality like they did in granddad‘s time, they just want cheap disposable entertainment, a tv can be watched for hours everyday, and still there's something new, with a teddy bear it's half an hour, then pass us the remote. People have no imagination, no wish for making one's own entertainment. But they are the future... We do need to branch out, I loathe to say it but quantity is more important than quality.'

'Huh, that's life... Anyway, you still coming over this weekend, I'm sure mum would love to see you and Sara. She needs cheering up after the operation.'

'You bet, we'll be there. Will...' he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of a smartly dressed woman, Cathy Parker, head of personnel. 'Cathy, what can we do for you?'

'We Mr Moore, it's just there's a man here asking for a job.'

'And...? Surely that's your department?'

'Yes, but he says he's an old friend of yours, James Lawrence?'

The name rang no bells, he repeated it several times in his head, still nothing. Then from behind Ms Parker the call of 'Billy Moore', in a voice indicative of childhood days. A face appeared. Then he remembered.

He walked over to him, arms stretched out. 'Jimmy Lawrence, how've ya been, I haven't seen you since... God it must have been...' he trailed off, it was always bad when the last time you saw someone was at a mutual friends funeral. 'But you're looking great.' Reminisces of days gone by filled the room, an aura of innocence. Chatting for a few minutes they finally got to the crux of the visit. 'So you want a job?'

'Sure do, I'm am accountant, and as they say, you can never have too many accountants.' Bill wasn't too sure who 'they' were, but had to disagree.

'I would love to, but times are hard, we've laid off too many staff already, especially accountants, if I employed you it'd just look like favouritism. And I can't have that. People wouldn't respect me for being fair and even handed. You do understand, don't you?' Sometimes people don't realise how easily hopes can be shattered. 'Perhaps you can come over some time, meet the wife, I know Sara would love to see you.'

'Yeah maybe,' was James' reply, but his heart just wasn't in it. 'I'll see you round.' With that he left.

James Lawrence, standing outside his front door, picked up the keys from where he had just dropped, selected the wrong one twice. Then proceeded to miss the lock when he jabbed the correct one at it. Swearing lightly, he found the door was already unlocked. After such a failed entrance the idea of slamming the door seemed, now, pointless and rather foolish. His wife, standing over a crib spoke, 'how did it go?'

'The arrogant, patronising, self-centred, condescending, egotistical, single-minded, patronising bastard,' was all he could muster.

'From that can I gather he didn't give you a job?'

'Oh, he'd love to, but times are hard,' he mimicked. 'Times are hard, my foot. If he didn't want to give me a job why did he just say so. Instead of trying to break it to me gently. I'm not a kid, if he want's to say he doesn't like me why can't he just say it. I mean...' his voice was rising slightly, Janet, his wife placed a finger on his lips, and said :

'She's asleep.'

'I mean,' his voice now a whisper, once she had removed her finger, 'it's not like I'm asking much, is it?'

'Nevermind. There are more important things.'

He was about to put his foot in it, question the way she discarded a good job, money, security, but then he remembered. 'What did the doctor say?'

'She's bound to be sickly, being premature, she may take a long time to fully recover, but, he said, she may never...' a hand, reaching up to her face helped stifle a tear, 'be like everyone else.'

'We didn't want a normal kid though did we?' He was trying to reassure, but he himself wasn't helped by it.

'No, but she might die. He said we mustn't get our hopes up. She may not make it, if she gets any worse they're putting her in hospital again. I don't know if I can take it.' He held her close. Trying to put on a macho brave face, but it hurt him, inside the pain really dug in, to have so much happiness, and then know you may lose it for ever, it was harsh, it was wrong, it was life.

They stood, in each other's arms for some time. Only one word would describe the feeling in the air. Empathy. That or sorrow in general. Or sadness. Or hope. Perhaps there's more than one word. But the moment passed. They parted slowly, a mutual, but unspoken, decision.

She had something to say, he could tell. It was awkward. It was the thing that made the previous news so bad. There was a song with the lyric, 'if I hadn't seen such riches, I could live with being poor.' That was true at the moment. If she hadn't heard what she had, then the danger their daughter was in, terrible though it was, wouldn't seem as bad. 'She spoke,' Janet said. 'As I picked her up so the doctor could look, she spoke. Looking into my eyes, she said mummy. The doctor said he was sure it was just a gargle, saying she was too young, I know what I heard. And afterwards, the way she smiled. She was beautiful. She spoke. My little baby spoke.' The tears welling in her eyes were of sadness, and happiness, a kind of sappiness.

Bill Moore lay on the bed, still in his suit, though the jacket lay draped over a chair in the corner. Swirling, floating patterns on the ceiling toyed with his mind, tried to calm him. And despite the tensions that had welled up inside him that day, his cares seemed to float, with the pattern, away to some far off place. A kind of warm, happy glow covered him. Then he heard the door.

'I'm home.' Was the rather redundant remark from Sara. It had been fortunate that Sara was a fully qualified barrister, and that she hadn't given up her job when they married, as he had suggested. Otherwise life would have been so much more of a struggle, what with the recession and everything. 'How was work?' she always asked first, yet she was always home last. That must say something about her psyche.

'Oh, you know nothing special... I saw Jimmy Lawrence today.'

'Oh, how is he?'

'Fine, he was wanting a job.'

'So you'll see more of each other then. That's good. You...'

'What? I didn't give him a job.'

A look of disgust crossed her face. 'But with Janet and the baby, they'll need the money. There must have been something you could have given him, part-time assistant accountant. He was your best friend after all.'

'I wanted to give him a job. But times are harsh. You know that.'

'And having no friends makes them easier? Perhaps if you began to realise that time isn't the only harsh thing around here, then you'd be a slightly better person.'

Still lying there he tried to come up with a retort, an explanation, an excuse for his actions, which wouldn't involve a U-turn. He gave up. He knew he couldn't apologise fully, he never could, likewise he felt that offering Jimmy a job would be too much like charity, something he would refuse, Jimmy always was very proud.

He decided.

Status quo. Don't do anything, that was his decision.

Janet sat in bed, a book lay open in front of her, but the pages hadn't been turned for many minutes. 'I could go back to work. I'm sure they'll give me a job at the shop. I know they need a hand every so often.' James, who'd been reading the latest Frederick Forsyth, and thus felt in a macho mood, was about to say something sexist, something like 'but what about Hannah,' or 'I'll not have my wife working in some poky shop'. And yet despite this attitude he felt that it was the best solution. But he wasn't going to give up without a fight.

'Are you sure you want to? Psychologically, being away from her for so long could be traumatic. The worry...'

'And of course you being a man, could have handled it.' A true argument.

He decided to change tack. 'I think it's a great idea.'

'Good' she continued reading. It wasn't the kind of answer he hoped for. A 'You do?' would have been better, so he could retort, 'not really, but if I disagree we'll only start arguing and wake Hannah,' thus getting her attention, before going into 'you'd be more capable at looking after her' etc. It was a shame really, if he'd have had the chance he might have won.

Years passed.

The house was in disarray. Sheets of newspaper covered the floor, along with several footprints, which traipsed from a paint roller tub to a seat, where Bill sat. Sat is a bit too formal a word, lounged would be better, or lay, even better would be flollopped, a semi-onomatopoeic word, connected with the collapsing in to a comfortable piece of furniture. Sara was currently finishing the skirting board along the first wall. It seemed like they'd been working for ages.

'Cup of coffee?' Sara asked.

'Love one,' Bill's reply wasn't the one she expected. An offer to make it would have been nice. But that's life. Walking out the door she almost tripped over the step-ladder that had been used for the high parts. From in the kitchen various sounds that were synonymous with the making of a mug of instant coffee emanated.

'I'd say if we work on it, we could get it finished for five ish. Perhaps we could go out for a meal afterwards. You know, to celebrate the new house.' It had been a necessary move, and slightly downmarket, the toy industry had picked up, and now 'Moore Toys' was going stronger than ever, it was just a shame that Bill and family had sold it to some Japanese company for what seemed at the time as a great price. Now, it was a mere fraction of the annual turnover. Still, what can you say? Sara was fortunate that the corporate downsizing in the real world was not affecting the law, with more lawsuits brought for wrongful dismissal, sexual harassment, etc. there was more than enough business to go round.

The kettle was beginning to boil. Pouring out the coffee, she thought she heard something from the next room. A kind of gurgling, then rasping sound. Now a humming sound. A mild form of curiosity swept her, walking through the doorway, she glanced at the chair where Bill had been sitting, it was empty. Shifting her eyes to the source of the sound, she found herself looking at the far wall, kneeling down facing it was Bill. His hands were moving round over his face, though she couldn't actually see them, due to him facing away. He fell silent for a minute, then he turned, flung his arms out in a star, and shouted 'te daaaaa'. She would have screamed at the shock if the image hadn't been so funny, the paint had been applied in a kind of war-like fashion, three streaks of white across each cheek, a line leading up his forehead from the bridge of his nose, and one on his chin. Further markings were on his arms, and a general lightening of his hair showed the application of the colour.

'What the ...?' was all she could manage.

A voice, high-pitched, childish, but not the adult impression of young, this was a true example, 'play with me mummy, I'll be the Indians, you be the cowboys.' With that, a hand raised to his mouth, he exhaled a monotone, while hitting his mouth with the fingers of his hand, 'come on chase me.'

She had to admit, it was funny, and with only a slight amount of apathy, ran towards him. He moved out the way, darting to the other side of the room. Which she followed. And so for several minutes, the act followed. Until finally 'I thought you wanted me to catch you?'

'No, mummy, that'll be no fun.' And avoided her latest lunge.

She gave up, collapsing on the seat, a sound was heard, how can I describe it, imagine dropping a heavy box onto a bed, or someone falling on a trampoline, it's a kind of 'flollop'.

With soulful eyes he rested his chin on the arm of the chair, head to one side, 'play with me.'

'No,' firm and forceful.

'Please.'

'No.'

'Please?'

'No.'

He stood up, and with a 'huff' turned and walked to the place he was sitting before. Picking up the paint-brush, he started doodling. Sara couldn't help chuckling to herself, the lengths he would go to to make her laugh, sometimes it seemed excessive, but that was why she loved him so.

'A house... mummy... daddy... Gandalf... our car' preceding each word was a frantic movement of the brush on the wall, which when looked at from a far managed to look like, respectively, a splodge, a stick, a stick, a splodge, and a splodge. So, quite detailed then. 'Mummy, mummy, look what I've done.' It was all very well him trying to make her laugh, but at times, it was possible to go too far, and now he had. He wasn't funny, just annoying.

'You can stop it now. I want to get finished soon, and it's going to take a while to sort out that mess.'

'Mess? mummy called my painting a mess. Mummy horrible. I hate mummy.' And he turned away.

'Hah, hah. Very funny. Now give me the brush and clean your face.'

'No, can't make me.'

'William, this just isn't funny.'

'I know, you hurt my feelings.' A slight tear fell from his eye.

Somewhere she felt this wasn't a joke that it was real. Seeing the tears flowing freely, the pain, it was all so true. It wasn't fake. She held out her arms and held him, held him close, the warmth seemed to change him, the tears slowed, then stopped, the voice was manly again, and then all was normal.

'What happened?' he asked.

She told him. He didn't believe her. She showed him the wall, and a mirror. He believed her.

'What's happening, I don't remember anything.'

'We're going to see someone.'

At a desk a man sat, without looking up from his work he spoke. 'Lie down Mr Moore.' The psychologist indicated the couch, with a wave of a hand. Like his first words the room was one big cliché. Solid oak doors, mahogany furniture, green leather writing area, a single photograph on the desk, paintings on the panelled walls, plush warm carpet. It exuded a general comfortable feel. Harris, the psychologist stood up, picking up a notepad and pencil he walked over to a leather armchair facing the couch, lengthways. He sat. 'How are we today?'

'Fine, fine.' Bill found it awkward not to be able to look at the person he was talking too, and made an attempt to face him.

'No, you just lie back and relax. I'm going to start with just some simple questions, so I can get an idea of what you're like. Then we'll get to the point. Any questions?' It seemed a bit forceful, but in his experience, Harris had found force generally works.

'Sure.' There followed a series of questions, mainly about childhood, parents, life, loves, loathes etc. Then the questions changed.

'So, what was the reason for your visit?' It was obvious he knew, he had it in his eyes, but he just like to hear people explain it themselves, you could always tell a lot from how they explained a problem.

'I don't know how to describe it. It's like I have times, where I have no recollection of the past. And I find that I've done things really stupid, that only a child would do. I just can't control it, I can't understand it. I can't bear it.'

'Mmm,' he was looking up from the pad, pencil held in his pursed lips. He manoeuvred his mouth in a thoughtful kind of way. 'What kind of things?'

'Well the first time, apparently, though I was only told just recently, was several years ago. I was doing a presentation for my company, when all of a sudden I started saying mummy. I didn't notice. My father did. He was there.' Then adding, as if further explanation was needed, 'it was a family company.'

'Was?'

'Yeah, we had to sell it. Times were harsh.'

'When?'

'Just a few months.' He thought for a minute. 'No I tell a lie, it was five months.'

'So, would you say you've been under a certain amount of stress recently.'

'Well, yes.'

'Mmmm,' he made a rather extensive note. 'What other incidents have there been.'

He re-told the paint story and a further one involving hurling plates to the floor, which had happened more recently.

'Mmmm,' the thought that if Harris said 'Mmmm,' one more time he'd throw him out the window, crossed Bill's mind. 'Have you at all been feeling tired, lacking energy, short tempered etcetera?'

'A bit, but not that you'd notice.'

'What I mean is take an example of five years ago, compare it to now. Would you say you have a lot less energy, are short tempered etcetera?'

'Well, I guess so.' A further selection of questions followed, before Harris spoke (rather than asked) again.

'From what you've said, I'd say you're a perfectly well balanced sort of person, you're reasonably happy, enjoy life. Yet you feel under excessive stress. The loss of the business has hit you hard, being dependent on your wife for support isn't easy for you. The fact money is scarce and you have to be careful with what you buy, means you long for a simpler life without the hassles of an adult. And I would say that you are just highly stressed and that the incidents are merely a way for your metaphorical inner child to be released. Normally it is only a metaphor, but for you it seems to have taken form, creating a whole personality. And...' Bill interrupted.

'You mean I'm a schizophrenic?'

'Yes and no. Technically yes. You have a slight stress-induced mental disorder, which is known as schizophrenia. I am afraid that the media seem to love the use of the word schizophrenic to describe any madman who likes to go around killing people. You however pose no harm to yourself nor the people around you. I can arrange for further regular visits, if you like, but I really see no need. It should pass when the stress does.' Bill said his goodbyes, and as quickly as was politely possible he left.

The walk to the car was a slow one, the thoughts of schizophrenia kept crossing his mind(s). It just seemed so odd, so strange, so unreal. The cars, as they drove past made no impression on him, the bustle of life continued but nothing penetrated his thoughts, it just wouldn't make sense. 'I can't be' he said aloud. 'Just can't.' Reaching the car he sat for several minutes, waiting, for what? Something. Something to snap him out of his reverie. Finally when nothing happened he drove home.

Eight years old is a tough age for a kid. For Hannah Lawrence, it was the worst imaginable. Struck inexplicably by every possible childhood disease, and some usually reserved for the mature population, she was seldom out of hospital. Despite this she was a cheery soul, always smiling, the paradigm of virtue, an angel. Today she was in hospital recovering from a complaint so rare the consultant had to stop playing golf to think about it.

'Hi mum' Hannah spoke in her small voice, a voice that she loved to vary depending on her mood, in the very infrequent time she was glum it was decidedly low, but the majority of the time - when she was happy - it had a high, excited, dog-whistle feel to it. She was happy.

'Give your mum a hug' Janet said in a quasi-authoritarian voice. Hannah did so.

'Eh, what about me,' the feigned hurt voice of James rung out from the chair beside the bed, 'I stay on night long vigil, don't I get a hug.' [You see Janet went back to work, and James ended up looking after Hannah. Time passed, Janet now runs the shop, and James works full time looking after Hannah] A big hug followed. Then a huge group hug, which several of the nurses felt tempted to join in.

'How are you ?' Janet hadn't seen them for a couple of day, a business trip.

There followed a brief discussion on health, mental and physical, etc. To paraphrase it. Hannah's on the mend.

'But anyway. While I was in London, guess who I met?' It was one of those rhetorical questions that provoke a humorous response.

James first 'don't tell me, I know this one' a pained expression crossed his face as he thumped his forehead in annoyance. 'I do, I know it... is it John Kennedy?' Hannah laughed. Janet kept a straight face.

Hannah next. 'No silly. It's, it's, it's... the Michellin man?'

'No, and when you've quite finished, I'm sure Carol would like to say hello.'

This was a shock, Carol had been bridesmaid at their wedding and subsequently godmother of Hannah, times, decisions and moving had meant that they'd lost touch and only a fortuitous meeting meant she was here now. James stood up and gave her a big hug and an affectionate peck on the cheek. 'How've you been, it must have been five, six years?'

Carol spoke 'We were just talking about that' indicating Janet. 'Anyway how is my favourite goddaughter.'

A bewildered unknowing expression crossed Hannah's face. She had only ever met Carol about five times after the Christening, and all of them before she was two. 'I'm fine.' Was her cautious reply.

'She doesn't remember me. Bless her.' Hannah renown for liking everyone, liked her less than most (that's as near as she got to hatred).

'So,' turning the attention from Hannah, James was curious 'what do you do?'

'I'm an accountant now, fashion's such a changing business I had to get out.' In the conversations that followed Janet asked if Carol still did her palm reading. It turned out she did. Then as with any semi-occult revelation the child in Hannah started to listen.

'Read my palm, please.'

'I shouldn't really, you're a bit young and it is kind of contradictory a godparent showing ungodly things.' This was Carol's polite way of saying 'no chance matey'.

'But please?' Hannah used her innocent little smile, and several seconds later the reading was happening.

'I'm only going to do the basics, otherwise it'll get too complicated. Well you've got a strong long headline, this means you are shrewd, a good planner, with great concentration. Now your heartline, this starts with a fork at the mount of Jupiter' indicating a bulge at the base of the index finger, this means you're lovable. And now for the lifeline,' to which she turned her attention for the first time, 'hmmm, this is curious.'

'What?' Hannah was most eager to hear.

'It's just that if you look at the lifeline from one side, it's normal, but if you move your head directly over it, it's like there's two, running there symbiotically, intertwined, living off one another. I've never seen anything like it before. I just don't know what to make of it.' There was an anxious look on the faces of the other three. Then a thought struck her. 'Oh, silly me, I remember, it means a close bond with someone, obviously your parents.' Then with a hurried goodbye she walked out. A few seconds later Janet saw the handbag and ran after her with it.

She was waiting at the end of the ward just out of sight. 'You left your bag.'

'I know, I just had to talk away from Hannah, she's a bit young.' A brief pause let her decide what to say. 'I'm sorry about the reading. I really hadn't seen that joined line before. I guess it shook me. What I said about them being intertwined, it's true, almost like there's two people sharing the one life. I'm sorry if I scared Hannah, I tried to make it better by saying about the close relationship. Do you think she believed me?'

'I hope so, I wouldn't want her to get scared over a load of mumbo-jumbo. But thanks for visiting, we must stay in touch.' Carol reciprocated the sentiment, but neither believed it.

The car pulled into the drive with the casual ease expected of the price paid. A few seconds later and with a loud, firm, but reassuring clunk the door had been shut after the occupant had left. Several scrunches of gravel later and the door was opened by the man, within a minute a strong drink and a comfortable chair relaxed him to near normality.

'Hi, dear.' Sara poked her head round the door, with a strong smile, in itself it was cheering, but still there remained the overtones of depression. 'Was he any help?'

'Hmmm?'

'I said was he any help?'

'Not really,' and he was about to recount the whole episode when Sara spoke again.

'I didn't think so. Which is why I've got someone here to see you.'

'If he is another psychiatrist. You can tell him to...'

'No,' was the short, sweet and emphatic reply. 'You remember Jane Fellows?'

'Hmmm,' the annoying habit seemed to have passed to him now, 'now that would be, from where and when?'

'As in a client.'

A sudden recollection, then repulsion. 'You don't mean the prosti...'

'I like to think of her as a personal relaxation assistant.'

'No matter what you call her, semantics don't help her job, she's still not coming in my house.'

'Well we are fortunate in two respects, firstly she already is, and secondly it's my house, if you remember.'

With a heavy sigh, and a deep feeling of foolishness, he conceded the argument. Then a thought struck 'just one small question, what exactly is a prost... personal relaxation assistant, doing in my... your house.' Quickly adding, 'or don't I want to know.'

'She does more than that, she reads your spirit.'

'Like tea leaves. Fine.' Finishing off his whisky, he passed it to Sara. 'Tell me if she needs another glass.'

With a mild hint of annoyance, her reply came 'not those spirits, your spirit, your soul, you.'

'Does she have to, I've had a bad day. And... I mean... really... but... alright then' he was a great negotiator. 'Where is she?'

'In the corridor, waiting. By the way you need to face the wall, she can't see your face, that's the rule, it's too distracting.'

'If I must.' He did so. From behind the door entered a semi-youthful looking woman, thirty-four, thirty-five, clothes that one would associate with a mystic, and a trance-like look - all part of the show. Yet her eyes were closed. With a sudden surge of activity, she opened them, stared and smiled.

'I do believe you are a twin.'

'Er, no,' Bill said without turning round, still annoyed.

'I hate to say it but you are.'

'Sorry, but you're wrong. I have no twin.'

At which point she described her reasoning. Which I will summarise using her viewpoint.

Facing the fire, hands by his side stood a man, five foot eight or nine. Slightly stocky in appearance, but still retaining that 'I still work out at the gym' look. Dark hair, that had a slight fade to grey at the edges. And ears that seemed a little too big for the face. That was the scene. But overlaid on to that with some, powerful imagination, power or skill, was a fractal, or near fractallian pattern, perhaps like the stress lines on a sheet of perspex. They radiated away from his head in a dulling fashion, till they were nought. All except for one direction, from his right the circle of colours, was distorted like someone was pulling it out, stretching it for some reason. Almost as if a drop of water was on a table and a pin-point had been dragged through it. It was this distortion that she claimed linked him to his twin. And if it wasn't his twin, what was it? 'I can but say, that you have an extremely strong bond with someone, and if it's not a twin, then a relative perhaps, whoever, you are so close, that you live with the one spirit. You and he are one.'

'Sure, fine, whatever.' Bill was always a sceptic and after her completely wrong first statement, had barely been listening. Now he was tired. It had been a long day, a psychiatrist told him he was a couple of cards short of a full deck, his wife hires a prostitute to read his spirit, both events amounting to nought. All a bit depressing. He made semi-polite excuses and went to lie down upstairs.

Time, in it's own perverse way, continued unabashed. Everything was normal nothing was different, Life went on. All except for Bill, a depression that normally waxed and waned, forgot to wane. It is afternoon, a bank holiday, Sara is out with friends, Bill sits at a desk, pen in hand, writing.

Sometimes the words you need to say just won't come, and the images and emotions of what makes up our minds are left there, locked away from the world, and only in brief fleeting moments of insight and ability do the words flow so fluidly that the sentences put down, convey what was really meant. This was one of those eloquent moments.

There are days when life seems little more than a drudge from one disappointment to the next, a walk of pain down the road of sorrows. Each breathe you take is just one more step towards the ever approaching leveller of death, and for each moment seized a dozen fall by the way-side. Such is life. But then the times we live for, the ones that make it all worthwhile, happen. Every so often, after you think things couldn't get worse but do, then worse still, there comes such a moment. Life improves, the birds sing that little happier, the sky is a bit more blue, the flowers smell sweeter. It is for these days we live for. But in the cruel irony of life, these moments are sometimes missed, they pass by unnoticed, and so the drudge of a bad day is like that of a good day. Your soul is dying, you have lost the appetite for life. Tomorrow is not just like yesterday, it is yesterday, and yesterday is tomorrow, nothing has improved, nothing ever will. Then you realise life is of no more importance.

I have reached that point. My soul has gone, my life is no more. But, in this depression, I believe that I have the chance to help someone. You won't understand now, you may never, but sometimes, our uniqueness is too exaggerated, we are all connected, we are one, it is the spirit that is this link. The spirit is all.

Finishing a swig from a glass, he signed his name. A drop or two of the liquid splashed on to the paper, it would soon vaporise. The evaporation of a spirit. A bottle of tablets lay half empty by his side, he finished the lot with a fresh glass. Lying down on the bed he waited.

It was a couple of days until Hannah could leave. The doctors were just performing the last of the tests, she lay down in bed, she seemed excessively tired, and the sleep she thought would be a logical cure. As she lay, drifting deeper and deeper into sleep, she felt dizzier than ever, she tried to wake or move but her bones and muscles were just too heavy too allow movement. It was then one of the machines that she was still connected too let off an alarm. And within minutes the bed was swamped, nurses, doctors, Janet and James. Everyone was doing there best, trying to keep the heart pumping the lungs breathing, and of course praying. The latter took up most of her parents energy.

Sitting up in a uncontrollable convulsion, her face contorted Hannah screamed 'Noooo!' Then it stopped, she collapsed.

The last few bars of a solemn hymn reverberated round the solid Norman architecture, the ethereal feel was appropriate to the church, and the echo reminiscent of the hollow left by the loss of a loved one. The stifling of tears was prevalent at the back, nearer the front full-blown weeping was more abundant. With the ease of a funeral service the coffin was taken outside, a long slow walk. James, pall-bearer on the front left could barely hide his emotion, but still retained the dignity and control expected of him. Sara followed the coffin, the black suited her, not that anyone noticed, there were thoughts of other things, of memories, of what was, what is, and what should have been. Janet was beside Sara, offering each support. Trailing behind, with a slight mournful, but more overriding bewildered expression was Hannah. Her recovery after the convulsions was swift, and now her self seemed better than the average eight year old. She was rejuvenated beyond belief. The coffin was laid beside the grave, words were said, but Sara couldn't take it. With a slow fluid movement she was several yards from the grave, retreating to a large stone. Behind it Hannah stood.

'Hello,' Hannah's words however sweet they were going to be, wouldn't help, 'what's wrong?'

'Nothing,' was Sara's blatant lie.

Hannah stood up, having been digging a small hole with a macabre fascination, soil fell off her dress. Without cause or reason she hugged her, or at least hugged her waist (as high as she could reach). 'Don't worry. Everything will work out.' Hannah's words seemed totally inappropriate, and from an adult Sara would have taken offence, but the innocence of tender years suggested a sincerity that was almost unimaginable, and she knew them to be true. 'Remember the spirit lives on.' Then added with a faint smile, 'the spirit is all.'

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Page last updated on 12th November 1998

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