Guys and Heroes - Chapter 2

Guy turned the car stereo up a little. The second movement of Shostakovich's eleventh symphony rocked the vehicle. His adrenalin moved slightly. This for him was excitement. This was music as it should be. Roll over Beethoven. And Mozart too. Their stuff was crashingly boring, stupendously weak and ultimately pathetic. He grinned maliciously to himself. He knew his ideas on music were heretical. But it gave him all the more pleasure. The wimps of composition he liked to call them. He further boasted that he knew nothing at all technically about music. He didn't play an instrument. He based all his conclusions on the pure listening. He knew what he liked and what he didn't like and as far as he was concerned, that was what mattered.

     Driving home at the same time every working day, it was always the same old traffic jam. And if the day was wet, it was worse. Idiot drivers who didn't know a road lane from a dirt track driving all over the road. Cutting in and cutting out. Little or no indication. Double parking outside a shop to nip in and get their evening paper. Wow, they could read. Pity they couldn't read their road signs. He had definite ideas on drivers too.

     The only thing that kept him sane in the melee was his stereo. It was indeed a beautiful set. Probably worth more than the banger he drove if the truth be told. There were only two things Guy spent his money on - music and books. That was it. Nothing else was really worth bothering about. His mother bought the things necessary to live, his clothes, his food, his toothpaste. Yes, he was thirty years of age and his mother still looked after him as if he were a child.

     He stuck his key into the front door anywhere between six and half six every evening depending on how bad the traffic had been. Like a programmed robot, he dropped his briefcase (not that it contained much - he never but never brought his work home) in the niche under the stairs. Then, following his long established tradition, he hung his coat on its appointed hook and walked back towards the hall door again to deposit his hat on the hat stand. Looking at its sunken mirror he unnecessarily adjusted his tie and headed for the kitchen.

     "Hello dear," his mother said as she always did when he appeared at the kitchen door.

     As usual he grunted and sat down to table. He was always in bad form at this time of the day. He was hungry and the day's work had not gone well. God, he hated that office. He hated Mr Merriman, his boss. He hated young Billy Jones who worked in the small cramped space with him. He loathed and detested Melissa Humphries, Mr Merriman's sexy secretary. He would just adore to screw her, however. He would love to hold her naked brown body against his, to feel her orgasm beneath him, to feel her breath on his neck as she reached per pinnacle of pleasure. To feel his power over her. Instead it was she who had power over him. Full, total and awesome power. And she knew it too. The bitch knew it.

     His mother put his soup in front of him.

     "There you are, love," she said infuriatingly, distracting him from his over-dinner thoughts.

     She sat down with her own soup and he knew no more would be said till she placed his plate of steak, mushy peas and mashed potatoes before him. Then she would make a further not-so-annoying comment as by that time his belly was well on the way to being satisfied along with his daydreams.

     Melissa couldn't contain herself any longer. As she told him afterward when they basked in their afterglow, she had reached a crisis point. As he was not making any advances towards her, in these days of female liberation, she was obliged to make the first move.

     He had been delayed in the office that night. His boss had wanted to go over some figures with him. The arduous task having been completed he escaped from Merriman and got back to his desk. Meticulously tidy, he gathered up all his bits and pieces from the day's labour and placed them one by one in their appointed locations. Merriman passed him on his way out.

     "Goodnight Guy," he said, "Thanks for your help."

     "Goodnight," he replied without even looking up.

     He continued the last rites for his desk, alone now in the building. Or so he thought. Finally turning the key to his right side drawer he looked up and started slightly as he saw Melissa standing in front of him. She was stark raving naked.

     "Take me," she smiled.

     And he did. In front of his desk on the lushly piled carpet he screwed the brains out of Melissa Humphries. Oh, if his boss could see him now, he thought as he came.

     His dinner appeared accompanied by his mother's expected comment. The fantasy faded. But it didn't matter. It had reached its conclusion and he started on the next.

     He walked into Mr Merriman's office. He didn't knock. He opened the door and marched in. Merriman looked up in surprise. He looked even more surprised when Guy told Melissa to leave them in private for a few minutes and sat down on her chair in front of him.

     "I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment," Merriman forced the amazement from his face.

     "I don't give a tinker's curse whether you are or not," said Guy calmly.

     Merriman raised his head, bewilderment clouding his features.

     "I beg your pardon."

     "You heard."

     "I heard alright," said a somewhat flustered Merriman, "But I'm not sure I understand."

     "Oh its all very simple really," Guy waved a white envelope in front of his manager's nose.

     Melissa took the opportunity to leave the office. She didn't want to be involved in this.

     "There is a letter in here," continued Guy, "I would let you read it yourself, but I think I would prefer to tell you about its contents myself. Afterwards you may peruse it as your own leisure. You can even frame it and hang it on your toilet wall. I frankly won't care."

     Guy threw the letter onto the desk in front of Merriman who pulled back as if it would bite him. For the first time in his life Guy had his boss on the run. He had the upper hand and he was savouring every minute.

     "I have written in that epistle before you," Guy settled himself comfortably in the chair, "That I have been with this company for twelve years of my life. Ever since the day I left school in fact. The first year I was innocent and looked forward to my working day. My boss at that time was Mr Harrington, Joe Harrington. I'm sure you remember him. A decent, honest, hard working man. The opposite of yourself, Mr Merriman."

     "Now listen here," Merriman made to get to his feet.

     "No," Guy raised his voice ever so slightly, "You listen. Just sit down and shut up."

     Something in the younger man's eyes told Merriman to obey would be the wisest course of action. He sat down.

     "That man," continued Guy, "Was a constant help to me. Everything I know about the business came from him. Unfortunately he dropped dead one evening on his way home from mass. I attended his funeral. A sad day."

     Guy paused, confident that the older man would not interrupt his monologue again. He didn't.

     "After that I got a new boss," Guy glared hard at Merriman, "You."

     He stabbed his finger at the man behind the desk.

     "Didn't take me very long to size you up and over the years, torturous years under your crooked command, I am sorry to say that my impressions were confirmed. Tenfold. No, a hundredfold. It has taken a long time for me to find the courage to say this to you, Mr Merriman, but at last the hour is here."

     Guy stood up and gazed down at his victim. Merriman, contrary to the bullying and mean-minded man he usually was, appeared now as little more than a frightened wimp. A pathetic, cringing little excuse of a human being. Guy almost felt pity for him. Almost, but not quite.

     "I am resigning as of this moment, Mr Merriman," he announced with what amounted to shear ecstasy in his heart, "And before I walk out of here I would like to share a few home truths with you. First off, Merriman, you are a total waster. You contribute nothing to this firm but heartbreak to those who work under you, except of course that slut. But that's only because she gives you what you want occasionally. Don't think for a second I don't know about the odd evening you call your unfortunate wife to tell her you have to work late. Oh you have to work late alright. Work late up in Melissa Humphries' flat."

     "How dare you," Merriman contained himself no longer as he leapt up and took a swipe at Guy.

     Guy, however, expecting his boss to snap at any moment, neatly stepped back and allowed Merriman the pleasure of disturbing countless numbers of air molecules. The force of the attempt forced Merriman to grab his desk to prevent himself from falling over. Guy calmly put his hands on the enraged man's shoulders and shoved him back down into his chair. He leaned over very close.

     "If you try that again Mr Merriman," hissed Guy, "You'll wake up in an ambulance."

     "Don't threaten me," croaked Merriman, "I'll sue you."

     Guy smiled.

     "And Mrs Merriman will get to hear all about your antics."

     "You have no proof."

     "You wanna bet?" drawled Guy.

     Apparently he didn't. He muttered something to himself instead.

     "I'm sorry," smiled Guy, "I didn't quite catch that."

     He cocked an ear. Boy, was he enjoying this. All these years when this weed held him firmly under his thumb and he couldn't do anything about it. Now the tables had been turned. Oh boys, oh boys, had they been turned. He felt a surge of energy. Power. Raw, naked power coursed through every fibre of his being. He held all the trump cards now. And it felt good. It felt very good indeed.

     His boss maintained his silence.

     "Another John Cage composition, I see," he quipped knowing and not caring that his boss wouldn't have an iota who the aforementioned composer was.

     "What?" grunted Merriman.

     "Forget it, you philistine," shouted Guy.

     "Okay, okay," Merriman placed his hands, palms downward, on his desk and awaited the next verbal attack.

     "Before I was so rudely interrupted," continued Guy in his sweeter than ever voice, "I was about to point out a few of my observations to you. I repeat that you are a total waste of space. You hinder me daily in any work I attempt to do. You have ignored any idea or suggestion I have ever made. You think you run your department efficiently. Well, let me tell you that it is the likes of myself and others who have kept this place going in spite of your stupidities, your failings, your short-sightedness. Naturally you get all the credit. My stomach has turned watching you hob-nobbing with the powers that be. No doubt notching yourself up a few. And have you ever given credit where it is due? To Terry Johnson? To Thomas Duggan? To me?"

     Guy paused breathing hard.

     "Do you?" he roared causing Merriman to jump.

     His fantasy was suddenly obliterated as the voice of his mother brought him back to reality.

     "More peas, dear?"

     He looked up at her. Why do you fuss, Mammy, he thought to himself, if I want more, I'll ask for it. He sighed loudly.

     "No thanks," he said, "I've had enough."

     "You'll have some ice cream so," a statement rather than a question.

     "Yes, I'll have some ice cream."

     No more fantasies. Just his mother's home-made ice cream. Very good too. Mothers knew how to do things with food. That's what mothers were for, of course.

     After the inevitable cup of tea he retired to the front room and immersed himself in music. This time Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He didn't want them to, but despite himself his thoughts turned to his job. Twelve years. God, was it really that long? Twelve years walking up and down that long cheerless corridor to the small office he had shared with different people during that time. People who had the sense to get up and go while the going was good. He, however, had stayed. Became a fixture like the furniture. Why, he didn't know. He had applied for the odd new position over the years, but only half-heartedly.

     The one thing he would really like would be to hand in his notice. To walk that corridor for the very last time. Oh yes, there was one other deed that would make his life complete. And that was to screw Melissa Humphries. God, he would love that. He would risk eternal damnation for that. Of course, he was sure he would make it to confession in time. Guy was not one to take risks.

     Then why didn't he try more seriously to get a different job? And why didn't he ask Melissa out? The second question was easy to answer when he got up the courage to admit it to himself. He was too shy. Yes, that was very true, but more difficult to come to terms with was the fact that if he even hinted to Melissa that he lusted for her, she would laugh in his face. Why would a confident, pretty and oh-so-sexy young girl like herself get involved with a creep like him? So he hated her instead. A love-hate one-sided relationship of the most turbulent kind. Burning with love whilst seething with hatred.

     The first question was answered perhaps by a mixture of laziness and complacency. He was reasonably well paid where he was. Money which allowed him to indulge in his favourite hobbies. And they were of course - books and music. Very good. You are an attentive reader. Now, on with the story.

     But was that a satisfactory answer? Okay, he was well rewarded financially, but that is never enough. More is needed. Job satisfaction - to use a well-bandied term. He didn't have any of that at all. So why did he stay? Maybe if he left he wouldn't have the skills for another job. He was okay where he was but only just. His high salary was due to his years of service rather than to any major contributions by himself. A younger man could probably do a better job for half the salary. And Guy opened his eyes. he didn't like those last thoughts one little bit.

     He turned to the bookcase and took out a well-thumbed novel. Reading would put a stop to the restless meanderings of his mind. He liked a good book.

     Guy smiled to himself. Did he pick this book by chance? He had reached over to the bookshelves without really looking. He had stuck his hand in at random. Or had he? Then again, this was the chair he always sat in. It was always in the same place having been so arranged to place the occupant exactly in the centre of the sound field. He had carefully positioned the chair, his speakers and the stereo balance to achieve this. And still sometimes the record producers did not conform. But usually they did and he seldom had to move his seat. So if he had been reading a particular book and shoved it into the nearest slot in the bookshelf, was there not a pretty good chance that he would retrieve the same one all things being equal?

     He examined the cover. A drawing of a house, an old house, surrounded in a red hue with the visage of an old man superimposed on it. His eyes and the two topmost windows of the house merged, with the left eye a grisly green colour while above the building blazing alone in the black, practically starless sky, a lone blue sun. Autumn leaves nestled at the foot of the house. A lurid and unnecessary jacket picture designed to capture the story and pull the punter. This was a book he had found quite by accident while on a trip to London. A place he actually hated but made the journey about twice a year for two reasons. Yes, you guessed it. Music and books. He returned each time loaded down with records, compact disks and, of course, books.

     The author was American, at least the book had been published in the States. Just another piece of fiction in the long line of the horror genre. He had never heard of the writer before and try as he might could find out nothing about him except that he did not appear to have produced another work. He had pondered some time over the decision to buy this novel. It didn't look great and he got a touch of the will I/won't I syndrome. Eventually, however, he decided to purchase. Heck, it was only another among the hundreds of books he already owned. And many of those he had taken, because they looked really good, turned out to be pure and senseless rubbish. The converse was true also, of course. You never knew till you had read it.

     So he brought it home and had left it to the very last of the batch. Then he read it. Not a bad story, he thought when he finished, but nothing to write home about either. And he had tossed it aside. There it might have remained too, only he had come across it again in one of his tidy up sessions. He had opened it and started reading. Soon the clean-up was forgotten and he was engrossed.

     When he closed it he had completed it again. What was different about it? This time it had gotten to him somehow. This time it had turned something up inside of him. It had excited him. Fascinated him.

     That was the turning point. Since that evening only some few years before, that book had become his favourite by far. The characters had come alive. He felt he knew each of them intimately. In fact he was practically in love with Nancy and he admired Hero out of all proportion. Hero had become for him the epitome of what every man should be. If he stopped to think about it, he would know that Hero was everything he was not and sometimes in his darker and more depressed moments this sad knowledge would expose itself to him. Normally, however, he went about his own sweet way oblivious to the ungenerous spirit of mother nature in his case. Poor Guy. He was not attractive, although there had to be some woman other than his mother who might think so. He was not a spring of confidence either, rather a tense coil of unbridled shyness. And he craved adventure but found none.

    So in bed at night before falling to sleep he would become Hero. He would save Nancy from the demon in the castle. When all seemed lost, he would appear by her side and fearlessly confront the fiends from hell. With his tremendous learning on the secret art of necromancy (the white kind, naturally) he would invoke the only power on heaven and earth capable of withstanding the devil incarnate. Nancy and himself would walk hand in hand from the terrible house of doom and get married somewhere. Then he would fall into the arms of Morpheus if he hadn't already done so.

     He had read the book he now held in his hands many, many times. He should have gotten bored with it, but he never did. Now he almost felt guilty looking at the cover knowing that its uncanny power was working on him again. I should read something else, the thought gnawed at him albeit only slightly, but what the hell. When did I finish the thing last? But the answer came clear. Two weeks ago to the day. Surely not, It must be longer than that. Oh Guy, stop fooling yourself. Admit it. You adore that book so just start it again. It won't bite you.

     Or would it? It already had a strange hold over him in a way he didn't like to consider too deeply. The music ended. A suitable point to begin, he thought. He opened the first chapter and his eyes moved over the first sentence. The house was called Clifeur. He liked that beginning. It got straight to the heart of the matter. Didn't beat about the bush. The house was called Clifeur. Five simple words and yet so powerful for him. They set his adrenalin in motion. He was at the very start of an adventure for the mind and he wouldn't put it down till it had reached its very satisfactory conclusion with the defeat of evil. A right and fitting end. Far too many stories allowed the devil to triumph these days. Or if not to win outright, then giving him considerable leeway for a reappearance. Well, okay, the house wasn't burned down or anything but God had the absolute last word and the hero and his girlfriend weren't killed. Good enough for Guy. It was final. It was complete. Besides, destroying the house would be a bit corny.

     The house was called Clifeur. He had taken great pride in his sudden discovery, on his second time round, that Clifeur was simply an anagram for Lucifer. From then on he kept an alert eye out for any other hidden words or ideas. To date he had found no more.

     The house was called Clifeur. Once again he embarked on this adventure. The story took hold of him and he was away. The scene was a small village somewhere here in Ireland of all places. Maybe that was one of the book's good points for him. The setting was close to home. He could identify with it. There must be hundreds of similar places scattered throughout the country. Come to think of it, the author hadn't even bothered to give the little township a name. Well, it wasn't necessary. Put your own name to it, if you like. Guy hadn't. It was a place somewhere over there. Away from the city, away from the coast.

     And as he read, Guy became Hero. Guy became the intelligent, handsome and debonair ace. He won the girl, fought the good fight and despite the odd doubt here and there showing up his true humanity (we're not talking about Superman here, but flesh and blood, muscle and bone) he conquers against all the odds (with a tiny bit of help from the good Lord above - as I said, no Superman) and more or less rides off into the sunset.

     He didn't reply to his mother's goodnight as she shuffled upstairs to bed later that evening. In fact, he never even heard her. He was absorbed in the struggle against evil and not even a riot outside on the street would have disturbed him. He had long learned to shut himself off from his surrounds. From the gentle clatter of his mother pottering about in the kitchen to the shouts and roars of the louts playing football on the road by his window. Noisy little beggars who had no thought for the rights of others to a bit of peace and quiet in their own neighbourhood. And why did they play outside his home? Because their parents wouldn't let them do so outside their own. Go and cause havoc elsewhere. People just don't give a damn. Of course, Guy had always hated outdoor sport of any kind. Even in school he had convinced his mother to get a doctor's certificate to exempt him from the half day each week devoted to Gaelic football so beloved of the Christian Brothers. So instead he was made stay in the classroom alone and given a book to read. To make sure he actually read the book and not used the time to get his homework done, the suspicious Brother would question him on its contents. Alas for the aforementioned halfway state between layman and priest, this was no problem for Guy. He loved reading. He would read anything rather than bespoil himself on a football field. He would read anything anyway.

     He didn't hear the telephone ring about ten o'clock even though his mother thumped the bedroom floor with her shoe for him to answer it. Much to his mother's annoyance it rang off. But she wasn't going to get up at this, for her, late hour. Folk shouldn't be calling so late anyway, she grumbled to herself.

     A half an hour after the phone had given up its demand for attention, Guy once again read the concluding lines. Could have rounded it off a tiny bit better, he thought, or stuck in an epilogue or something. But he wasn't really complaining. The satanic had been crushed. He surveyed the book's cover. Evil little bastard, his eye locked on those of the visage staring back at him. I've defeated you again, haven't I. With a little bit of help from the man above. He always acknowledged his god. Afraid not to. As if neglecting to mention, even in thought, his belief in divine protection, would somehow call down the wrath of the almighty. Oh yes, Guy was very catholic. Mass every Sunday, confession and communion once a year, a hurried prayer every night. The minimum possible to ensure a place up there and not down below.

     He stretched out in his chair, satisfied that good had triumphed again. For it was intolerable to him that the devil should ever be allowed a hint of any sort of victory. Satan was bad, bad, bad. Satan stalked the world even today, though not like in the story. No, Lucifer, prince of hatred, was far more subtle than that. Wars raging in different areas of the planet testified to the devil's clever manipulation of the puny human race. As did the many other facets of the wickedness of mankind. Crimes of violence, killings, corruption at the top. Oh yes, the devil was very active indeed.

     His musings were interrupted by the shrill cry of the telephone in the hall. Who the hell is that? Three rings, then a wallop on the ceiling above him. Okay, okay, you impatient old bat. He hauled himself out of the chair and went to answer the call. As he picked the receiver up, another thump from above shot a dart of anger through him. He restrained himself however.

     "Hello," he said simply.

     Anymore information would be giving too much away and you never knew what's on the other end of the line.

     "This is the United States calling," a crystal clear female voice assailed him.

     America, he frowned. Calling? Is this a joke? The speaker went on to ask him had she connected with his own name and number.

     "That's correct," he confirmed.

     "There is a call for you, sir."

     An electromagnetic click sounded. He marvelled. That came from thousands of miles away. He apparently didn't marvel at the fact that the voice had also originated at roughly the same distance and he definitely didn't marvel that the pulses of energy, of which the click and voice were composed, had travelled tens of times that having been transmitted via satellite. He probably wouldn't have cared anyway.

     A gruff male voice announced itself as a Mr Ralph Harper of Bloomsdale, Harper and Sons.

     "What can I do for you, Mr Harper?"

      "I wrote to you some time ago in connection with the will of a Mr Bertrand Hennessy, who I believe was your uncle."

     "Did you say the will?" asked Guy uncertainly.

     "That's right."

     "Do you mean he is dead?"

     "I'm sorry, sir," the voice lost a little of its gruffness, "Did you not know?"

     "I had no idea," stammered Guy, "We haven't heard from Uncle Bertie in years. When did he die?"

     Mr Harper gave him the exact time and date.

     "But that's over two months ago. We were never informed."

     "I'm afraid it is not our responsibility to inform you of his death, as I am sure you will appreciate. Our duties lie in the execution of his last wishes."

     "And did you say you sent me a letter?"

     "Yes sir," replied Harper.

     "I never received it," said Guy, not at all puzzled.

     He would have to speak severely to his mother.

     "In that case," continued Harper, "I'll have a copy put in the post immediately."

     "Thank you," said Guy, "Could you tell me what was in it?"

     "I would prefer not to over the phone," said Harper stiffly, "You'll have the copy of the correspondence in a few days. Let me give you my number in case there are more problems with your postal service."

     Guy would like to have replied that it might have been the U.S. Mail which was at fault in this instance. The U.S. Mail, which even in the event of a full scale nuclear war, will still get through. He had read somewhere that some idiot had actually said that. But he was pretty sure no blame could be laid in those quarters this time. He would really have to speak very severely indeed to his mother. So he kept his trap shut and took down Harper's number.

     Guy went to bed and spent a sleepless night. He had loved his Uncle Bertie who had become a father figure to him in his earliest years as his real father had died weeks after he was born. His mother's only brother had lived with his parents from the day they were married. A strange sort of arrangement, Guy had always thought. However, when Guy's real Dad was killed in a horrific accident at work, Bertie had almost naturally fulfilled the missing need in Guy's young life. Compensation in those days not being what it is today, his mother would have lost her house except for the fact that his father's firm generously and promptly paid off the mortgage and gave her a reasonable stipend for the rest of her days. He would have gone to work for that company too only his mother had rejected out of hand their offer of a job to Guy when he left full time education. She took their money alright, but refused to have anything else to do with them, bitterly blaming them for her husband's cruel death although she knew full well that the whole sorry affair had been totally due to his own negligence.

Uncle Bertie had been a waster. He was Guy's father's best friend, which was how Guy's parents had met each other in the first place. When his father had landed a better-than-average paid job, they had married and bought the house his mother and himself still occupied. Bertie had moved in with them. Why exactly, Guy had never found out for he had a perfectly good home with his own folks. Anyway, Guy was not to reason why. He accepted the situation as he found it. If, however, he had stopped to think about it, he might have put two and two together and deduced that Bertie had been booted out by his parents. Guy's own father took pity and against the wishes of his mother allowed Bertie free rent until such time as he could afford to pay something.

     One year later Guy arrived neatly packaged by the angels as his mother used to tell him. Took them three months to get started, Guy often thought rather wickedly. He simply could not imagine his mother having anything to do with something as nasty as sex. Perhaps his old man had fired from a distance.

     One day, when Guy was four years old, Uncle Bertie took him on his knee and read from a favourite book. It was the last time anyone had ever read to him. When the story was finished, a tale of Rupert Bear he recalled distinctly, Bertie broke the news to him. His uncle told the upset little boy that he had to go away for awhile. Not for too long, although even at that tender age children are no fools, and Guy knew it meant forever.

     So Bertie bid farewell and was never seen again. Of course it was Guy's mother who was the brains behind the whole episode. When she had recovered from her husband's death (which didn't take too long) her first concern in life was to get rid of Bertie by foul means or fair. Then she could get down to the more serious business of bringing up her only son. However, as Bertie could never take a hint, she was forced to resort to many and varied underhand ways of getting her message across, ending up finally, about four years later, in a weird attempt at scaring her brother. Words carefully cut from a newspaper (like in the best blackmail films) and pasted onto a backing sheet threatening dire consequences if Bertie didn't leave the country as he had somehow crossed the Dublin branch of the mafia. (If you don't believe me, the letter still exists forgotten at the bottom of a trunk in the attic.) Her suppressed rage was fierce when Bertie showed her the letter the day he received it and laughingly told her that the kids up the street had a hell of a sense of humour. Further, he said he would frame it. He never did, of course, and eventually it was consigned to the bottom of the aforementioned trunk among many other bits and pieces of paraphernalia left behind by Uncle Bertie.

     Having failed by means foul, there was nothing for it but to act by means fair. Hence she confronted her unwanted brother one morning and told him to his face that he would have to leave. It worked. He asked if he could stay until he had made arrangements to leave for America, a request she reluctantly granted. He had been thinking about this for some time anyway, as the atmosphere in the house was becoming more oppressive by the day, notwithstanding his relationship with his sister's child of whom he was extremely fond. To leave the boy would be the most difficult thing for him to do, but compared to spending many more days in the same house as his mean-minded, petty, quarrelsome bitch of a sister it would be relatively easy.

     The last time Guy saw his beloved uncle was when Bertie, laden down with luggage, turned at the end of the street and waved back to the tearful little boy standing forlornly on the doorstep. His mother told him to get in out of that and to stop being so foolish.

     "Why do you hate Uncle Bertie?" Guy asked her.

     It was the first time he had ever mentioned the subject to his parent even though he had been well aware of the bad vibes.

     "Now what has that terrible man been filling your head with?" she demanded, "What bad things has he been saying about me?"

     "He never said anything bad about you, Mammy."

     "Don't lie to me, Guy."

     "I'm not lying."

     "Your Uncle Bertie was not a very nice man," she sat Guy down on a chair.

     "That's not true," Guy jumped up, shouting.

     A slap on his face caused him to sit down again rather suddenly. It was enough to take any hint of wind from his sails. His mother put her arms around him.

     "I didn't mean to hurt you," she crooned, "But you must never speak back to your Mammy like that. Its not how good boys should behave."

     And she proceeded to explain to Guy how mean and rotten Uncle Bertie really was. Maybe not so much to Guy but to everybody else. He refused to believe her naturally but said nothing. He loved his uncle and he missed him so much. There was nothing further Guy wanted to say or hear so he extricated himself from his mother's arms and went up to his room. Bertie had promised him he would send him a letter as soon as he got to America and Guy had assured him of a reply. By return of post. It was all he had left to look forward to.

     The weeks passed by and every day Guy asked his mother if there was a letter for him. There never was.

     "I told you he was no good," his satisfied mother smiled at her one and only.

     But Guy kept faith. He refused to believe that Bertie would let him down. More weeks went by and still no correspondence of any kind from America. The best kept hopes, even of innocent children, eventually begin to wane. It took some time but eventually Guy had to concede to himself that perhaps his mother was right after all. And as time passed further, Guy gave up hope altogether and forgot about his traitorous uncle.

     Until one day, years later he came across an old, faded envelope stuck in the bottom of a drawer. It was addressed to him and was still sealed. It was the one letter, in a moment of carelessness, his mother forgot to burn. He opened it and couldn't help the tears as he read Bertie's words still calling him over the years, admonishing him gently for never having replied to any of his letters.

     He learned that his uncle now (at least at the time of writing some years previously) had a very good job, his own apartment and life was grand. He missed only one thing and that was the little boy who had promised to write. Guy lost no time in composing a very lengthy letter to his beloved Uncle Bertie. All his long lost feelings came back and he poured out his heart.

     Then he had his first major (and last) confrontation with his mother.

     "Why did you not give me my letters from Uncle Bertie," he asked her not without some trepidation.

     She looked up from her knitting, her face flashing warning lights. She said nothing for a moment as if gathering her thoughts carefully. Then changing her mind she shook her head.

     "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

     She continued with her work as if her sixteen year son wasn't even there.

     "Mammy," he raised his voice slightly and trying desperately to control its quiver, "Look at me."

     She raised her head slowly. He swallowed hard.

     "Why didn't I get my letters from Uncle Bertie?" he asked her again.

     "Because you never got any letters from your Uncle Bertie," she pursed her lips, "And I didn't either."

     He took a deep breath and pulled the letter from his pocket. He held it up for her to see.

     "What do you call this?" he stammered.

     Quick as a flash she jumped up and grabbed at it. He had never seen his mother move so fast before. Luckily he was that little bit faster and managed to save his treasure from her grasping hands.

     "Give that to me," her face showed its furious side.

     "No," he was a bag of nerves now.

     "Very well then," she said and sat down again, "If you don't give me that letter, there'll be trouble. You mark my words."

     "Mammy," he continued having got his second wind, "You lied to me."

     But she, realising she wasn't going to have her way by force, turned to another formidable weapon in her armoury. She frantically began to search through her handbag as she started to cry. Finding her hankie she pulled it out and wiped away a tear or two. Then she blew her nose loudly.

    "There you go," she sobbed, "Bullying your poor old mother, making all sorts of accusations against me. Lord above, I never thought I'd live to see the day."

     Guilt smacked him in the face. He stood gazing on the sad sack before him. She didn't mean it. She was only thinking of me. She always put me first and probably feared that Uncle Bertie might try and take me, her only son, away from her. And a wave of anger shot through him overriding his first thoughts. The old bat lied to you. She stole from you. She thieved your letters. That's not putting you first. That's bloody mindedness. Whatever way you look at it. Don't give in to her now. Stand up or forever be under her thumb. Don't listen Guy. Remember she's all you have in this world. This terrible world which she has protected you from all these years. Sacrificed everything for you. Given up things she could have had. Didn't get married again. Worked hard so her son could have a decent education. A good life. That's rubbish. She has smothered you with a terribly misguided sense of love. The worst kind. She hasn't prepared you for the world at all. You go out there and you'll be eaten alive. And why? Because she has woven a net of apron strings around you. She has extinguished any spark of life within you and made you into a zombie. A faceless and frail slave, good only for feeding her own narrow-minded world view. She has moulded you in her own image. She has and still is making a sissy out of you. No Guy, she loves you. She loves you like only a mother could. She has given you everything Guy. Don't turn your back on her now.

     The thoughts chased each other around his confused head. One gaining the upper hand, now the other.

     She looked up at him, her eyes wet. Another tear struggled over her lower eyelid and strolled down her cheek. That was enough. She had won.

     "Oh Mammy, I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have doubted you. Maybe his other letters got lost in the post or something. I'm sure there is a good explanation."

     "He probably didn't write any others," she had the upper hand now and she knew it.

     "But he said he did," Guy's meek and final attempt to prevent a complete back down on his part.

     "No," it didn't work, "He's lying. Bertie was always good at that. He no more wrote any other letters to you than he ever did a decent day's work. I think you should burn it, Guy."

     She smiled up at her son as she brushed her handkerchief briefly across her face. Might as well capitalise on her advantage. Her moist eyes dried up remarkably quickly.

     "I did mean to give you that letter, but when I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that to do so would be cruel. After all, I well remember how you used to pine for some news of your uncle when he left. It broke my heart to see you. But so much time went by and the mean man never wrote. He wrote to nobody, Guy. Not to his parents. Not even to me, who had given him a good home for so long. Then out of the blue that thing arrived. I could see by that time you had well gotten over your initial upset and had accepted the blunt truth that your Uncle Bertie was no good. How could I let old wounds be reopened? Better to bury them."

     She was pleased with her little speech.

     "I suppose," he muttered.

     He didn't know whether to believe her or not. God, why couldn't he get the better of her? If only he had some proof that other letters were received. He smiled to himself as a wicked thought nudged him. He would search through her room. Further he would search the house from top to bottom. He would have to wait until she wasn't in, of course. But he could do that with no problem at all.

     His patience, however, was not tested to any great degree and three days later he got his chance. His beloved parent decided to pay an uncharacteristic visit to a friend of hers. She must have felt in need of a recharging of her gossip machine for the friend in question had degrees in the subject. No matter, she was gone for the evening.

     He began his explorations in her bedroom although he had found Bertie's letter buried in the sideboard bottom drawer in the dining room. A methodical search revealed many things of interest. A pamphlet on sex education carefully divided into two halves with the section for girls perforated along the inner edge to allow it to be removed. Why he couldn't really fathom. Surely the idea should be to educate both sexes about each other as well as themselves. Why remove one whole section as if the other half of humanity didn't exist? Anyway he fancied he knew all about sex but read it briefly just in case. He didn't like the bit which informed him that his body was the temple of the Holy Ghost and that any messing with it was gravely sinful. He tried his very best not to indulge in his solitary habit but it was a losing battle. Confession, however, was never more than a week away.

     He replaced the booklet in exactly the position he had found it. He knew his mother would never give it to him anyway, but still he wouldn't like her to even suspect he may have had access to it. He was intrigued though as to where she had come across it. Probably some crony had given it to her as no doubt her son would need to become acquainted with these things sooner or later.

     He discovered some letters from his father written he assumed during his parents' courtship. He read one of them and it threw a whole new light on this man he only vaguely knew through his mother's and uncle's odd comments. His father was some romantic. Guy wondered how his mother took these epistles of undying love and devotion. He couldn't imagine it and stopped trying.

     Then another envelope addressed to his old lady in her maiden name but this time the writing was not his father's. He perused it and saw his mother from a new perspective. She had another man in her life at one stage. This fellow wasn't as soppy as his father, but wasn't far behind either. But his father had won the lady in the end apparently.

     These things too were put back precisely as he had found them. Unfortunately no further letters from Uncle Bertie were unearthed. He consulted his watch to discover that a little more time than he had intended had been spent in the search of his mother's room. However it had been worth it. Now, he would have to go through the remainder of the house somewhat faster.

     When he heard his mother's key in the front door he was still buried in the pile of junk he had tipped onto the floor from the selfsame drawer where he had discovered the item which had started this whole hunt in the first place.

     "Oh God," he muttered as he hurriedly scraped together all the bits and pieces and bundled them back.

     He was desperately trying to fit the drawer back into the sideboard when his old bat walked into the room.

     "What are you doing?" she demanded.

     He slammed the drawer shut.

     "Nothing," he stuttered.

     "Don't lie to me, Guy."

     "I wasn't doing anything," he protested feebly, "Only looking for some paper."

     "We don't keep any paper in there."

     "I thought we might have."

     "That's where you found that letter," the truth dawned on her, "And you wouldn't believe me when I said there weren't any others. Oh Guy, what's happening to you. You never used to disbelieve me before."

     And she sat down, opening her bag and pulling out the inevitable hankie. The waterworks began.

     "Look, Mammy," he stammered, "I wasn't, I mean, oh hell."

     He shrugged his shoulders as she sat there, sobbing. Why does she always have to start that? It makes me feel so bad every time she starts crying. Why does it make me feel so bad? I wish it didn't. I wish I could just walk out of the room and leave her there. Walk out of the house. Never come back. Freedom. But he knew he couldn't do that. He put his hand on her shoulder.

     "Don't cry," he said gently, "I am sorry."

     She put a forgiving arm around her son and hugged him to her. She nestled her head against his breast, her tears wetting his shirt. It was comforting and at the same time repulsive. But once again she had come out on top and Guy knew it.

     Some weeks after that the letter he had painstakingly written to his uncle came back. It was marked Return to Sender. His mother handed it to him no doubt secure in the knowledge that the said uncle was now a lost cause.

     No waterworks today, Mammy, thought Guy as he took it. But there was no need now. He would never find his uncle who had probably moved elsewhere and left no forwarding address. She was well satisfied.

     And there ended the episode of the uncle thought found but ultimately lost. Guy was saddened but did not pine. It had been a brief flicker of hope in his dark, friendless world. He forgot about it and went on with his life which comprised sleeping, eating, reading, school and, of course, mother.

He tossed in his bed, the memories causing him a mixture of anger and distress. Mother, always interfering in his life. Even now at thirty years of age. She had intercepted his letter. God knew how many others had suffered the same fate. He would have to talk to her. He would have to have it out with her once and for all. His anger peaked as he clenched his fists and dissipated for an instant. He shook beneath the bedclothes. It returned building up again slowly. It was no longer fury at his mother however. It was at himself. Rage, because he knew he would not face up to her. He would confront her with all good intentions and somewhere halfway through the scene he would fall to pieces. His lonesome fury increased and was released in a sudden scream. He sat upright in the bed bathed in sweat. Did he really cry out? Had he been dreaming?

     "Guy, are you having a nightmare?"

     It was his mother's plaintiff voice calling out from her bedroom. Oh shut up, you fucking old battleaxe, he dragged his arms from beneath the eiderdown and shook his fists wildly in the air. He relaxed as his thoughts calmed down. Oh God forgive me for cursing. I didn't mean to swear.

     "Guy," his mother called again.

     "Yes, Mammy," he shouted back, "Its okay. Go to sleep."

     Why don't you get out of bed, you pathetic little wimp and dash into your mother's room. Switch her light on and let her have it. Howl at her. Tell her to fuck off. Tell her to get out of your hair. Tell her to die. He shuddered. But I cannot. I cannot do that. No Guy. You're right. You shouldn't do anything like that. It would be wrong. She's only an old woman. She is helpless. You'd kill her. Who cares if you kill her. Do it, Guy. Don't piss about. Do it. Let her know how she has suffocated you all these years. Disrupting your life. Meddling in your affairs. Don't you remember how she prevented you from keeping any friends? In case they'd ruin you for her. In case they would give you bad ideas. Normal healthy ideas which to her mind were bad and sinful. No Guy. She protected you from the influences of others. From their evil ways. Even under her loving care you still commit naughty things with yourself. That's bad. And think how much worse it would be if you had fallen into the clutches of some of the nasty little boys you used to go to school with. Don't you recall Freddy Harrison who wanted you to steal girls' knickers from clotheslines? Your Mama found out and had to chastise you. For Christ's sake Guy, what's in a pair of drawers? It was only a childish prank. But Guy, don't you remember what you did with them. You tried them on. They gave you an erection. That was sinful. It frightened you too. Don't you remember. Oh come on, all little boys get erections. Big deal. Its quite normal.

     The two opposing forces inside his head battled on. Urging him this way, then that. Its right. Its wrong. Do it. Don't. They threatened to tear his mind apart. He put his hands to his ears in a vain attempt to block the swirling thoughts. But of course it was no good. They rose and fell. They flew around his brain causing him to move rapidly through emotions of anger, elation, distress, hate, guilt, sorrow, fear.

     And eventually, mercifully, sleep descended and wiped them all away.

     Next day, however, while sitting at table his thoughts did not turn to their usual round of imaginations. Instead he found he could hardly eat as the old sensations he knew so well took over his body. The tightness in this throat making it difficult for him to swallow his hardly-masticated food. The low churning in the bottom of his stomach making him reconsider every morsel he placed in his mouth for fear that this would be the one to break the camel's back, so to speak, and cause him to reproduce his dinner all over his mother's spotless tablecloth.

     The usual battle was going on inside his head. This time it was about how best to broach the subject of the telephone call from the United States of good old America the night before. The thorny subject of Uncle Bertie was coming back to haunt him once again and with it all the associated memories of how his mother had effectively blocked every effort on Bertie's part to keep contact with his nephew. Now from beyond the grave, the ghost of his uncle was calling for perhaps the last time. His mother would be unable to do much about this one. But what confrontations would have to be weathered before this new manifestation was finally laid to rest?

     Eventually his courage peaked and he cleared his throat. The frog, however, refused to budge.

     "Mammy," he gurgled.

     "Yes Dear," she smiled at her son.

     He coughed fiercely and swallowed hard.

     "There was a phone call last night."

     "Was it for me, Dear?"

     "No," he struggled, "It was for me."

     "Oh," she looked bemused through the fleeting shadow which crossed her face.

     "It was from America."

     Her eyes darkened. She looked at him. He could sense the tension rising. He attempted to continue but his tongue declined to budge. He wanted to attack her about the legal letter she must have intercepted. But he was unable to. He returned her gaze. He felt trapped. He had opened the can of worms and would now have to dish them out. Unfortunately he knew now they had to be coated in something sweet. He wanted so badly to accuse her barefaced and it went deep into his being that he was not strong enough to do it. His mother's hold on him was too strong and would not be broken so easily. His tongue loosened.

     "Uncle Bertie is dead."

     Relief swept across her features to be quickly replaced by something else. Guy observed her in a dumbfounded sort of way. The old bat is glad. She is delighted that her brother is dead. I can't believe it. She is over the moon about it. Look at her. She is finding it difficult to keep a smile off her silly face. Now I can hit her with it. Now her spell over me is broken. Now I can call her a liar. An unfeeling bitch. The anger rumbled through him. He was beginning to shake. Take control Guy. Calm down and just tell her quietly. No point exploding in rage. She only emerges victorious then. Take hold of yourself and in measured, reasoned tones tell her what you think. Tell her about your knowledge of the missing letter. Tell her you know she lied in the past. Tell her what a shameful and vindictive person she really is. Tell her all the things you've wanted to say to her but were afraid to. And when her tears come, tell her again. Tell her how she has ruined your life. Tell her. Tell her.

     He opened his mouth to speak. He was peaceful now. He could do it. Words came out.

     "Uncle Bertie is dead."

     They were the wrong ones. He dropped his head into his hands and dissolved into tears. His mother jumped up and went to him. She put her arms about him.

     "Its alright Love," she crooned, "Don't cry. Oh God rest your poor Uncle Bertie."

     She stroked his hair.

     "But he is in heaven now, Guy," she whispered in his ear, "Probably up there now, laughing down at us still stuck in this valley of sadness."

     He shook with grief.

     "Oh Guy, don't cry so," she continued, "He is happy now with God."

     I wish you'd shut up you stupid old bitch, the thoughts lunged through his mind. I'm not crying for Bertie. I'm crying because I can't stand up to you. I just can't do it.

     So he didn't mention the letter. Instead he told her there was one on the way and that he expected it to arrive any day now. There was something in it about a will. And her eyes lit up. Did the poor unfortunate man leave us some money, she wondered. Suddenly the hated Bertie was a poor unfortunate. Funny how the hint of cash changes our perceptions of those we don't have much time for. Especially across the life and death boundary.

     Something else struck him too. This time she must be telling the truth about the letter. Maybe it did get waylaid in the post. Otherwise the facts about a will she would not have suppressed. Just look at her greedy eyes.

     The days passed. Not too many however, and the awaited American epistle arrived. His mother handed it to him during dinner.

     "It arrived this morning," she beamed uncharacteristically.

     He took it and the reality struck him that any dispatch she had ever given him, it would be more correct to say allowed him to receive, she always had a good idea of its contents. No surprises for Guy's mother. He examined it closely trying to see if she had somehow managed to open it. How is it done? Steamed perhaps? But he couldn't tell.

     "Aren't you going to open it?" she cried eagerly.

     So she hadn't broken into it. He caught her glance. Well, Mammy, let's see how long more you can wait. He put it down.

     "Open it, Guy," she leaned across the table.

     "When I'm finished," he put another forkful of mushy peas into his mouth.

     "Open it," this was a command, not a plea.

     He stopped chomping his mushy peas into further mush and swallowed them. When Mother issued an order it was meant to be obeyed. Not later but immediately. The old bat had been waiting for the announcement of Bertie's will all day and obviously wasn't going to be put off a moment longer.

     He hesitated briefly, thought better of it and picked up the burning object of her attention. He ripped it open and took out the letter. Two pages. He read it while she drooled in expectation across the table.

     "Read it to me," she hissed, "Read it to me."

     But he did not. His well practiced eyes skimmed over the immaculately typed lines of text. He could barely take in their contents and his mother faded into the distance as his mind grappled with their message.

     Was this how it felt to have one's life changed in the twinkling of an eye? Rags to riches metaphorically speaking. Now suddenly, creepy little Guy could do as he damn well wanted. Never again would he have to take orders from Mr Merriman. This was a dream. He had to be asleep and in bed, his visions of handing his resignation to his boss, vivid. Should I pinch myself? But that's stupid. You can feel things in dreams. You can surely prick yourself in your nightmare and not wake up. Hell, I know I'm not dreaming. I'm wide awake and reading this heart stopping dispatch. I'm a very rich man. Two and a half million dollars. What's that in pounds? Well over a million quid anyway. Me, a millionaire. Oh God, I can't take this in. Uncle Bertie has left me two and a half million dollars. Million. One followed by six noughts. Holy God. I can do as I please. I can have whatever I want. The very best in stereo equipment. Heck, what am I thinking about. I can have a fabulous house. I can travel anywhere in the world. I can buy a jet airplane if I want. A yacht. I can even hire my very own private orchestra. Women will be hanging out of me. Yes, I can have all the women I want. They never wanted ugly old Guy in the past, but they'll want him now. Bloody bitches. The smell of gold opens their legs alright. I can have Melissa. Now the adrenalin began to pump through his vitals at the sudden thought of having sex with Melissa for real. No more imagination. Real, solid, naked Melissa pumping her loins in time with his. Oh the shear bliss of it. And he could feel the hardness rising in his trousers. Melissa.

     "Guy."

     He was dragged abruptly from his reveries by his mother's shout and the smack she gave the table causing the cutlery, crockery and other assorted items to leap. He jumped.

     "Guy," she breathed, seeing she had at last managed to grab his attention, "I've been speaking to you for the last few minutes. How dare you ignore me. Let me see that letter now."

     "Oh," he stammered, "I'm sorry."

     "The letter," she held her hand out.

     He gave it to her. She fairly yanked it and voraciously began to read, her lips moving to the words. Guy looked on as her covetous face moved backwards and forwards, line for line. He marvelled as it changed from gluttonous expectation through incredulous disbelief to hard-set and vicious anger. Eventually she finished. With what seemed incredible restraint she folded it and placed it on the table.

     "He hasn't left me a thing," she hissed, "The selfish, mean, ungrateful bastard. And after all I did for him."

     You fired him out of the house, thought Guy.

     "All the years I slaved for that man, providing him with a roof over his head, making his meals, putting up with him. Yes, that was something to write home about. Putting up with the ungrateful bastard. The sneaky little whore."

     Guy grinned in the knowledge that his mother obviously hadn't a clue what a whore was.

     "The guttersnipe. The cringing son of a bitch. The motherwanker."

     Guy's eyes opened wide. The motherwanker. That's not the right word, and anyway, where the hell did she hear an expression like that? But more surprises were in store for him. He had never heard his mother use language like it before. She got louder with each new statement of abuse.

     "Mammy," he attempted to interrupt her, "You're getting yourself into a state."

     She either ignored or didn't hear him. She got more upset and started flaying her arms through the air. Spittle appeared on her chin. He became alarmed and stood up. Was she having a fit? He wrung his hands together. What should I do? He looked behind him as if to find some help. Suddenly there was silence. Deafening silence after the considerable racket his mother had managed to create. She sat in the chair, quiet and still. Very still. Was she dead? Then he heard the almost inaudible drawing of her breath. She turned to him with tears streaming down her cheeks.

     "He didn't leave anything to me," she lamented, "Not a single penny."

     He sat down again and pity flooded through him.

     "We can share it," he said almost in spite of himself.

     Even bigger tears lopped down the contours of her cheeks.

     "Oh Guy," she cried, "You are a wonderful boy."

     She held her arms out to him as the realisation slowly dawned on him that she had gotten her own way once more. He had committed to split the loot with her and he couldn't go back on that now. What a fool I am. Anyway, look on the bright side. I still have a heck of a lot of money. More than I'll ever need in fact.

     He went to her and had his face pressed against her rather enormous breasts, well hidden by her up-to-the-neck clothing as if protecting the world from the monsters lurking within. Well, Mammy, he smelt her musty perfume as it etched its way through his nostrils, there's not many can say that a tantrum earned them a cool fortune.

     "What are you going to do with your half?" she asked as she released him.

     Didn't take you long to accept the money, did it Mammy, he sensed anger, but had not yet recovered from the shock of being made in an instant a very rich man, to allow it to develop. Instead he turned her question over in his head. Images of Melissa filled his mind. He was going to have Melissa, that was for sure. But before that could happen there were certain priorities to be dealt with. Resignation for instance. Blessed day of resignation.

     "Well," his mother burst the expanding bubble of his thoughts.

     "I'll have to think about it," he replied.

     She seemed to accept that because she immediately launched into how she was going to spend her own portion of the lolly. But he didn't listen. He couldn't care less what she did as long as she left him alone. But she wouldn't do that, would she? No, she not only had definite ideas, he assumed from her prattle going on in the background, on what she was going to do, but he could rest assured that she would attempt to lay down the law for himself also. Now, there was a worry. How was he going to overcome that? It was no use trying to convince himself that he would tell her to mind her own business. He had to admit that while he may even be able to convince himself for a time he could do it, at the end of the day he was on a loser. The only time he would ever be free from her was the day she kicked it and went off to heaven. So what the hell was he going to do?

     "I'm leaving my job for a start," he interrupted her suddenly.

     She continued for a few seconds until the implications of his remark found their way into wherever it registers in the brain. She stopped in mid-flow. Her jaw dropped and snapped shut again.

     "You most certainly are not," she gasped.

     "What?" he looked at her in surprise.

     "You will not leave your job," she repeated, "You can't."

     "But why not?"

     "You simply can't leave your employment because you've come into some money, Guy," she pointed out, "A man must work. The devil loves idle hands, Guy. He would soon find things for you to do. Bad things, Guy. Nasty things."

     Holy God, he thought to himself as his dreams began spilling through the metaphorical dam his old bat had just yanked her narrow-minded and blind finger from. What am I to do? She's not going to let me do anything I want at all. Good God Almighty, is she going to keep me under her thumb till the day she dies? Good God. Good, good God.

     Traces of panic gripped him. Nasty things, Mammy? That means sex in your vocabulary. Melissa's peach-like tits swam before his eyes. At least that was his conjured-up image of them. The panic tightened and then released as a brilliant idea struck him. She doesn't have to know I've jacked in the job. I can always pretend to go to work. Or better still, I can get myself fired, can't I? Adrenalin wandered around his stomach as he imagined himself putting a brick through Merriman's window. However, no sooner had this pleasant image of mortar sailing through the air descended than doubts clouded it over. That would be an act of vandalism. I could find myself in prison. No, that wouldn't be a smart thing to do. But I could come in late every day and make a mess of my work. That would get me the boot. But no, I'd much prefer to be able to give Merriman my resignation face to face. I really want to tell him what I think of him. And his mind was made up. I'll do that so. Mammy need never know.

     "Guy," his mother cut across his mental meanderings, "You'll have to buy a decent motor car. That wreck must go. Its embarrassing being taken out in that thing on Sunday afternoons."

     "That's a good idea," he muttered.

     His answer, apparently, was good enough for Mammy. She grunted in satisfaction and proceeded to throw in a few more good ideas. He just sat and drifted off into dreamland by day.

Guy took great care over his resignation letter to Mr Merriman. Naturally he had waited till all the dealings with the Yankee lawyers and what-nots were complete and the funds were safely resting in his bank account. He had requested a statement and marvelled over it. There was his name and address at the top and below in the totals column the magic number in black dot-matrix type. Seven figures before the decimal point. All mine, he smiled to himself before remembering he had promised half to Mammy. Bloody Mammy. She'll lay claim to the rest of it too if she gets half the chance. Already she's told me how to spend a fair amount of it. New car indeed - big, ugly and expensive. What do I want with a flash motor? Pulls the birds though. Hadn't thought of that. What will Melissa say when I pick her up in my high-class car and present her with a diamond necklace on our first date? Yes, Mammy, sometimes your ideas are not so crazy after all. And he laughed aloud at the notion that Mammy's uses for the mechanically propelled vehicle and his were at extreme odds.

     He laboriously hand wrote the last letter to Merriman. Like a child with intense concentration, head down and tongue more often than not poking from the corner of his mouth. You'll chap your lips wetting them like that, his mother used to scold. No doubt she still would but he composed it in the relatively sacrosanct front room. A room his old dear seldom entered, leaving it free for her one and only son to play his dreadful noise. Music was too good a word for it.

     He re-read the five foolscap pages he had penned. Far too long-winded was his only reasonable conclusion. Now take out the blue pencil and edit it. But blue was for censorship. Take out the red pencil then. Oh, who cares? Extensive editing was required one way or the other. He set to work.

     Now, he had it down to two and a half pages. But it was still too long. It was rambling in nature and he wanted to be concise. Create a mini masterpiece in letter-writing. Something witty and hard hitting.

     But he was trying to go against his natural inclinations and knew it. Already it was something of a major achievement for him to have managed to reduce his original script by half. Maybe if he slept on it, and immediately rejected the idea. He wanted to present it to his boss first thing tomorrow morning. He wasn't going to put this sweet, sweet moment off any longer. He heaved a sigh and returned to his task. By midnight he knew he was losing and in a fit of temper tore everything he had written into pieces.

     Guy stalked the room for a little while raving and ranting in silent, frustrated rage. He clenched and unclenched his fists while shaking them fruitlessly in the air.

     When his anger had been vented, he sat down again and took pen in hand. In neat, large letters he wrote in the top rightmost corner on a clean sheet of writing paper his address followed by the next day's date. Skipping halfway down the page and over to the far left he wrote Dear Mr Merriman. Another ocean of space was broken by a single sentence. I wish to tender my resignation effective from today. He signed it with a flourish. Then he went to bed quite exhausted.

     He dreamt profusely and uneasily but could recall none of it as he lay in a sweat before rising the next morning. He was very nervous. His stomach was in a mess and he felt like shitting his insides out which he practically did before eventually dragging himself into his car, the banger so beloved of his mother. The letter, contentedly snug in its meticulously sealed envelope, nestled in his breast pocket. He could feel it burning against his side like some weighty sword of hell. Why can't I be like Hero? But I am like him. I'm brave and have no fear. Sure what's there to be afraid of? Merriman? He doesn't frighten me. What would Hero do in my situation? He wouldn't take this sort of crap, he thought angrily as he accelerated dangerously and passed a car which had been sort of hugging the line marking the divide between two traffic lanes. He narrowly missed another motorist coming in the opposite direction and earned a hoot, not only from the unfortunate innocent on the other side of the road, but also from the incensed idiot he had overtaken.

     "Go to hell," he growled, fully aware of the risk he had incurred.

     What of it? Life is full of risks. Hero takes risks. I can take risks. Concentrating on this philosophy, he arrived at his place of employment in a reasonable state of composure.

     To his pleasant surprise, he found the long cheerless corridor to his office was not so cheerless this bright and risk-laden morning. In fact it was positively aglow with good vibrations. He fancied it was fully on his side, a little envious perhaps that when he was gone from this building for good, it would still be here. Doomed to remain till the demolishers arrived at some far future date. In the meantime, it joined in with Guy's good fortune.

     He sat down at his desk. He was the first to arrive. Alone, he took the fateful envelope from his pocket and laid it on the polished surface before him. He stared down at it in fascination as if it were a live creature, its heart pumping in expectation of some momentous event about to take place.

     "Morning, Guy."

     His poor system turned with convoluted stricture as his boss bade him the time of day and brought him sharply into the real world.

     "Good morning, Mr Merriman," he stammered.

     Merriman vanished into his office and shut the door leaving poor Guy in pieces outside. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm a free man now. Any minute I'm going to get up and basically tell that twit he can go and take a running jump for himself.

     Instead he got up and headed for the toilet. He tried to urinate but was unable. He turned to the hand basin and turned on the cold tap. Scooping up the relaxing water with his hands he wet his face, feeling its magic powers caress his taut skin. He looked at himself in the mirror and it was no longer Guy looking out at Guy, but Hero looking out at Guy. His face was also dripping wet.

     "Hello Sunshine," said the cool, clean hunk in the mirror.

     Guy grinned at him.

     "Don't you let it get to you," drawled Hero, "You go back out there and show them what you're made of."

     "Sure," strutted Guy.

     "Merriman's the weed, not you. Melissa is the woman only dying for a man like you. And ignore that little twerp Billy when he tries to shock you with his sexual tales. That's all they are, Guy. Tales."

     "Yes," agreed Guy, "I know that. Tales. Tall tales of an immature and spoilt brat."

     The door suddenly opened and Hero's image was replaced by Guy's. He studied himself. Guy in the looking glass, drips of water hovering on his chin and nose.

     "Hi Guy," it was the twerp, "Who were you talking to?"

     Guy ignored the pest as Billy Jones marched in, searching for the second person while opening his fly. He aimed it and pissed loudly into the urinal, farting with obnoxious passion. What a loathsome spectacle of humanity, if you could even append the description to it, thought Guy. Ugly critter too. What girl would ever want to go out with him?

     "I was with this bird last night," Billy shook the living daylights out of his thing.

     Here we go, groaned Guy to himself. Didn't take you long to forget about your question and get on to your favourite subject. But Hero's words came to him and he acted on them. If he had stopped to think about it, he would never have done it. As it was he surprised himself a great deal more than he surprised Billy Jones. And Billy was indeed surprised.

     "Piss off," he said and walked out through the door.

     Once outside, he was too elated to notice his face was still wet. He had stood up for himself. Although it was only young Billy Jones he had left behind in a mixture of dumbfoundedness and amusement, it didn't matter. He hadn't suffered in bashful silence as Jones had related a sordid up-some-back-alley story leaving out not the tiniest detail.

     He marched purposely to his desk and sat down.

     "Morning, Guy," Melissa breezed by him on her way to Merriman's office leaving a trail of delicate scent behind her.

     "Hi," he replied.

     She stopped and turned round. She smiled.

     "Guy, your face is all wet," the corners of her lips twinkled in a smile.

     "Oh yeah," he grinned sheepishly.

     Oh, you do know how to turn a chap on, he let his thoughts take over and forced his eyes away from the horny contour of her incredible breasts. He gazed into her heavenly face. Now's your chance, Guy. Ask her out.

     "Would you like to come out with me tonight?" he managed to gasp before his jaw locked.

     What powers are with me today? First I tell Billy where to get off and now I've actually asked Melissa out. I've asked this delicious doll out. Maybe I'll even end up in bed with her tonight. Can you imagine it. Melissa with no clothes on. Me with no clothes on. Melissa and I with no clothes on simultaneously. He squeezed his legs together at the more than pleasurable thought.

     "What did you say?" she took a step towards him.

     Well, whatever else I've done, I've surprised her. But his initial impetus, from wherever it came, had deserted him. Why doesn't she just say yes? Why do I have to repeat myself? She heard right the first time. He struggled with his recalcitrant jaw and tongue. They wouldn't shift. He was tongue-tied in every sense. The blood rose to his face. His nose began to twitch. Oh Jesus, help me.

     "You heard," he managed to gasp after what must have been an interminably long silence.

     "Are you asking me out, Guy?" she moved right up to his desk.

     I shouldn't have said anything. How much longer is this going to last? Why can't she just say no and go away.

     "Yes," he squeaked.

     Oh God, I should have said no. Why can't I say no. I don't want to go out with her. Someone else maybe, but not Melissa. I couldn't handle her.

     "I'm very flattered, Guy," he vaguely heard her say, "But you know I've a steady boyfriend. I don't think it would be a good idea. But thank you very much all the same."

     She's saying no. Oh thank God. She's refusing. I can breath again. What a fool I was to have tried. And anger suddenly suffused his timid torso. What am I saying? I wanted her to come out with me. I wanted it badly. Now she's declining my offer. Who the hell does she think she is? The bitch. The cow. Thinks she's God's gift to men. Well, she's only a heap of made-up flesh and bone. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Under all her make-up she really is a pretty ugly wagon.

     She gave him a little wave and continued her journey to Merriman's office. He watched her cute little bum wiggle as she went and felt an violent urge to jump up and grab it. I should do it. I should get up and rape you, you snotty cow.

     She vanished into Merriman's office and his feelings of violence towards her subsided. He glanced down and his eye caught his letter of resignation still on the desk as he had left it. The butterflies returned to his tummy playing kamikaze pilots. Now I've got to get up and go into that office where Melissa, who has just spurned me, and Merriman, my boss, are probably having a quick feel. She's going to smile sweetly and knowingly at me. He's going to throw me bull's looks and demand to know why I didn't knock. Well, I'm going to tell him a thing or to about knocking. About knocking off someone else's girlfriend for a start. About feeling Melissa's knockers while his own wife is at home living in a cloud-cuckoo land of assuming her faithful husband is safely at work so he can bring home the money and keep her and their kids in the style to which they are accustomed.

     And while Melissa adjusts her sexy little skirt and makes some silly comment about leaving the two of us in private, I'll turn and grab her. I'll kiss her against her struggles which will weaken as I force my strong tongue between her teeth. My sheer power of manhood will overcome her and she'll melt into my arms. What do they say about kissing? Upper persuasion to lower invasion.

     But wait! Doubt crossed his fantasy-filled face. Hero wouldn't do it like that. He would never take a woman like that. No. He'd be far more subtle about it. So what exactly would he do?

     Guy scratched his forehead above his right eye and frowned while he thought out how the fabulous hero of that magic book of his would go about this task. So mentally back out of Merriman's office to start over.

     He would knock on the door. Hero would never allow the lady of his dreams to suffer any embarrassment. But Melissa, that hussy, wouldn't be bashful about it. She is brazen, that one. Besides, she's no lady. Hero wouldn't have anything to do with a scrubber like that.

     Now Guy was really in a dilemma. He wanted Melissa so bad, but if Hero would have no interest in her, then she must be below him too. If she wasn't good enough for Hero, she sure as hell wasn't good enough for him. Guy should set his sights higher.

     "Mr Merriman," a voice beside him.

     He started slightly. He hadn't noticed Billy Jones sidling up. He grabbed his letter and put it in his pocket as he realised that the ignorant prat was reading the name on the envelope.

     "My my, Guy," grinned Billy, "We are in bad form this morning. That your resignation?"

     Guy flushed. How did the clown know that? He's only guessing. He has to be. There is no way he'd know. I haven't mentioned a word to anybody.

    "It is your resignation," Billy's eyes widened as he saw the ill-concealed consternation on Guy's face.

     "It isn't," shouted Guy, "Go away and mind your own business."

     He stood up, glaring at Billy as he angled his way round the other side of the desk. Then he set direction for Merriman's office. Now or never, he thought.

     Taking a deep breath, he rapped on Merriman's door, waited a respectable few seconds and opened it.

     He entered.

     Merriman looked up from his morning paper which was spread out on the desk. Melissa, who had been marvellously bent over the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, stood up. She smiled at Guy.

     What are you laughing at, you bitch. He turned away from her and approached Merriman's desk.

     "May I have a few moments of your time?" he said with remarkable ease.

     "Now?" Merriman looked annoyed as if Guy were disturbing some sacred hour.

     Guy's answer surprised even himself.

     "Yes. Now."

     "I'll get some coffee," Melissa exited, closing the door behind her.

     "Sit down Guy," Merriman suddenly seemed more amenable.

     Guy did as he was bid and pulled out the letter. He handed it to his boss without a word. Merriman took it and opened it with a rather sharp looking letter-opener. He quickly digested its contents. No hint of any emotion played on his face. Merriman was good at that of course. Stony-faced when he wanted to be. Especially at salary review time.

     "I see," said Merriman, "Are you sure about this?"

     "Yes, I am," Guy confirmed.

     There are a few things I would like to say, Mr Merriman, he rehearsed in his head. There are a few things I want to say, Merriman. I want to point out a number of things, Merriman. Things. Merriman. Merriman is a thing.

     "Where are you going?" Merriman interrupted the avalanche of neuron firings in Guy's mind.

     "Oh," he was taken aback.

     Hadn't thought about that question. Stupid. I should have known it might be one of the first enquiries he'd make. I don't want to tell him about my inheritance. None of his business.

     "Well?" prompted Merriman.

     "I'm not going anywhere?"

     That raised an eyebrow.

     "I'm just resigning."

     Why don't you leave it at that, you bimbo. None of your damn business. There are a few items I want to mention before I go, Mr Bimbo. Merriman, I mean. Oh hell.

     "But you must be going to another job, surely?"

     "No, I'm not."

     "Oh come on, Guy," Merriman grinned, "If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to."

     "Its not that, Mr Merriman," Guy was flustered now.

     "Alright, Guy," Merriman raised his hand, "Let's move on. You don't mention how much notice you are giving here. You're not saying you want to leave immediately?"

     "I've come into some money, you see," said Guy.

     Now why in the name of all that's holy did I say that? Why did I tell him? I was off the hook but I had to open my big mouth. God.

     "Indeed," his boss looked interested.

     In spite of himself, Guy's vocal chords seemed to possess a mind of their own, for off they went blabbing the whole story.

     "Well," breathed his somewhat overwhelmed superior at the end of the exposition, "Congratulations would appear to be in order."

     "Thank you," smiled guy, the hint of envy in Merriman's eye not going unnoticed.

     "Well," continued the man behind the desk, "I suppose the question of you doing anymore work for us here is a non starter?"

     Guy blinked.

     "I mean," the boss continued, "I'm not going to insist that you work your notice."

     "Oh," muttered Guy, miles away.

     Miles away inside his head, he was once again the unfortunate man in the middle while the two extremes screamed at him. Say to Merriman what you planned to say. Do it now. Don't lose your chance. Why bother Guy? There is no point. Merriman is, after all, simply another human being caught up in the highways and byways of life. Another struggling soul just like you. Why not leave your employment on a good note? Remember, you are in the driving seat now. Merriman will die a company man to the last. You won't. You're free. Aw, quit the crap. Guy, listen. You are definitely in the driving seat. No doubt about it. So think of all the times he screwed you up. Revenge is sweet. Maybe not as sweet as Melissa, but sweet all the same. Go for him Guy. Let him have it right in the metaphorical goulies.

     As the battle raged up and down the network of his mind, Guy realised that Merriman was talking to him. He made an effort at concentration and the sounds of mental tumult faded.

     "I would very much appreciate it, however," his ex-boss was saying, "If you could look in once or twice over the next week or so, just to make sure young Billy has a grip on things."

     Anger welled up inside him as he grasped what Merriman was saying. You're giving my job to Billy Jones. My job. My key position to that immature twerp. I told you so, exploded one of the two extremes which lived inside his skull, Merriman has sold you down the river once again. Go on Guy. Now you've no excuse. Tell him what a bastard he is. This time there was no reply from the opposite side.

     "I don't think Billy has quite the experience to tackle my job," was all he could manage, however.

     "Oh Billy is a little young perhaps," pooh-poohed Merriman, "But it would be a good challenge for him, don't you think."

     "I suppose so," answered Guy and could have roared in frustration.

     "Well," Merriman stood up and extended his hand, "I'll have the usual pieces of paper and final salary cheque sent on in due course. Not that you really need it now."

     He guffawed loudly sending shivers of annoyance down Guy's sensitive spine. God, how I'd like to stick my foot down your gob, you ignorant man. Guy made a gallant attempt to keep his fist by his side as he stood up. Slowly and inexorably however, the traitorous limb rose and grasped the proffered hand. He gripped and shook the limp handshake of Merriman. Disgusting. Warm and flabby like a cluster of half-dead, fairly thick worms.

     He swung on his heel and left the office but like some well-timed film scene, met Melissa at the entrance. Again, she smiled at him, her lips warm and very, very inviting.

     "Have you heard Guy's news?" boomed Merriman.

     Oh God no, groaned Guy to himself. Why can't I turn around and tell the fool to shut up.

     "No," cried Melissa, her eyes widening and surveying expectantly his crushed face.

     And the poor unfortunate Guy, stood in the doorway, his unrepentant vocals singing their encore.

     Melissa eyes continued to widen impossibly, threatening to literally pop out, while accompanying their impending emergence with appropriate but no doubt involuntary oohs and aahs. Its not everyday someone is able to tell you they've just inherited a veritable fortune.

     "That's fantastic," she gasped when Guy had finished, "Congratulations."

     And before he knew what hit him, she had thrown her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips. Not his cheek, but his lips. A saliva mixed with lipstick, damp exciting kiss. On his dry lips. From Melissa. His penis suddenly didn't know what to do. It just tingled.

     She stepped back from him, her face radiant with loveliness. His own visage was beaming with pleasure and he felt a sudden urge to ask her out again. Surely this time she would say yes. In view of what she now knew it had to be a certainty that her answer would be in the positive. Gold-digging bitch. But who cared? If she went out with him, for whatever reason, he would be the happiest man in the world. Besides what were his own motives for asking her out? Surely not honourable. He knew well that their two personalities were world's apart. Opposites may attract but not when they were so far apart they were coming at each other from the other side. So what the hell if Melissa wanted a little gold. He wanted a little pussy.

     He refrained however. Not with Merriman standing only feet away from him. But it would be his ultimate victory, wouldn't it? Pinching Merriman's piece of crumpet from right under his nose. Nevertheless, he bowed out as gracefully as his embarrassment tinged with ecstasy would allow. He staggered from Melissa's presence.

     He went out to the little boy's room to douse his swimming head in cool liquid water. This time he took the opportunity to dry his face before venturing back to tidy up his desk. He toyed briefly with the idea of purposely condemning some vital documents to the shredder. Let's see Billy Jones sort that out. However, he rejected it in double quick time on the pretext that it would be immoral. In truth he would be too scared to try it.

     So he left his spot as spick as a new pin. With an unaccountable twinge of sadness, albeit brief, he placed the drawer keys as geometrically in the centre of the desk as it was possible to do. He looked around for the last time (he was damned if he was going to turn up again to show Pratface the ropes - let him discover them the hard way). He wouldn't miss this place at all.

     Inevitably his tidy-up was well noticed by Billy who pretended to be absorbed in some task or other. Eventually he came over.

     "What's going on?" he asked.

     "None of your business," snapped Guy, again out of character.

     "Oh Guy, don't be like that," it was Melissa, the angel of his dreams, advancing across the floor.

     "I'm leaving, as a matter of fact," he mellowed.

     "So I was right," beamed Billy.

     "Yes," agreed Guy looking at Melissa, "You were right."

     She held out her hand to him.

     "Take care, Guy," she said gently.

     He took her hand and held it firmly looking into her eyes. Still gold-digging, he thought. No, doubt hit him and then certainty. She actually means it. Melissa actually wishes me well. His eyes dropped to her remarkable breasts, held for a moment and returned to her eyes. They had changed. The genuine goodwill initially contained therein had vanished. He could read the replacement as clear as day. She despises me because I ogle her body. She thinks I'm dirty minded. Well, damn her, she is right.

     He extracted his hand which was immediately grabbed by Billy who pumped it vigorously.

    "Good luck to you Guy," he said, "Wherever you're going."

     Guy could only see Melissa walking back into Merriman's office and out of sight.

     He sat down and put his elbows against his stomach. Placing his hands together in a gesture of prayer he stuck both thumbs into his mouth. Watched by a somewhat bemused Billy, he leaned forward far enough that his rear end almost came up off the chair. He stayed for some moments in that strained position like some strange bird of prey. Billy's amusement turned to concern.

     "Guy," he called, "What's wrong?"

     No answer.

     "Are you alright?"

     As abruptly as he had adopted his enigmatic stance, he stood up.

     "Yes Billy, I'm okay."

     He felt better too after performing this therapeutic stress-relieving charade. It had helped turn an outward bound scream inward and that was all he needed.

     "Good luck Billy," were his last sparkling words in that place he had come to know so well.

     With head in the air, he walked calmly and quickly out into the corridor. It was still happy for him as he perambulated along it for the very last time. Well, this is it, he thought happily, I'm never going to see you again. What do you think of that? The passageway didn't answer, though he was sure it smiled.

     Out into the mid-morning air and freedom. God, he swung round to look at the building which housed the office where he worked. Used to work. Its all over.

     He got into his car which protested at the unusual hour, but finally spluttered into life. His mother was right. This banger would have to go.

     He drove from the car park and thought about Melissa. He didn't even bother to push the cassette into the player. He wanted some peace and quiet to think about his next move with that girl.

     He was three-quarters of the way to his home when he suddenly remembered he couldn't go there. Mammy mustn't find out. Where was he to go however?

     An idea struck him. He swung a hard left and doubled back through a maze of small avenues winding through various estates with grand sounding but preposterous names. Five minutes later he was motoring along a leafy back road which belied the fact that this was not the heart of the country. He pulled into the car park of an old castle and its rambling grounds, a favourite walking spot of his mother's come Sundays. He liked the place too, especially when there weren't many other people around, like now. In fact there were no other cars parked at all. He got out and walked along crunchy pebbles before hopping up onto a low embankment and surveying the rolling grassland before him, with the castle itself basking in the distance. Its grand to be free, he murmured audibly to himself.

     He walked briskly without his mother to slow down his pace. Through the slightly moist grass, he deliberated on the problem of Melissa. So near now but still so far away. Within his reach but hovering just outside his grasp.

     I could call to her house. I know where she lives. I would have a great big bunch of roses and perhaps a box of chocolates. No, strike the chocolates. Too old fashioned. But the flowers. Yes, they're a good idea. Women fall for flowers. Can't help themselves. I wonder why? I wouldn't be too pleased if some girl gave me a bunch of them. Only women and queers like flowers.

     But what if her boyfriend is there. He wouldn't take too kindly to my sudden appearance on her doorstep. He might be the violent type too. And Hero flashed before his mind reviving Guy's spirits again. Why should I be afraid of her stupid hunk? Besides, maybe she was lying. Maybe she doesn't have anyone at all. Why else would she be messing around with Merriman? She only said it to put me off. But she didn't know about my inheritance at that stage, did she.

     He smiled to himself and quickened his pace, if that was possible. He stepped from the open into a narrow pathway which curled its unpredictable way between dense and mostly evergreen trees. He felt lighter now that his battle strategy for the taking of Melissa had been worked out. The first part of this new offensive would be waged with flowers. Flower power.

     Now what to do with the rest of the day? He looked at his watch. One o'clock already. No wonder he felt peckish. He had his sandwiches in the car but to hell with them. I can afford better. A hotel. Yes, that would be nice. Dine in style.

    Which is exactly what he did. Waiters attending his every requirement at table. Would you care to order now, Sir? I'm sorry, Sir, if the steak is not to your satisfaction I'll have it replaced. I can assure you, Sir, the cream is fresh. Your bill, Sir.

     This is the life. This is how I was meant to live. A gentleman of leisure. I wasn't made to be a part of the rat race mixing with every lower form of life imaginable.

     He left the hotel restaurant quite high on the single glass of white wine which accompanied his meal. He even felt brave enough to face Mammy with the truth and actually considered doing so. However something deep inside persuaded him otherwise.

     As he had taken a great deal of time over his dinner, it was well on into the afternoon when he emerged into the open air. The day had begun well weather-wise but had now decided to send in the clouds and cover the landscape in a fine mantle of depressing drizzle. It didn't dampen Guy's light-heartedness however.

      Quite the opposite. he held his face up and stood on the hotel steps allowing the wetness to cling initially as it built up, eventually becoming unstable and rolling down the inclines of his grinning features. I just don't give a damn anymore, his smile increased. It would have increased still further if the corner of his eye hadn't detected a movement. He came back to earth and caught the amused stare of a porter.

     What the hell are you gawking at, you crummy little man, he longed to voice the insult at the disturber of his private reveries. Instead he bolted down the steps to the tarmac below almost twisting his ankle in the process. He recovered and scuttled ungainly away, frantically dragging his keys from his pocket. Start damn you, he growled at the coughing engine as he glanced furtively in his rear-view mirror to see the porter still watching him. Go on, stare, you stupid idiot. Stare till your eyeballs explode. The engine roared in agreement and he slammed it into reverse. The surprised motor vehicle leapt backwards desperately trying to get a grip. He swung the steering wheel around and the car swerved with a protesting squeal. He stood on the brake, brutally kicked the clutch and suddenly reverse was abandoned for first gear. He would have sent up a huge cloud of dust if there had been any dust to send up. Instead he burned rubber and accelerated towards the main road leaving the puzzled porter scratching his equally puzzled head.

     He had slowed down somewhat by the time he reached the major carriageway, which was just as well for he was not the best of drivers at the higher speeds. Anything below about forty-five miles an hour and he was as good as the next. Above that and he was aiming it. His anger had cooled a little also and he drove back into town where he purchased, it must be admitted, a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Then to kill the rest of the day he took himself off for a drive.

     He was so proud of himself later that evening as he endeavoured to turn himself into the cool, clean hero he wasn't. Mammy hadn't suspected a thing. He had pulled off the deceit of his life. After a brave attempt at eating her carefully prepared meal (I don't understand it, I'm not hungry this evening) he went up to the bathroom. There he took a hot, foam-filled bath and washed himself carefully, paying particular attention to his genitals. He wasn't taking any chances with the most important area of the evening. He fully expected Melissa to become intimately acquainted with his dingle-dangle that night. His inheritance assured him such would be the case. Then when he had thoroughly dried his white and pink body, he dowsed it in his mother's deodorant. And as if that wasn't enough, after shaving himself meticulously, he gloriously plastered his sensitive skin with stinging aftershave. Melissa is in for a treat tonight, he smiled at himself in the mirror.

     Now he was ready. Ready for anything. He went downstairs prepared (after a certain amount of deliberation) to fend off Mammy's inevitable questions.

     "Where are you going, Guy?" she demanded to know as he knew she would, "All dressed up."

     "I'm going out with a very sexy girl," he recited blandly his rehearsed line.

     "Oh don't be so silly," she looked slightly embarrassed, "You're only going out for a drink in the local public house. Don't be late home."

     Incredible how the blatant truth can oft be misconstrued as a lie.

    

By the time he arrived outside Melissa's house, the cool, clean and oh so laid back character he desperately wanted to be had taken a hike. He turned off the engine but he himself continued to shake like jelly gone wild. How the heck am I going to go through with this? Oh Hero, what am I going to do? Listen, mate, if you want the girl, you're going to have to go in and get her. Nobody can do it for you. Oh God, don't you think I know that. Come on, its no big deal. She's a human being just like you. Do you think she doesn't suffer from nerves? Everyone does at one time or another. Its just that some people don't show them so easy. But look at me, for God's sake, I'm trembling like a leaf. Yeah, I can see that man. So what? When she opens that door to you, she'll start quivering inside. She won't even notice your nervousness. Out you get, Guy, chin up and chest forward.

     Poor Guy did as his mentor bade him. Hero was right. You mustn't let silly things like a bit of shyness or whatever get in your way. You must take control of the situation. He opened the boot. You have to put your best foot forward. He lifted the flowers out carefully. Oh dear, this is not at all easy. He slammed the boot lid shut. It startled him, as he looked towards the house to see if anybody heard. He could feel his heart pounding and was sure that it was audible too. No sign of life, however and he approached the garden gate. That path looks awful long. I hope she doesn't have a narky little dog or something. He opened the gate and using the flowers as a shield, marched up to the house entrance. No dog, thank God. With heart in mouth he rang the bell. He could make out its faint buzzing somewhere deep inside.

     Now there was nothing left to do but stand there and worry. Who will answer? Is there anybody in? What am I going to say? I feel a real wally standing here with this great big bunch of flowers. He heard a noise behind him and turned in panic. Only some kids passing by the gate. They looked in at him. I'm only delivering these things, you understand. They passed on.

     Now his heart flipped over as he heard sounds inside the house. There was somebody in. They were approaching the door. He could see their shadow on the glass. Man or woman? He couldn't tell. The lock was turned and the door opened. He peeped through the veritable forest he was holding in his unsteady hands. A man stood before him and the burst of adrenalin in his stomach almost made him gasp. But it was an older guy. Probably her father. Certainly not a boyfriend.

     "Is Melissa in?" he managed, despite everything, to say it reasonably smoothly.

     "Yes, I believe she is," he had a hint of a country accent, "Won't you step inside."

     The father showed him into a small sitting room in the front of the house.

     "Perhaps you can wait in here and I'll get her," he winked at Guy and vanished.

     Alone, he carefully laid the flowers on the highly polished table which claimed centre of attention. Then he took a couple of deep breaths, glad of the few seconds to compose himself. He sat down and then jumped up as the door opened. Melissa came in and her face could only be described as surprised. Guy grinned stupidly at her and sat down again.

     "Guy!" she exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

     Now her face seemed to register alarm as she spied the bouquet. Guy attempted to stand up and decided against it as his legs began to throw a wobbly.

     "The flowers..." he managed to splutter.

     "For me?" she finished his sentence.

     He nodded.

     "Oh Guy," she purred, "You shouldn't have."

     With a massive effort he strengthened himself mentally and stood up without a quiver.

     "You are worth it, Melissa," he said, "And I took the liberty of booking a table for two this evening in a nice little restaurant I only discovered earlier today."   

     She blinked at him and her face took on the mask of surprise. Crashing doubt descended on him as he watched her.

     "I hope that's okay," he added and wished he hadn't.

     "But Guy," she inclined her head, "I told you today that I have a steady boyfriend. In fact he's in the kitchen at the moment. We were just about to go out. Ten minutes more and you'd have missed me."

     Now it was his turn to blink. He blinked twice. He didn't sit down this time, he fell down and if the chair hadn't been there he would surely have hit the floor. But he recovered quickly as a surge of anger tore at his innards. Sweat appeared on his forehead. Melissa swore afterward that he changed before her very eyes like some Jeckle and Hyde character.

     "You're lying," he said remarkably calmly.

     "Well, if you don't believe me," she sensed danger, "I'll go and get him."

     She turned to leave but Guy leapt up and grabbed her arm.

     "Not so fast," he leered.

     "You're hurting me," she squealed.

     "Good," he growled and felt the power of dominance sweep through him.

     "You're a sweet-talking two-faced bitch," he continued in low and suddenly hate-filled tones, "The only boyfriend you have is that skunk Merriman."

     "What?" she gasped.

     "Don't think I don't know what you two get up to."

     "That's preposterous."

     "Don't lie to me, Melissa," he squeezed her arm hard.

     She made a bid to escape but failed as he took hold of her other arm.

     "John," she hollered, "Help me, John."

     "You bitch," he roared and let her go.

     He collapsed back into the seat again and broke into tears as John appeared in the doorway.

     "What's wrong, Melissa?" his head bobbing from his girlfriend to the sobbing heap in the chair and back again.

     "I'm sorry, Melissa," cried Guy looking up at her with tear-stained face.

     It was enough to melt her heart.

     "Its alright now, John," she said.

     "But what happened Melissa?" demanded the boyfriend.

     Oh God, thought Guy through his grief, don't let him hit me. Look at the size of him. One blow from him could smash my jaw.

     "I said its alright now, John," Melissa repeated firmly, "Go back to the kitchen and I'll be along in a minute."

     "Did this creep threaten you?" John the hunk's brain managed to put two and two together - sort of, "I heard him shouting."

     She turned him around and pushed him through into the hall. This time he went without any further protest and Melissa closed the door.

      "Are you okay?" she asked Guy.

      "I think so," he replied wiping the remaining tears away.

      He got to his feet once again.

      "I'd better go," he said.

      "Yes," she agreed.

      Without any more words being spoken Guy left Melissa's house and drove home. His mind, which should have been alive with the agitation of defeat, remained curiously blank.

     Home, he closed the hall door behind him and nearly fell over his mother lying on the floor.

     She was as dead as dead could be.