Peter--The Banana Incident

High in the Arctic, low mist hung over the snow-clad hills of Howlett’s Island in the Davis Strait.  But the earth on the  plain below lay exposed brown, congealed and scattered with blacks rocks that seemed surprised to be without their coat of ice and  exposed  to the light.  A tall derrick stood in the middle of this blighted area,  a wild tongue of flame licking out from the top.  On its platform  miners in hard white hats and vermillion overalls were sending a drill, which roared, deep into the ground.

Leading foreman Ray Dagworthy’s jeep bumped and jumped over the rough terrain as it made its way from the derrick towards the Radex Oil onshore depot,  a collection of fortified Portakabins surrounded by a tall  security fence lying close to the beach.

Gazing through a window of the central cabin, Survey Director Bob Newington was munching a sandwich thoughtfully and watching the progress of the jeep with more than a little concern.  He was half preparing himself for more bad news.  In all the years and all the places he had worked for Radex there’d never been on  a survey so jinxed as this. 

‘That strange kid...  The polar bears ....and those weird  walrus.”   He hadn’t dared tell HQ in Dallas.  He could  hardly believe it himself.  They  would have laughed their heads off.  “Bob’s past it”,  they’d say.... “Having delusions.  Sack him!”

“And the oil…Where was the oil?”  Bob thought.  For months they’d  been drilling for the stuff in the bay and on this damned forsaken island ...and there was nothing, nothing  worth reporting.  With a sigh, he watched the jeep enter the security yard.

Soon a knock on the door.  “Come in Ray.”  Dagworthy was a tall fellow  -  a seasoned rigger, who’d worked all over the world.  A broad-faced, pale,  bespectacled man of few words who spoke in a quiet tone in simple, direct sentences.  Now he was in front of Newington, Ray could hardly find his tongue.  With growing concern the Survey Director studied him questioningly, expecting the worst from his colleague’s hesitancy.

“What is it Ray?”

“Bob it’s...”

“Well…?”

Dagworthy’s  eyes lit up and he beamed, the dam broke and a stream of  words came tumbling out:.  “IT’S  THE  BIGGEST  STRIKE  WE’VE  EVER  MADE!  THIS  WHOLE  ISLAND’S  SITTING  ON A  WELL THE  SIZE  OF WALES!   MILLIONS OF BARRELS OF TOP-GRADE  OIL.  THE  VERY  BEST!!!!!”

For a moment  Bob Newington couldn’t believe his ears.  His face  remained frozen with concern then melted into joy and delight.  He rushed  round the table and the two men embraced like a couple of footballers who’d scored the winning goal in the  European Cup final.

As Ray Dagworthy gave more of the hard details, Bob drew a bottle of whiskey from his desk  “This calls for a celebration.  Here’s to Howlett’s Island!”

“Howlett’s Island!” echoed Dagworthy.  Their glasses clinked loudly and in their excitement they  threw back the shot in one throw.  “I’ll send the good news to  HQ in a coded message immediately,” said Bob Newington  putting down his  glass  and settling down excitedly to his computer.  “Help yourself Ray.” 

It was as he passed the whiskey bottle over that he noticed the fruit in his open lunch box.  Suddenly, he froze.  His face went red  with anger as he stared at the box.  Ray Dagworthy took the bottle and looked at him, puzzled. In a low, furious tone as though he were asking himself the question Newington said, “Who drew on my banana?”

For a moment, Ray struggled to fight down an outburst of laughter.  “Who drew on.....?” –  trying to keep a straight face, till his eye fell on that fearful Inuit symbol of a mask, drawn in black in the middle of the banana.  It was the face that  had haunted them from the very first day they had set foot  on Howlett’s Island.    

Julie - Who Drew On This Banana?

‘Who drew on this banana?’

Mary Fletcher held up the offending fruit, on which the word ‘YUK’ had been clumsily hewn in pencil.  The two boys seated in front of her at the table exchanged glances and giggled nervously.

‘Well, who was it?’

Charles looked at his friend.

‘David doesn’t like bananas.’

‘Are you trying to get your friend into trouble?’ Mary asked her son.

‘I ain’t never had one,’ David retorted defensively.

Charles giggled again.  ‘What, a friend or a banana?’

David smiled, showing a gap where his front tooth had fallen out earlier in the week.  Mary had had a coin sent round to the cottage where he lived, for his older sister to sneak under his pillow from ‘the tooth fairy’.  His mother was ill, and David’s older siblings took care of things as best they could.

Mary sighed, and wandered over to the fireplace.  She looked at the black and white framed photograph of her husband Thomas, resplendent in his Army uniform.  Times were difficult for everyone.  The eight years of marriage she and Thomas had enjoyed on the large country estate of Highfields, where he had been born, had been brought to an abrupt end by the onset of the War.  He was serving with the British Army at El Alamein on the North African front and she hadn’t heard from him for three months.  His last letter to her was tucked behind the photograph.  How she missed him, and how difficult it was for Charles.  Not a day went by without him asking ‘When will Father be home?’  War was difficult enough to understand at any time, but particularly so when you were seven.

Mary felt sorry for the young children.  All they’d ever known was war, rationing and shortages.  The able-bodied men-folk had gone to fight so most of the children in the village had no father at home.  Morale had been low, until the Yanks had come, like a breath of fresh air.  They were stationed at the nearby airbase, and would often stop their jeeps at the local school.  They were popular with the children, who had soon took up the chant ‘Give us some gum, chum’ whenever they saw an American uniform.   As well as sweets, the airmen had brought stockings for the ladies, and occasionally exotic fruit for all.  Bananas had been in short supply for some time now, so Mary had been pleased when GI Jed Laxey had procured her some. 

Despite the gifts, some of the villagers had not been quite so welcoming.  Mary’s widowed mother-in-law, with whom they lived at Highfields, was particularly vocal in condemning the Americans who were living here in relative safety while her son was facing danger abroad.  She did have a point, Mary thought, but it went against the grain to agree with Ruth Fletcher too much.

Mary patted her blond hair, which she had painstakingly pinned up that morning, and wondered if Jed might be able to get her some more peroxide, as she was running short.  He was jokey and fun to be with, and he lightened her often dark moods, as well as her hair.  She turned back towards the table. 

‘This was supposed to be a treat for you from GI Laxey,’ she began.  ‘He thought you’d like to try it.’  As she laid the banana down, she noticed teeth-marks on the opposite side from the writing.  One tooth, at the front, was clearly missing as it had left no mark.  ‘Silly boy,’ she laughed kindly, rubbing David’s dark head.  ‘You’re meant to peel it, look, like this.’

Her demonstration was cut short by a sharp knock on the door and a shout. 

‘Mrs Fletcher!  Telegram!’

Jacqueline: Banana

"Who drew on this banana?"
Oh God, here we go again.
"No-one drew on the banana, Robert."
"Didn't they?"
"No."
She knows someone has.  She knows who it was.
"Bananas draw on themselves, do they?  Clever bananas."
She wills him to stop, and there's an ominous silence, only broken by the scrape of wood against teflon.  She raises the spoon and watches the bolognaise sauce bubble - counts one, two, three, four, five.... and simultaneously sharpens here senses.  She has her back to him and needs to take care.  She need to defuse.
"Bananas just don't behave themselves these days do they?" she says with which she hopes is a laugh in her voice.
"Oh don't try and be funny.  It doesn't suit you.  I want to know who drew on this bloody banana!"
He's louder now, perhaps nearer.  Difficult to tell.  She shouldn't have told him that no-one drew on it, because she knows, and he knows.  Worse, he knows that she knows.  No wonder he gets angry.  Better to tell the truth from the start, whatever the..    She hears the front door slam in the distance, then the quick tread up the stairs.  He betrays nothing.   Jack's home.  She places the spoon carefully across the pan, arranges a smile, and turns her head towards him, reluctantly looking into his eyes.
"Darling, would you put the plates on the table?  The spaghetti's almost done."
He stares at her, and she can see the muscles at the side of his jaw working.  This can't go on.  The banana, without warning, wings its way over her head and smashes into the tiled wall behind her.  She doesn't move, but wonders how she didn't see it coming.
"I will NOT have fucking food messed about with in MY house!" he shouts.
She waits, feeling the corners of her mouth begin a smile at the contradiction, and stops it.
"You're right." she says, probably too quickly, and opens the cupboard door for the plates.  She senses something then, and knows that Jack's standing in the doorway.  She places the plates carefully on the table, glances up, and sees that he's reading the scene accurately.  The tension, as always, is palpable and she watches him as he walks nonchalantly around the table where Robert is still sitting, picks up the banana from where it's landed on the draining board, and examines it closely.
"Don't worry," she says, as lightly as she can, "dinner's practically ready."  She looks hard at the back of her son's head, silently transmitting, pleading.  She watches as he takes the banana to the pedal bin, drops it in, and then slowly draws a chair from under the table, and sits down.  She waits.

Who drew on this banana? Sue

“Who drew on this banana?”  As soon as the words and accusatory tone flew from his mouth, Dan wished he had paused for thought.

A rapid fuse of silent communication ran through his team. He saw raised eyebrows, smiles and smirks, then flashes of trepidation, contempt and sympathy. A few studiously returned to their work, deciding to be deaf to his question.

Dan considered his next move. He wondered who had found out and who had sufficient balls to leave the banana on his desk. Then it occurred to him that none of them knew.

The drawing could have been a celebration of his ongoing success as top banana and their assumption that he was about to be given the new phone. Damn it, he was losing the plot. He became less sure of what he had just seen. 

He had too readily jumped to the conclusion that the offending banana, with the crudely drawn window and keypad along its inner curve, referenced Carter’s recent refusal to upgrade his Blackberry to the latest Apple phone. In the nuanced symbolism of office politics, his expert subject, this was a clear sign that he was no longer considered a key player.

Dan’s life was defined by his key player status.

Tony: A new character/sub-plot (Pamela's mother)

“Please!  Come in!”

It was a well-furnished flat, well-seasoned with the scent of tobacco.  Pamela hung her coat on a hook in the small passageway through which she and Rushton were passing.

The voice they had heard came, presumably, from the kindly-looking woman who was rising, cigarette in hand, from the large armchair in front of a rather art deco style fireplace.

“You must be John,” she now prompted, with a smile which seemed to encompass a number of attitudes, some of which Rushton found easier to deal with than others.  It expressed a certain resignation, together with the suggestion of a burden of responsibility which circumstances had placed upon her.  Rushton was already searching the room for portraits or photographs of Pamela’s lately-departed father.  A man’s sober features were indeed gazing from a framed photograph on the small coffee table beside the armchair.  Rushton studied it discreetly.

“Would you like a cup of tea?  I’ve got some proper cigarettes too – I roll my own, I’m afraid.”

She held up, with a smile, the small device (the like of which had always fascinated Rushton) for rolling cigarettes.  A pack of Rizla papers lay on the coffee-table, near a well-filled glass ashtray.

“Still raining, is it?” she asked, casually but with a genuine concern.  “I’m sorry!” she added, “I haven’t even introduced myself!”

“But, Mummy,” Pamela intervened, in a rather peeved manner, “I haven’t introduced John either!”

The kettle was put on the stove, whilst the guest was given the rocking-chair nearest to the well-stoked fire.

It was obvious from the first that a deep and dynamic relationship held together both Pamela and her mother.  Rushton sat, absent-mindedly rocking the armchair backwards, forwards, in the midst of the to-and-fro exchanges of these two women.

They sat either side of him, the mother considerate, sometimes thoughtfully gazing down at the carpet (which Rushton noticed was in some need of repair) or else emphasizing her point with a flick of her thin cigarette towards the glass ashtray, which twinkled rather in the subdued electric light.

Pamela, on the other hand, seemed more animated than usual.  She sat well back in her chair, her cigarette (in the holder which Rushton had given her) held poised in the air.  She exhaled the smoke with an earnest intensity, her legs crossed, her shoeless feet rubbing slowly together.  She took up a magazine, flicked it through, laid it down again.

For himself, Rushton was so absorbed in listening to both of them that he forgot what the main purpose of his visit had been.  What had it been?  To introduce himself?  To communicate in some way the nature of his relationship with Pamela?  He held out a grateful hand to receive the cup of tea which her mother offered him, and ventured:

“I hope...  to become a doctor.”

She smiled again.  “So I hear...  My husband was more of an office man – he worked in chemicals.”

There was a silence.  Rushton sipped his tea carefully.

Who drew on the banana? - Ros

"Who drew on the banana, my banana?"Mr Chapman yells.  He picks up the offending banana and brandishes it.  He looks ridiculous.  A titter goes around the room.

"What is it?" someone calls out insolently.

"Be quiet," he shouts, and more steadily, "Who did it?"

For once his voice manages to sound authorative.  The room hushes but the sound of the school bell intervenes.  The room erupts.  As one, twenty five desk lids lift, lunch boxes and other possessions are retrieved  and then twenty five desks lids slam shut.

"Nobody leaves until some one owns up.  Sit down."  Dark looks, audible swearing and genral mutterings, including "it's only a banana" run around the room.  Reluctantly lunch boxes are replaced on desks, bags are slung onto the floor and restless legs now stilled, return to their original posiions under their desks. Fingers drum impatiently.  Twenty five pairs of eys turn expectantly onto Mr Chapman.

They all wait.  He senses their collective criticism.  Too late he recognises that he has over reacted.  Self-consciously he fidgets with the board rubber.  He can imagine what they are thinking as they study his ill-chosen clothes; the jacket, rescued from a bag of things discarded by his flatmate, who planned to send it to Oxfam and his only tie, gifted by his Aunt Jane, not known for her sartorial taste.  An errant lock of  troublesome hair flops into his eyes.  Irritated, he sweeps it away with a slender hand .   He turns his back on the class and begins furiously dusting the blackboard, removing the set of equations with which they had all struggled that morning.

A pall of dust now hangs in the air.   Particles of chalk dance in the single shaft of sunlight which pierces the room and illuminates the single picture, a pastoral scene, on the classroom wall.  The only sound now is of an early bee enjoying the nectar cupped in the orchid  residing on the master's desk.

 The mood is broken by the scraping of a chair as a young man with blonde hair stands up.  Mr Chapman recognises the noise and turns round.  He is surprised to see that it is "the new boy"still so titled after nearly a  term.

"I did it."  His voice is quiet but clear.  Twenty five curious heads swivel round to gaze upon him.  Some regard him with gratitude as the cause of their imminent release, others view him with grudging respect but most stare at him with contempt for having broken the unwritten code that no one confesses to any misdemeanour, however trivial to Mr - Chapman.

"You may all leave.  James, step forward."  The room springs to life;  voices are raised, possessions are gathered and eager bodies rush through the open door.  A few glance back at their classmate as he awaits his fate but most are intent on making up for lost time and hurry on with their lives.

Now that he is in the unusual situation of being faced by a self-confessed miscreant, Mr Chapman is at a loss as to what to do.  He picks up the banana and for the first time examines it closely.  Immediately his face blanches, then a flush creeps up his neck to meet his unruly hair.  The thick banana skin has been crudely carved with one word, "LIAR".

James is fifteen years old and Martin Chapman is twenty three.

Who drew on this banana? Sandra

"Who drew on this banana?"  Charlie looked up from his dish of breakfast cereal at his mother, who was standing accusingly in front of him. Waving a banana in her hand that was covered with strange symbols written in red felt pen..
"It wasn't me." Charlie muttered, "it must have been Amy." He glanced over to where his baby sister was
playing with her dolls.  It was not that Charlie wanted to get Amy into trouble but at two years old Amy, it seemed to Charlie could get away with anything even drawing on the walls.
"Charlie," his mother said in an exasperated tone. "Amy can barely hold a pen she could never draw those
patterns. If you cannot tell the truth there will be no computer games tonight after school."
"But Mum," Charlie protested. His mother gave him a hard stare and he knew it was pointless to continue
protesting.  He got up sulkily, kicking his chair back under the table.
"Charlie," his mother shouted.
Charlie put his hands over his ears. he was fed up with always getting the blame for everything in this house.
Every other minute his mother seemed to be shouting at him "Charlie, Charlie, CHARLIE! The worst of it was that Charlie knew very well who was responsible for all the mysterious goings on in the house. The awful thing was if he told his mother she would never believe him.
From inside his hiding place Gollo grinned a toothless grin and bit on his long green fingers to stop himself laughing out loud.  Gollo liked nothing more than causing trouble and mischief and Charlie was an easy target.
As Charlie walked through the hall his nose picked up on a familiar smell.  A strange sour smell a bit like strawberry yogurt that has gone off,  mixed with the smell of his football socks after football practise.  the odd thing was Charlie was the only one who could smell it!
'Gollo' he thought. He must be very close, the smell was very strong.  Charlie tipped out the contents of his school bag, remembering the time that Gollo had hidden in his bag and caused him endless trouble at school. His pencil case, reading book and favourite marbles clattered down on to the floor.
"Charlie." His mother shouted from the kitchen.
Gollo could not stifle a giggle and Charlie looked in the direction the noise had seemed to originate from.  The boot cupboard. One of Charlies wellingtons was shaking on the shelf. 'Got him' Charlie thought. He crept closer, grabbed the boot and putting his hand over the top to stop Gollo escaping, he ran up the stairs to his room.  Banging the door shut behind him. 
Charlie tipped Gollo unceremoniously out onto his bed. Gollo landed face down on Charlie's duvet leaving a large  stain of green snot from his constantly dripping nose.  'Oh no', thought  Charlie, 'Mum will go nuts when she sees that'.
Gollo sat up and blinked up at him with his small red eyes. "Well", Charlie asked, "Why did you draw on the banana?

Julie - Sub-Plot

Mary Fletcher looked out of the window of the large house she shared with her husband and her son.  Charles was due home from school soon, with his end of term report.  She felt nervous although, she supposed, it wasn’t that important.  He was obviously going to inherit the Estate, being the only son, and he had enough wits about him to know how to run it well.  It was the people skills he lacked.

She heard the ringing of bicycle bells before the two boys came into sight at the end of the lane, pedalling frantically as they always did, racing to be the first to reach the large Estate gates.  Both boys had dark, short hair, as was the style of the day; they were of similar height; both dressed identically in their black school blazers and grey shorts.  They looked more like brothers than friends.  She wondered idly whether anyone else in the village noticed their similarity, or remarked, in the pub or, perhaps in the butchers, on how much the Fletcher boy looked like the Mitchell boy.

Mary walked from the lounge through the hall to the kitchen, with its high ceiling and large wooden table in the centre.  The back door was flung open, and the boys spilled in, kicking off their boots onto the brick floor and charging over to the pantry where the fresh milk was kept.  They grabbed mugs from the wooden shelves and poured out the milk, chattering and giggling together.

‘Where is it then?’  Mary asked. 

The boys looked up, suddenly noticing her presence.  Charles frowned, then ran over to where he had thrown his leather satchel.  Undoing the strap, he took out a crumpled brown envelope, addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Fletcher’ and handed it to his mother.  Mary smiled.

‘Thank you, Charles.  Has your mother seen your report yet, David?’

David shook his head.  ‘She’s not very well again, Dad says I’m not to trouble her with it.’

‘Tell your father to let me know if there’s anything I can do.  Well, boys, off you go then, it’s time you went outside and played.’

Once peace had returned to the house, Mary lit an Embassy and took the school report through to the lounge.  Pausing only to make herself a gin and tonic, she settled down on the sofa to read what the teachers of Bentley Primary School thought about her son.

***

Charles Fletcher (aged 8 ½) was apparently a star pupil in History and English lessons, showing flair and imagination in essays, with a good knowledge of recent history.  His skill in Mathematics was adequate and he was showing some ability in geography, correctly identifying many countries and capital cities in the recent test.   Sport was a let-down, but then, Mary reasoned, no-one thought for a moment that they could earn a living from sport.  His class teacher was content with the level of diligence being shown, although it was felt that Charles would benefit from being more tolerant of his classmates and not being quite so eager to judge them.  He apparently held very strong views on all kinds of subjects, which he was only too keen to impart to others.  However, it seemed that, with a bit of pressure from the teachers and slightly more effort on the boy’s part, a career in politics might be beckoning.

Smiling, Mary folded the report and put it back into the envelope.

***

The sub-plot is set some thirty years earlier than the main story and explores the relationship between Cassie’s father, David, and Charles Fletcher, who becomes an MP.

Sub plot - Sue

As they planned the circus workshops, they became aware of a figure loitering in the wings.  Martin passed a scribbled note,” TAT”? Charlotte nodded and they exchanged complicit grins and grimaces, each slightly ashamed of the derogative shorthand reference.

“TAT” was their private name for Lila. It encompassed the way she dressed and the one bit of advice she had given to Charlotte about circus success – show tits and teeth. Of recent times, in growing realisation of her status and influence as star aerial performer and owner’s daughter, they had named their new “Target Areas for Tactics” list, in her honour, the purpose of which was to help them develop a game plan for full acceptance into the circus community.

Whilst complicit, their reactions stemmed from different thoughts. Charlotte was in awe of Lila’s talents, envious of her born to the circus life and surety of place within it. In Lila’s presence, she became aware of her comparative dowdiness and knew that as a defence mechanism, she played upon Lila’s inability to string a sentence together and her lack of knowledge about the “outside world”. Martin saw Lila as a threat and an obstacle to his growing rapport with Max (author note – Max is the circus owner). Of recent times he had become flattered but concerned about Lila’s apparent interest in him.  She kept approaching him in isolated places, on the pretext of asking about his teaching experience. He had not, as yet, told Charlotte about these “chance” conversations.

Lila hung back, hoping to remain invisible, whilst listening and learning how they planned educational workshops. As she sensed that they knew she was there, she tugged down her short skirt, scooped her hair back, took a deep breath, and then strutted confidently into their view.

Sub- plot – Lila is born and bred into circus life and excels in it ..but she has an opposing strong desire to break out, get qualifications, broaden her horizons and be respected and accepted in the “real world”. Lila can thus provide a possible reverse mirror image and contrast of Charlotte and Martin’s desires .. and possible consequences of leaving their accepted outwardly successful “ real worlds” to be accepted into circus life.., or of seeking a compromise that works.

Sub Plot - Sandra

It was PC Dennis Bates first night in the area car. Dennis knew that the sergeant had only put him in the car because the regular man had gone sick, but he felt excited and honoured to be chosen over the other two new rookies at Ledbury station. 
His crew partner and driver for the shift was Arthur Smith.  Arthur had fifteen years behind him in the police force and boasted that there was not a dark alley he did not know. Nor a villains face he couldn't put a name too on their patch.
The night had started quietly enough. They had driven around the outskirts of the town, checking out the regular trouble hotspots. Spoken to a couple of teenage boys and were then thinking about taking a refreshment break at the station when the call came through.
"999 to 26 West Street, female very distressed. Sounds like its just a domestic but check it out please"
"Roger, Sergeant on our way". Dennis replied.
Arthur groaned "Damn domestics, they're a waste of time. Spend two hours taking a statement then the good lady rings in the next day  to say she's changed her mind and does not want to press charges. Still it will be good experience for you Dennis".
Dennis grabbed the dashboard as Arthur took a sharp right at The Swan.
"Ah, Yes - thought I recognized the address I've been here before a couple of times. Once to interview the bloke about some allegations of fraud and once to return a small child I found crying her eyes out on Duggan Street. Told me she was looking for her Grandmother,bless her. Well here we are then, lets see whats up." Dennis grabbed his helmet and jumped out, followed closely by Arthur.
Dennis banged on the door twice, "Police" he shouted, then tried the door. "Its bolted on the inside Arthur" they were about too look for another way in when May opened the door.
"Thank Goodness you are here* she said as the officers walked past her into the living room where Doreen still laid on the floor.
Arthur knelt down beside her and spoke to her "Who did this to you sweetheart?" he asked. Doreen turned her head and seeing the gash on her face Arthur asked \Dennis to call in for an Ambulance.
"Where is he?" Arthur asked. Doreen was silent. May who was standing behind them spoke,
"It was her boyfriend Carl Perkins, he ran off when he heard the police car." .
"Which way did he go?" Dennis asked.
"Out the back" May said. "
"Any idea where he might have gone love" Arthur looked enquiringly at Doreen.
"His shed up on the allotments, he will probably go there". She replied so quietly Arthur could hardly hear her.. Arthur straightened up, "Come on Dennis lets go, this good lady can wait here for the ambulance,." he said pointing at May. May took the officers through the kitchen to the back door. "There's a short cut", she started "I know" said Arthur  " Don't worry love we will find the blighter, Just tell me which allotment is his?"
".If you go up blind alley theres a big gap in the hedge on the left - go through the gap and Carl's shed is the third one you come too".
"Righto, got your torch Dennis, Good lets go".
Dennis and Arthur made their way through the back yard and out the gate into the alley. Both officers loosened their truncheons and wrapped the leather straps tightly around their wrists.
Neither spoke as they walked quickly along, hidden from the allotment by the tall hedge.  Dennis grabbed Arthurs sleeve and pointed out the gap that May had mentioned.  They moved silently one behind the other, above them an owl hooted and Dennis started making Arthur smile to himself.  'These youngsters', he thought,' think they know it all but jump out of their skins when an owl hoots'.
All the sheds were in darkness and as they approached Carl's shed they wondered if Doreen was wrong.
There was no sign that he was there or had been there that night.. Dennis gingerly tried the door which was locked.
"He is not here Dennis." Arthur said."But we might as well have a look in the shed whilst we are here."
"Should we do that Arthur? Isn't that against the regulations?"
"When you have done this job as long as I have you will realize you have to bend the rules a bit or you never get anywhere. Now help me kick this door in". Arthur replied.
Dennis kicked sharply at the latch and the door panel broke open.
He shone the torch around the shed - all the usual garden implements, a pile of mens magazines. he picked one up and put it down again quickly. Arthur picked one up and put it inside his tunic. " Save that for later" he winked at Dennis. 
They were about to leave when Dennis spotted a tarpaulin which had been pulled over some boxes at the back of the shed. he pulled the tarpaulin back. Arthur whistled - "Well lad, what have we got here then?" .
"Looks like its the proceeds from that house break last week" Dennis grinned.
Arthur grinned back, "Well something tells me that Mr Carl Perkins, whereever he is has a few questions to answer".

Peter--Sub-plot (development of new characters)

Hazy sunlight filtered through the  closed curtains, casting a solemn blue shade across the silent  bedroom. Two dark figures, an elderly man and woman, heads slightly bowed, stood  anxiously staring down at a girl lying in the bed.  On the other side, a bespectacled man in a white coat.  The girl lies, head propped high on pillows, eyes firmly closed, breathing heavily. From a bag on a metal stand a nasogastric tube drips fluid in fits and starts.  Her arms lay outside the blankets, the right hand tightly gripping a small, black camera.

“How long has she been like this doctor?” asked a dignified, broad-shouldered man wearing a smart black overcoat,  his face betraying an expression of authority.

“It’s over a month now since the accident and she shows no sign of waking.  She suffered a serious blow to the head that has caused her to be in a coma.  However, apart from heavy bruising on her legs and a slight fracture to her right cheekbone, our examinations show no serious damage elsewhere”, the  doctor answered, touching the corner of his dark spectacles.

“Any damage to the brain, doctor?” said the woman, her sharp eyes scrutinizing the patient.

“Not according to our X-rays.”

“How long could she remain in this state?” asked the man in an earnest lower tone,  nervously tapping his Homburg hat against his right leg.

The doctor sighed.  “ It could be months. Then again, she could wake up tomorrow.”

“The camera....?” the woman said, peering closely at the clenched hand.

“Ah, the camera.  She was clutching it when she was rescued from the car and we found it impossible to remove it from her. We fear that if we take it from her, it could have a  disastrous effect.”

For a moment the three studied the child. “You know your niece can hear every word we  speak.  I think perhaps it is better if we go now  to my office.”  The three quietly retreated across the room and, as they left, Nurse Murphy slipped through the door, gently clicking it  to a close.

*********

Maisie was far, far away from that secluded room in a corner of Surrey.  She inhabited a world so strange, so challenging, her heart beat faster.  It was a world where great black bastions of cliffs descended down to the sea and at their foot  were girdled by massive flat  rocky ledges, ceaselessly  pounded by foaming seas.  Here, screeching seabirds dived and colonies of walrus lay crammed together like sacks along the inhospitable shore.

At one end of the beach, the sea had eroded the cliff side and a seething channel of water entered a large cave.  The jagged rocks assembled inside looked like gigantic grey teeth.

Deep in the dark  interior of this fearful place, Griselm, the walrus, with a loud snort that echoed eerily through the endless, subterranean chambers, slowly drew his huge  body out of the shallow channel.  Risik, his changeling minion, stood nearby, whiskered  nose held high in contempt while his protruding, razor-sharp incisors shone in the faint light.  Dark locks fell loosely to his shoulders.  His arms were man-like but the sealskin that hung loosely from his back  like some forbidding cloak gave the impression of a sinister manta ray.  The legs were thin, smooth and developed at the back into the shape of shark fins while the feet were flat and web-like.   

In silence they made their way along a pebble track, Griselm grumbling as he drew his bulk  forward and Risik half bent over to avoid the lowered ceiling.  Ahead of them was a blue glow and the unfamiliar warmth became unbearable as they approached the light.  At last, they reached its source and were standing on a promontory overlooking a long, ultramarine blue  pool  not far below, which stretched to the far recesses of the cave.  Near to the centre of the lake there was a brilliant yellow glow whose flickering light was deflected through the translucent waters.  Swimming helplessly beneath the surface were several human figures, each of whom was connected by a thin golden thread to the dazzling light.  Among the struggling swimmers, Maisie recognized herself by the camera she still held in her hand.

Griselm grunted something to Risik.  The creature answered in a low, almost gasping tone.  “The girl is a new arrival.  You want me to take the machine she holds and cut the cord that  gives her life?”  Griselm shook his head emphatically from side to side and mumbled angrily.

“Just the machine…” Risik understood, already beginning to climb down the rocky cliff to the blue waters below.

*************

In the quiet Surrey hospital, Nurse Murphy flung open the door and shouted frantically along the corridor, “Doctor, doctor, please come quickly!”

*************

Tony: The assault

[Set around 1946 – Rushton has just visited a London hospital, to enquire about the possibility of training to be a doctor]

It was a cold wind blowing from the river, as Rushton walked hastily past the entrance of Smithfield Market, towards the tube station of his choice.

His visit to the hospital had been inconclusive.  The doctor’s words had been, on the whole, encouraging.  A career was open to Rushton, to practise eventually as a specialist.  The cost?  Time – a large chunk of it: certainly enough to drain finances and stamina alike.  If he was quick, the doctor advised, he could make use of one of the government’s training grants, then available to those in his situation.  But time was running out, and a decision would have to be made.

Rushton could not decide.  At least, not yet.  Snow was beginning to fall – he pulled up the collar of his coat and glanced at his watch.  There was just time for a warming cup of tea before the train journey home to his mother and father.  They, too, would be waiting for the outcome of his visit.

He shouldered open the door of a street-side café, which seemed, as he gazed through the steamy windows, to offer some seats.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke.  He paid for a large mug of tea, and perched on a stool near the one window which was mercifully free of condensation.

He looked out.  The ceaseless lights of the cars went by, and a man, dressed in an expensive-looking coat, stood with his back to Rushton, leaning against the window.

Rushton stared at the fibres of the man’s coat, pressed against the glass, only inches from his own eyes.  Rushton's mind was still wrestling with the choice he had to make.  His mind’s eye kept reverting to the startling medical specimens which the doctor had shown him in the hospital laboratory, as they made their way out.  Enormous tumours in bottles, exuding a scent of formaldehyde.  Eyes, muscles, a man’s dissected hand, all the elaborations of human anatomy, occupied Rushton’s memory, troubling his thoughts.  The human body was indeed a formidable thing.  What could he, Rushton, hope to contribute to its salvation?

Outside, the man in the expensive coat was apparently being addressed by another man, dressed shabbily, his face murky and indistinct.  Rushton, yawning wearily, took up a tattered newspaper, which he attempted to read.

He heard sudden cries and a shout from outside, and a heavy thump as something hit the window-glass.  Rushton backed away instinctively, and saw the shabbily-dressed man grasping something in his hands.  Peering more closely, Rushton realised with horror that it was the staring, gasping face of the well-dressed man, now scratched and torn across the eyes, with blood oozing from his nose.  Those staring eyes riveted Rushton.  They showed a raw terror, such as one might see in a trapped animal, lacking all hope of escape.

A short man, with a conspicuously stubbly chin, barged past Rushton and opened the café door to the street outside.  Rushton followed, and, feeling snow on his face, came onto the pavement, almost tripping over the man in the elegant coat, who was now lying on his back, prone.  Above, the shabby man was raising his hand high, as if to strike a decisive blow.

“No!”  The stubbly man had thrown himself against the assailant, and was now wrestling clumsily with him, losing his cap and flailing around wildly, before getting an arm around the shabby man’s neck, and hauling him clear.

There was a menacing sound of snarling, scuffling and growling, as Rushton himself knelt down beside the prone man, who was raising trembling arms, as if to ward off a further attack.  His eyes, which had so impressed themselves on Rushton before, were raised towards him now in a piteous appeal for protection.  The stylish coat was torn, and the man’s jacket was ripped open, revealing his bare, exposed chest, rising and falling rapidly.

So this was life.  Rushton remembered the bizarre, almost grotesque, medical specimens he had seen in the laboratory.  Something stood between them and this man lying beside him.  Those fearful forms had seemed devoid of hope – here was a man still clinging to the living world, his body threatened, his life revealed in all its fearful vulnerability.

“Is he alright?”  A man, in a black, snow-smeared coat, was kneeling beside Rushton, who in his confusion thought it might even be a doctor, come from the nearby hospital.

Another voice now spoke:  “He needs help ….  We’ll take him in ….”  A bearded man, tall and solemn, had approached them, and now seemed to be taking control of the situation.  Rushton, in a daze, now backed away, and, wiping the snow from his eyes, moved slowly off, to where the rush-hour crowds were gathering at a nearby crossing.

He knew, now, what he could do.

Having considered medicine rather in the abstract as a career, Rushton, as a result of this experience, now feels convinced that it is his “chosen path”, and the novel continues with Rushton's recollections of his life as a medical student.

Hilary - Assault

Carrie flounced along the pavement. Her short flared skirt bounced from side to side as she swung the shopping bag with her recently bought breakfast of a crusty French baton and cheese onto her shoulder. The sun shone with that clear brightness that only happens in Paris at a particular time of day in the summer, just after sunrise and in time for breakfast. She would find a spot to eat this before she found a place to stay.

Carrie smiled to herself, a little self consciously, as she imagined her Mother’s fury when she discovered that her credit card had been used to pay for Carrie’s short trip to Paris by Euro star. Carrie had felt no guilt as she reeled off the number and the expiry date to the tele- sales girl and thumbed a lift to London Waterloo to collect the ticket and jump aboard. Why would she? She had even booked  first class !

As she sat on a park bench breaking off a large chunk of baton and opening the Vignotte, she suddenly saw a good looking young guy walking toward her. He didn’t take his eyes from her and she smiled at him. As he got closer to her she saw that he was smiling too.

“Hey” the guy spoke in the universal language of the young.

“Hey” Carrie sat with her bread in one hand said “You want some?” indicating the cheese and bread with a nod.

“‘Merci,” he sat down by her side and offered his hand “ Josh,” he said by way of an introduction.

“ Carrie pleased to meet you.'You English?” asked Carrie as she handed him some cheese and bread.

“ Canadian”. Josh gratefully took Carrie’s offering. “ Here on a scholarship. Bloody difficult getting by on my grant though”.

They chewed on the bread and cheese and spent the next hour discussing the merits of the Paris hostels before Josh offered to take her to one he knew in the 13^th Arrondissement. She laughed and pulled a face exclaiming “ Eew!” when he said it was called ‘Hotel Rive Gauche’.

She followed him through the streets. The district had become a little seedy as they walked, with high rise apartments on both sides of the street and grey concrete areas where people were either sitting with beer cans or smoking.  The smell of dope wafted on the air, and small groups of kids were playing rowdy street games. After a while he took her hand. She felt comforted by this and smiled up at him.

As they rounded a corner they walked straight into a group of youths.

Carrie immediately felt the flow of fear go through her. This was no ordinary get together of a group of friends on a street corner. The group turned to face them as one. It was as if they had some internal flock mechanism. One of the youths came toward them swaggering.  He stopped when his face was inches from Josh; the others remained still and menacing, none of them losing eye contact with Josh. Josh’s grip on her hand tightened.

“Stay with me and don’t say anything” he whispered. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you” His voice was calm and reassuring and she believed him completely. She held on to his arm, trying desperately not to let the youth see her shaking.  She could feel her head shaking and panic rose in her until she felt sick.

“Guys, we want no fuss” Josh was still calm lifting both hands in the air in the sign of appeasement. He gave the youth the same smile he had given Carrie. “We have no cash, just let us be”

With no warning, the youth butted Josh in the head and threw him to the ground.  The four others then set upon him in unison, kicking him, until he cried out in pain.
Carrie was shaking, but watching, fascinated by the almost surgical precision of every blow that landed on Josh. She felt as if she were watching a movie, it was then that she saw the swift motion and a glint of a blade. She cried out and the group turned as one to look at her. She saw the look in their eyes and knew what was coming.

“Josh!” she whimpered as she turned and ran for her life. She never looked back, but in her mind she was screaming for Josh. Her breath was coming in short gasps as she rounded the corner and saw the glistening white neon sign saying ‘Rive Gauche’.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scenario 1 – Carrie tells someone what she has witnessed but this could put her in serious danger from the gang

 

Scenario 2 – Although Carrie grieves for Josh and is ashamed of her reaction, she doesn’t tell anyone about it – but could Josh come back into her life? Why was he assaulted ? Did he know the gang?

Scenario 3 - She uses her wiles to revenge Josh’s injuries by involving herself with the street gang, with awful consequences for both her, Josh and her family at home in the UK

Assault: Possibilities re plot/consequences. Sue

It was nearing closing time. Charlotte peered out of the window for the umpteenth time, wondering whether she should fake sleep, welcome Martin back with open arms or continue their argument. She still felt bereft by his decision to go the pub with the others, envious of his ability to fit in better than her and frustrated by her own refusal to join them.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the noise coming from Alex and Anna’s caravan.  She turned her attention to them and watched as their door opened to reveal Dominic on their step. She clearly saw the figures of Alex, Anna and Dominic, as they descended the step and were revealed in the immediate spot lit arena of the caravan.

A series of tableaux, with accompanying soundtrack, played out in front of her. Her senses became disconnected, leaving her feeling strangely removed from herself and what she was witnessing. She heard anger, shouting, accusations and pleas. She saw, in strobe-like vision, momentary flashes of searing clarity and scenes that were blurred by the darkness.

She saw Anna moving towards Dominic, Alex grabbing Anna to try and hold her back, Dominic pulling Anna away from the caravan towards him. Dominic was the stronger and Anna fell into his arms but was then moved aside. Then the men were fighting and Anna was trying to intervene but both men kept pushing her out of the way. There was a momentary flash of a knife within the scrum and the next clear view was of a heap of bodies on the ground. Sound realigned to fit the scene - mixed screams of pain and someone calling for help.

Throughout it all, Charlotte remained as frozen as a rabbit in headlights, aware of danger, wanting to do something to make it stop but too scared to reveal herself or make any move.

As her sound and vision unified, Charlotte heard and saw Martin and the gang rushing towards the caravans. Reality hit and she had no idea of what to do next. 

 Plot possibilities

(Context: Alex suffered a serious knife wound, neither Anna nor Dominic admits to inflicting it, Anna had previously promised to leave Alex and move in with Dominic)

1.Charlotte does not admit to the fact that she was a witness:.

• This could play out with Charlotte internally “knowing”, as does the reader, who stabbed Alex.
•  Or, Charlotte could think she “knows” but is mistaken, or remains unsure, as she cannot piece what she saw together. The reader has extra insight and knows for sure so can read rest of novel with this insight.
• Or, the reader could be left unsure as to what Charlotte witnessed, or what she really knows (or does not know) and is left to guess, fill in missing gaps or pick up on clues revealed as the novel progresses.

 

2. Charlotte admits to being a witness to the scene - some plot choices:

•  She fills in details that she did not witness at the time, leading to the wrong person being convicted of knife assault. This can play into her relationships and the plot... loads of possible permutations and consequences.
• Or, she gives a statement to police but she cannot identify who wielded the knife so they do not take any further action. The circus community would rather she had not co-operated with the police and find it increasingly difficult to accept Charlotte and Martin.
• Or, she describes what she witnessed only to the circus community, but they suspect her of hiding facts or protecting the stabber, as she remains unsure as to who inflicted the knife wound. Loads of potential for relationships issues and consequences.

 Whether 1 or 2. Her sense of safety and trust are shattered, she feels disconnected with everything and everyone around her. She has bad dreams, feels alternatively fearful/numb, guilty/angry/ashamed and finds it difficult to stop thinking about what happened (plus other PSTD like symptoms).  This affects her sense of self and what she really wants, her relationships, actions, reactions and consequences (especially re Martin).

The Assault - Sandra

:May poured hot milk into the mug  and stirred vigorously. She could not bear getting small lumps of congealed  Horlicks floating on the top of her bedtime drink. I'll be glad to get to my bed she thought to herself.  The sudden sharp tone of the phone ringing insistently made her start and make a grab for it. Who could be ringing her at this time of night. What could they be thinking of, waking the whole house up.
May felt quite cross as she answered , "Thurton 632".
"Mum, its me". May could bearly hear her daughter over her crying. "Doreen is that you? What on earth is wrong?  Is Sarah ok?"
"Sarahs' fine but I need you to come and get her before Carl gets back, you must hurry, please". It was obvious to May that her daughter was very agitated and distressed. "Doreen what has happened?" she asked worriedly. " I will tell you when you get here, but please you must be quick". May heard the receiver go down with a click. 'Oh my God', she thought, what mess has she got herself into now.
May quickly took off her dressing gown and pulled a cardigan on over her nightdress. She kicked off her slippers and putting her  bare feet into her shoes, grabbed her coat from the hall and was gone.
Doreen had recently moved into a new house on the edge of town with her boyfriend Carl. Carl had always been polite and friendly towards May but there was just some undefineable thing about him that May could not take too.  Carl had a good job as a telephone engineer and at first had seemed like a blessing after Doreen's long line of past disastrous relationships. However, Sarah had told her that sometimes Carl got very cross and threw things around the house and shouted at her Mummy.
May's feet felt like they could not move fast enough to keep up with her thoughts. She walked as quickly as the arthritis in her knees would allow and shivering, buttoned her coat to the neck. It was a cold night, the wind blew through her thin coat and she felt cold to the bone. The high street was almost deserted.  Just a few courting couples, huddled together. She turned right at the Swan pub, towards the new estate where Doreen lived. As she walked by the pub she glanced through the window- she saw Carl leaning on the bar.
'Looks like he's had a skinful ',she thought. May was relieved that she had beaten him home and quickened her pace.
As May neared Doreen's house she saw that the lounge light was on and noticed Doreen flick the curtain back. The next minute Doreen was at the door. May was not prepared for what she saw.
Doreen's face was bruised and an angry gash ran the length of her cheek. Her nose was swollen and bloody and her eyes were almost closed.
" My God what has happened to you?" May asked, although she already knew the answer.
Doreen did not reply just urgently beckoned May inside then locked and bolted the door behind her.
" I have packed Sarah a case. Now you are here I will just get her up". Doreen walked towards the stairs.
She turned as she climbed "Thanks for coming" she stuttered and sank down onto the stair, clutching her hair and sobbing into her hands. May walked towards her feeling more love towards her daughter than she had for years, Doreens distress was obvious, she looked like a small bird sat there, a broken spirit. Whatever her daughter had done wrong in the past May was sure she did not deserve this. May sat down on the stair next to Doreen and tenderly held her close. It was as they sat there that Carl came home.
They heard the key in the door,  the shouted obscenities as he realized that the door was bolted.
Then he started hammering on the door. "Open the fucking door Doreen or I will kick it in" . May and Doreen sat where they were. Carl shouted again and above them May saw her 5yr old  grandaughter Sarah standing bleary eyed with sleep at the top of the stairs. Woken by the commotion Sarah's eyes were wide with fear.
May got up and went to Sarah, picking her up and  uttering reassurances that she did not feel; she carried Sarah back into her bedroom and closed the door. Carl was still shouting and kicking at the door.  May heard Doreen talking, giving out her name and address,she guessed Doreen was calling the police. 'Oh please get here quickly', May silently pleaded.
May lay down on Sarah's bed with her. "Wrapping her arms around the childs head trying to shield her from the vicious shouts below.
A loud crash of breaking glass and a scream from Doreen told May that Carl had broken through the patio door.
" You bitch" he bawled.
"Carl please, no more " Doreen pleaded.
May got up from the bed and pushing  the door  ajar saw Carl with his hands around Doreens throat, spitting furiously into her face. " I will tell you when you have had enough you slut". Doreen was trying to back away from him, feeling her way along the wall, she grabbed the table lamp and hit it smartly over Carls head.
Carl stumbled but regained his balance and grabbed at Doreen, he held her still with one arm and punched her in the face. Doreen fell to the floor and he kicked her in the stomach.
May was terrified  for Doreen but her feet were rooted to the spot. She was shaking from head to foot.
What should she do?. If she went down and Carl started on her, what would happen to Sarah?
May had never been so glad to hear the sirens of the police cars as they sped up to the house.
Carl on hearing the sirens ran to the back of the house and throught the back door.  Seeing him run off  May hurried down to her daughter who lay clutching her belly.
"Oh, my dear girl" May sobbed - remembering her daughter as a child- so full of  spirit and anger that May had never understood and had never been able to curtail. "My poor,poor, child.".
================
Consequences
May suceeds in persuading Doreen to let Sarah live with her.
There is a greater empathy between May and her daughter although they struggle to co-exist.

Peter--The Assault

PETER—THE ASSAULT

Ned raced across to the rail gate.   The metal ladder hung intact down the side of the ship.  At its foot floating in the brash ice, two polar bears Nochoska and another, Petuk.  Ropes trailing from their mouths attached to a kayak bobbing about in the brash.

Ned climbed over and, clinging to the metal banister, descended.  Nochoska emerging, shook and snorted and watched as Ned climbed into the kayak, then he and Petuk, heads hardly visible above the scattered ice, drew the kayak into the open water, where Ned began paddling vigorously.

The two bears swimming side by side pulled the boat steadily through the dark blue sea of Beijick Bay - the breeze whipping up wavelets.  The pale blue sky above tinged with pink on the horizon.  Not far away, gleaming in the sunshine, two large icebergs drifting towards the open sea.  Beyond them Ned could make out the shore of Howlett’s Island.  The rugged brown headland patched with snow was where they would find safety.   

Inshore winds impeded their progress.  Halfway across the bay, shouts and cries were heard on the SS RADEX EXPLORER.  Ned turned.  The motor launch was being lowered into the sea.

“We’re being chased, Nochoska!” he cried, redoubling his efforts with the paddle. The two bears just ploughed on.  Alas, they were no match for the launch. The powerful inboard motor sent it surging forward. Five minutes later, Ned’s heart sank; a quick glance and he could clearly make out the sealskin-coated men aboard. But when he looked to the front, Nochoska and Petuk had changed direction. Ned gulped.  They were heading for the nearest iceberg.

As they drew closer, the weather-beaten battlements of ice loomed menacingly above them. Ned felt nervous. The wind dropped as they moved easily across the becalmed waters of a cove of ice and entered a cave at the foot of a towering buttress of ice.

The sounds of the motorboat and seabirds’ cries were all suddenly lost and Ned closed his eyes as they passed beneath a portcullis of jagged giant icicles, whose dagger points hung forbiddingly above them.  The roar of the motorboat and seabirds’ cries all suddenly banished as they glided into a glistening world, whose silence was broken by the plash of Ned’s paddle and the occasional ominous crack of ice. The kayak sped along a narrow channel of bottle- green water that turned to a sombre blue as the light diminished.

Aboard the motor launch Petty Officer Timpson ordered “Cut the engine!”  The craft began to stutter, slow and bob in the waters at a safe distance from the formidable iceberg. Timpson stared through his binoculars thoughtfully, watching as the kayak was swallowed by the iceberg.

 “We’re not going in there,” he said earnestly “I’ve seen those things topple and disintegrate.  It’s too dangerous.”  The three hooded crewmen watched with fascination.  A fourth sat apart at the stern. An indescribably ugly man, long hair falling from his hood, his face a bush of whiskers, long incisor teeth, hanging over his bottom lip. He got up and leaning over the side, let out a terrible scream that made his companions shiver with fear.

Timpson waited for kayak to reappear, then shook his head. “To the ship,” he barked.  With a roar, the engines came back to life.  

In the ice tunnel Ned was overawed by the gloomy, glistening world around him and wondered where Nochoska was taking them.  Beneath the shadowy but clear water he could make out the bed of ice about six metres down. When a shaft of bright light appeared ahead, Ned felt a sense of relief.

The tunnel of ice abruptly ended, opening up into a grand hall whose walls were curtains of ice.  A brilliant beam of light burst into this grand chamber through a crevasse that zigzagged across a ceiling draped with stalactites.  The kayak was now upon a kingfisher blue lake whose shores were surrounded by labyrinths of ice.

Nochoska seemed to be heading to a bank that lay some distance before them. Ned was distracted by a snort. He turned. Three walrus, their large bulbous bodies moving swiftly beneath the waters like submarines.  To his horror, two of them swam alongside Petuk, turning and slashing at her. Petuk released the rope and, swerving round, began to defend herself. The third walrus swam beneath Nochoska, somersaulting and trying to strike at her belly. She let go of the rope and disappeared beneath the surface. Ned paddled frantically for the ice shore and pulled the kayak clear.

In front of him now, the once tranquil waters boiled with motion as the polar bears did battle with the walrus.  At moments the walrus seemed to leap out of the water and then fell back, with great explosions of water sending waves lapping the shore. The combatants charged and swerved and crashed. The force and confusion were so great. Ned could not make out amongst the swirling bodies who was winning. He stood aghast, helpless as pools of blood began to appear in great patches.  It had never once occurred to him that the walrus would be enemies. Heads appeared momentarily, gasped at the air and disappeared as the struggle ensued. Then one of the walrus floated immobile like a grey island in the lake. The battle continued.  Suddenly in a swirling whirlpool of water Ned was aware of two dark shapes slipping towards the tunnel. For some moments nothing happened.

“Nochoska! Nochoska!” Ned called, running to the edge of the lake. The bloodied head of the bear appeared in the middle of the lake and slowly made its way towards the shore. He emerged from the waters, slashes across his legs seeping blood. He shook himself.

Ned raced forward. “Nochoska! Nochoska!”  Put his arm around his neck. “Where is Petuk?”  Nochoska shook his head and stared for a moment at the lake. Moving towards the rope, he began to pull the kayak across the shelf of ice. Ned stopped, paralysed, between the lake and the departing Nochoska.. Staring at the lake, the bloodstained body of Patuk had emerged, floating limp in the centre of the pool, limbs outstretched.

Overwhelmed with anguish, Ned stood, head bowed motionless. A fierce bark rang out at the top the shelf.  Nochoska was standing on the rise, turning his head as good as to say “Come, come away.” Ned couldn’t move. There was a huge symphony of cracks; the ice beneath his feet began to quake, the walls shudder.  Nochoska’s bark became almost a snarl.  Confused, Ned scrambled up the incline to the crest.

SUBSCRIPT

Ned had never realized until now that the walrus did not want to expel the oil explorers. This will have a serious effect on the plot.  The loss of  Petuk, a close friend, has triggered a memory of his former life and how his family must feel the loss of his presence.

Julie - The Assault

The lad on the chopper bike seemed to appear from nowhere.  One minute, Cassie was walking down Fircombe high street, about ten feet behind an elderly lady, the next, the youth had swooped past Cassie and grabbed the old lady’s handbag, which was looped over her right arm.  The brakes squeaked as he stopped sharply and he yanked at the bag, breaking the strap.  He tucked the bag under his right arm and pedalled away quickly, turning left at the end of the street.  Cassie had a glimpse of a silver bike, a dark top, and a Norbridge United blue and yellow bobble hat, then he was gone.  It was over so quickly, and was so surprising, that she had no time to do anything to stop the assault. 

The momentum of the bag being pulled away had sent the old lady flying.  Her walking stick rattled to the ground as she fell awkwardly on her side.  Cassie ran and crouched down beside her.  The old lady was whimpering, ‘oh no, oh no.’

Cassie looked around for help.  The street was largely deserted.  A couple of people walking some yards in front of the old lady seemed unaware of the drama.  A mother behind, with a pram, was pre-occupied with chastising a toddler who, apparently, would not ‘walk properly’.  There were a few cars travelling up and down the high street, but none stopped.

‘I’ll go and phone for help,’ Cassie said with a confidence she didn’t really feel.  ‘Don’t move.’

The phone box was on the opposite side of the road.  Cassie crossed quickly and, with a trembling hand, dialled 999.  While she spoke to the emergency services she kept an eye on the old lady, observing the dark brown coat, gold headscarf and the brown lace-up shoes that reminded her of her grandmother.  A middle-aged man emerged from Liptons, the nearest shop to the incident, and bent down to talk to the old lady.  He took off his jacket and gently placed it under her head.  Cassie’s heart was pounding hard in her chest as she crossed back over the road.  She felt sorry for the victim and hoped she wasn’t badly injured. 

As if reading her mind, the man greeted Cassie with ‘Mrs Broughton here says her hip hurts.’  He was patting the old lady’s hand reassuringly.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Cassie told them.

‘Did you see what happened?’ the man asked.

‘Lad on a bike nicked her bag,’

‘It had my pension book it in,’ the old lady cut in.  ‘I’d just collected my money from the Post Office.’  She paused, grimacing with pain. 

‘Lads like that ought to be strung up,’ the man offered.

Cassie nodded.  ‘The Police are coming, too.  I just hope they catch him.’

***

OUTCOMES FOR THE PLOT

1. Cassie is on work experience at the local newspaper from her secretarial course and goes with the reporter to interview the old lady in hospital.  Cassie is closely involved with the development of the story and decides she would like to follow a career in journalism.
2. She is more suspicious of people and no longer takes them at face value – this will prove useful in her chosen career!
3. She becomes more aware of the vulnerability of the elderly, and is more considerate towards her own grandmother.