Accidental Don. Episode three...

Life was good.

The little flat above the little shop was as quiet as the grave. A pair of 'Value Range Essentials' curtains covered the windows but did little to shield the young man's bedroom-cum-lounge from the bright summer sun outside. The unmade bed, that doubled as a seating area, was still warm when the resident of the little flat returned home.

The young man who lived there was Owen. Owen smiled a lot. There were times, on the rare occasions he was alone in his little flat, when memories seeped from those recesses deep within his mind where he'd tried to bury them, when smiles were absent. Sweating and sobbing, the young man would sit and rock on his bed until the point at which he managed to wrest back control of his conscious thoughts and remember....

...life was good.

A blue and white striped, plastic carrier bag dangled from the handlebars of his BMX as he manoeuvred it in through the heavy front door, across the sea of unopened post obscuring the mat and much of the narrow hallway and through into the bathroom, out of the way. Unless he wanted to wash. Or bathe. He could get to the toilet, though. Owen took the bag and rummaged through it as he headed toward the kitchen.

“I'm telling you, mate, he was like a fucking ninja.”

The 'mate' he spoke to, Kelvin, had followed Owen across the mountain of junk mail and unopened council tax demands and was now parking his own BMX in the bathroom (rendering the toilet as unusable as the bath and washbasin) before retrieving his own bagful of goodies. Kelvin headed straight for the seating area, sitting with his back against the wall and facing the small television balanced on the chest of drawers by the window. He grabbed a PlayStation controller from beneath the pillow and got comfortable.

“He didn't look like a ninja.” Kelvin called to Owen as the games console slowly woke up. “He was proper old.”

Owen had very little, but once, not so very long ago, he'd had nothing. Back then he'd been sad every morning, sad because he'd awoken and would have to endure his own, private hell for another day. Every day, things would get worse in some way. Worse and worse and worse until, suddenly, he was at the bottom. As low as a man can get...

...and at exactly the right time.

____________________

Owen cowered in the corner, silently watching the tramp.

The tramp wore a green woollen hat with a small peak, pulled down low on his brow. A scraggly beard covered most of the remainder of his face, with the exception of a patch on the left cheek where a still raw burn was beginning to heal.

Once the tramp had finished tying the knots that would secure the pervert with the still beating heart he enlisted the help of the cowering boy.

“Help me.” His voice was like gravel.

The boy shook as he wriggled out of his nylon bag. He was terrified but, given the recent explosion of violence he'd witnessed, he complied.

Between the two of them they hoisted the would-be rapist to his feet and dragged him to one of the larger lockers that remained standing, squeezing him in beside his hunting partner.

“Is he dead as well?” Owen asked.

“No.” The tramp squeezed the bloody length of guttering between the legs of the man with half a skull and closed the locker door.

“Is he dying?”

“Everyone's dying. It's just a matter of time. Stand back.”

The tramp hooked his fingers behind the locker and heaved. Tall and narrow, the locker quickly passed it's centre of gravity and toppled forward, noisily crashing, door side down, onto the concrete and sending clouds of dust and detritus billowing up from the floor. The tramp sat on the corner of the metal box and began unzipping the many layers he wore, rummaging in the inside pocket of the jacket closest to his flesh and withdrawing a small tobacco pouch.

“You smoke?” The tramp asked. Owen nodded. “Pass me that stuff.” The tramp gestured toward the pile of personal effects he'd taken from the pockets of the perverts and began rolling two cigarettes. Owen placed the items by the tramp's side.

Cigarettes, both as narrow as matchsticks, rolled he passed one to Owen and struck a match. Owen trembled as he lowered his face toward the flame and drew deeply on the little tube of paper and cancer.

“Shhh.” The tramp held a finger to his lips. From within the steel sarcophagus came a moan followed by the sounds of a gagged man in agony choking to death on his own vomit. The pair smoked their cigarettes in silence, the younger man trembling.

Once the noises had been replaced by the foul stench of a dead man's bowels evacuating, the tramp began to search through the wallets, discarding business cards, receipts and credit cards. One of the wallets contained a driving licence, the tramp studied it closely for a moment before adding it to the pile of plastic. He slipped a set of keys with a BMW keyring and fob into his pocket.

Both predators had been privileged in so many ways, though they'd never appreciated it. Neither had ever suffered any great hardship.

The younger of the two owned a hotel and had a property portfolio worth in excess of three million pounds. He had a wife, Mary. Mary thought he was going to London on business. His car, left at the train station where he had arranged to meet his hunting partner, seemed to confirm this but he'd parked in an area not covered by CCTV and so the trail soon went down a very wrong path.

The other was retired. Time as a local councillor had lead to a spell as a backbench MP, though a newspaper's scrutiny of his expenses claims resulted in him losing that title after his first, and only, term. During his brief taste of power and privilege he'd worked hard to make and cement relationships with as many heads of industry as he could and, through shared interests in the unspeakable with some of his colleagues, he'd ensured a level of protection regarding his private matters that gave him greater freedom to enjoy his 'hobby'.

Some shrewd investments, backed by money cleverly embezzled from, and never missed by, the taxpayer, paid off his mortgage and provided him with enough fiscal plumage to ensure him of the well feathered nest that would see him comfortably through life, retirement and dotage.

Having relieved both wallets of the six hundred and seventy pounds they'd jointly contained, and having counted, sorted and folded the notes neatly, the tramp placed them both in a discarded cardboard box before adding the receipts and cards. He then began packing scraps of lath that had fallen from the decaying ceiling around them.

“Pass me some of your paper.” The tramp pointed toward the insulation protruding from Owen's collar. The young man did as bid.

The tramp rolled several pieces up and tied them in loose knots before adding all but one of these to the contents of the cardboard box. He lit the remaining knot of paper with another match and, once it was burning brightly, stuffed it in with the rest. He and Owen watched in silence as the paper began to crackle and unfurl. They saw the cardboard box begin to smoke and were mesmerised by the blue and orange flames licking up the outside of the burgeoning blaze. Plastic cards and leather began to add fuel to the hungry flames until, eventually, nothing but a pile of ashes remained.

A fragment of a news' story fluttered to the ground as the flame died. The tramp stared at the scrap of paper, a look of confusion creeping across his face and providing Owen with the first glimpse of any real emotion from this man. He stared at the shrivelling piece paper lay before him, a cracking, orange border dancing around the words as the embers ate them up.

“Do you have any more copies of that?” The tramp asked, his words coming faster than before. Owen passed him the rest of his insulation and he immediately started flicking through pages.

“What's wrong?” Owen asked as the tramp found the article from which the words he'd just seen disintegrate had come. The tramp read a moment.

“Nothing.” He stood, tucking the relevant pages into the pocket where he kept his tobacco pouch. “There's some money there, don't waste it,” He pointed at the pile of banknotes, “This is a transitional phase, try not to fuck it up.”

The tramp turned on his heels and strode away. On reaching the heavy door he paused.

“Do you believe in Heaven?” He asked.

“No.” The answer came easily to Owen's lips. How could he?

“Even though you live in Hell?” The tramp glanced back at Owen as he took a grip on the door, “Don't waste that money.”

____________________

It was more money than Owen had ever held in his fist before and he held on to it tightly. The mobile phones the predators had carried were worth a couple of hundred between them, far more if he'd not had to sell them to a dodgy bloke on the market but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Although, paradoxically, this beggar was making plenty of choices.

First port of call had been the charity shop where, under the suspicious eye of the volunteer manning the till, he bought a whole new outfit, including shoes with soles intact, for twenty quid.

He changed into his new clothes in a public toilet then bought deodorant and soap from a pound shop before visiting the local swimming baths, where he showered. He took his little holdall into the cubicle with him, it's contents now too precious to allow out of his sight.

His windfall became a deposit and a months rent on a beautiful (to him) flat plus a cupboard full of beans and bread.

A fortnight after witnessing the double murder he visited the job centre to fill in forms. Whilst there he pretended to look for a job on one of the little touch-screen terminals. He tapped button after button until one screen caught his eye.

He'd asked the lady that was going to give him free money if he could apply. The lady made a phone call and Owen went for an interview that very day. He'd been unable to leave a contact number, he didn't have one to leave so he'd lied and said his phone had been stolen. The smiling manager at the timber yard laughed.

“Well, you'll be needing a job then, won't you?”

Owen smiled nervously and looked at his shoes.

“Eight o'clock.”

“What?”

“You start at eight. A week's trial, no promises.” The manager held out his hand. It had been a long time since someone had extended a hand to the young man. It was that act that brought the tear that rolled down his cheek and met with the corner of his smile.

____________________

Donald loved a good sunrise.

Once, he couldn't remember how long ago, he'd woken to a beautiful sunrise every morning. And a beautiful wife, daughter and life, all bundled up in a beautiful home. The home was a three storey, four bedroomed, new-build house built and paid for by his beautiful wife's parents on a plot of land that had once been a portion of their back garden. Donald had wanted to buy the house from his parents-in-law, but they wouldn't hear of it. As they'd pointed out, it would be their daughter's inheritance one day anyway. They wouldn't accept a penny in rent either. The situation made Donald uneasy, but his life was full of good stuff to keep his mind off the butterflies.

Each new day, as he opened the curtains and gazed out at the lush, green meadows and hills with a smile, he'd utter the same mantra under his breath.

“I fucking love my life.”

And he did. Who wouldn't? It was Heaven.

But, now, paradise was lost. The last remnants of it had been slipping away for years until this point when he no longer had anything left to lose but his life. A life few, including Donald, would think worth living.

Though, according to the newspaper article in front of him, it appeared that even that was lost.

Donald sat and watched the sun rising slowly over the gasworks from his vantage point, perched on the dry stone wall that ran between the local tip and the busy main road. Cars flew by, their drivers already rushing to begin their day of doing stuff and getting things.

He read it again, from the start.

It was front page news with a “Cont. P5” at the end of an unfinished sentence. It was a report on the recent investigation into the devastating fire and explosion at a petrol station in which three had died. They'd done a pretty good job of guessing what had happened, with no witness surviving and no CCTV footage to scrutinise. The authorities had pieced together the story from whatever evidence was available.

The cashier had died slowly, the smoke taking him before the flames that followed could. Mercifully, he'd remained unconscious after striking his head and knew nothing of his suffering. The driver of the car, a young man well known to the police, had burned to death in the inferno. He'd died screaming and relatively quickly, though to him it had seemed an eternity. A dog had been stabbed to death and the dog's owner...

...was beaten unconscious then crushed beneath the collapsing canopy before being all but cremated. That was surprising, Donald thought.

The cashier and driver's identities had been easily ascertained. Not so that of "Donald", that had taken some extensive investigation..

A bank card had been found, scorched beyond recognition, close to the cash machine. A check with the machine's operators had thrown up the last transaction and a pair of police officers called at the address of the account holder. There was no answer at the door. 

Following a chat with the neighbours and having been told the resident of the empty terraced house (who “kept himself to himself”) had a dog of a similar size to the lump of charcoal and teeth that had been scraped up from the forecourt the officers forced access and began the process of getting the final detail wrong. When Donald couldn't be found and when his bank account remained unused even after benefit payments were paid into it the error was rubber stamped and taken as fact.

No family came forward, Donald had none. No friends came to the service at the council crematorium, Donald no longer had friends. Donald was a man with no one, an island.

It appeared that he, Donald, the man now reading the article, had been dead for weeks. Donald screwed the pages into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. It had been the best part of a year since he'd felt anything but numbness. He'd been asleep, now he felt as if he was waking up.

He chuckled. Donald was dead.

Donald was free.

____________________

He'd almost gone home that night. His chest hurt, he wanted to lie down. To scream. To kill...

...to die.

He sobbed as he jogged through the rainy streets. He'd stopped at the bottom of the street on which he lived and gazed at the one street lamp that worked. It cast an amber shadow around itself that did little to brighten the vista.

A fire engine blasted past, sounding it's siren as it approached Donald. Donald didn't react, he just stared at the orange lamp as it began to flicker.

He was hit in the back by a deluge of cold water, sent cascading from the puddle that was it's source by the tyres of the noisy emergency vehicle speeding by. The impact forced him to take a step forward but still he didn't react. He didn't even shiver. He could get neither wetter nor colder.

He imagined going home. He saw himself open his draughty door and step over the piles of bills and threats before finding a space on the kitchen floor near his beautiful best friend's drinking bowl and curling up into a ball, eventually dying of his shattered heart.

He wanted to die, but he didn't want to die in that shit hole. Nor did he want to kill himself. He just wanted it all to be over, he had nothing left to care for and no one to care for him.

As the bulb in the street lamp finally went the way of the others, Donald turned away from his own reality...

...and entered a new one.

____________________

Owen put the tin he kept under his bed back under his bed. He and Kelvin had spent the day smoking weed, drinking cola and eating pizza.

“Aren't you skinning up?” Kelvin paused the game he was playing and looked at his friend.

“Nope. College tomorrow.” Owen grinned.

His manager, Bill, had decided that Owen's “hard graft” deserved a bit of recognition and had arranged for him to attend college every Monday to better himself and his prospects. And he was still paid for it.

He no longer worked in the yard, picking and loading orders on his trusty fork lift truck. He had quickly proven his worth. Then, when an opportunity arose, he was offered a job inside. He'd not been expecting any such offer and, initially, he'd not liked the sound of it. It was a glorious summer's day and he was rather proud of his hard earned suntan. Bill waited a moment for a response.

“You know, the winters are a lot longer than the summers are.” Bill had offered with a smile when no response had come. Owen had grinned. Owen grinned a lot now.

“Thanks, Bill. I'd love to. I won't let you down.”

And he wouldn't. He loved his life, he loved his job and he loved his flat.

“Well, I'll be fucking off then.” Kelvin tossed the controller onto his grinning mate's lap, causing him to jump.

“Watch the big boys don't get you.” Owen called after his friend as he went to wrestle his cycle out of the kitchen (where the young friends' cola intake had ensured it eventually needed to be moved to. There had been brief debate as to whether it be acceptable to piss in the sink, but Owen was defrosting a frozen ready-meal in there.)

“It'll be alright, your ninja buddy'll save me.”

“He is a fucking ninja, I swear down. Probably a mercenary or some such as well.”

“He's a fucking tramp, man.” Kelvin backed out of the front door and onto the fire escape, catching his tracksuit bottoms on a cog and hurting his ankle as he did.

“He saved my life.” Owen shouted as the door slammed.

Owen thought about the mercenary ninja-tramp. He knew nothing about him, just that his name was Frank. (Owen was sure he'd heard him say as much just before he struck "like a fucking cobra, man.”) Owen had embellished the story each time he'd told it until, by the time he told Kelvin how he knew the tramp they'd seen in town yesterday, it sounded like a fight scene from a 70's martial arts movie.

Owen had spotted Frank sitting on a bench in town. He'd asked Kelvin to look after his bike whilst he nipped and bought a selection of pies from the Pound Bakery before gingerly approached the tramp.

Frank had accepted the charity without a smile, though he did say “thank you”. He'd not recognised Owen. Owen was relieved.

The real story of that night (a brief spell of violence followed by some torture and including two murders of the men who had tried to rape him) differed not only in the action but in the reason for the action and the real result. In the final, polished, version Frank had dropped from the rafters like Batman and used some major Jackie Chan style skills on the two guys that had been trying to steal poor Owen's sleeping bag. In the new version, the guys were younger, fitter, stronger, and far larger than the dead perverts. Owen had, of course, put up a valiant fight before Frank had come to his aid.

But the most striking difference between truth and tale was that, after the tale version ended, both men were very much alive.

But they weren't alive. Owen thought he should feel something, but he didn't think he did. He'd done nothing wrong, he'd almost been a victim of wickedness. He'd profited, though. Profited by their deaths. Maybe he should feel guilt for that? He glanced around.

The tiny telly. The unmade bed. The half drunk can of cola on the night stand from which he could hear a crackling fizzle in the silence of his boudoir. Owen curled his toes to remind himself that he had soles in both shoes. He flopped back onto the bed and smiled.

Frank hadn't saved his life. The life before Frank had already been ended. This was new.

Owen chuckled. Frank had given him life.

He was free.

____________________

He'd spotted the lad long before the lad had spotted him.

“Hello, Frank? It is Frank, isn't it?”

Donald the tramp looked at the youngster, his face expressionless. The scarring that had previously made his beard patchy had calmed down, though the pinkness of the new tissue stood out against his tanned and dirty face. His beard had regrown and now concealed most of it. He hoped it would never fully leave. The scar was the punctuation mark, the full-stop that came between the two chapters.

“I got you some food. Here...” Owen held out the carrier bag filled with a selection of hot pies. “Do you need any money?”

Donald shook his head as he took the bag. “Thank you”, he said quietly.

“You're welcome. Look after yourself, mate.” Owen advised as he bade farewell.

The lad looked over his shoulder once or twice as he joined his friend. They climbed aboard their bikes and set off. The lad was telling his fellow cyclist about Donald, about that night, it was plain to see.

The lad was clean, had smelled strongly of Lynx Africa, his hair was neat and tidy and his manner friendly and polite. Donald watched the youths depart on their cycles, Owen still describing karate chops and punches in the air as he rode one handed through the crowds, and he smiled a rare smile before feasting on a meat and potato pie and a sausage roll. Satisfied, Donald took the remaining contents of his bag and wandered away in the opposite direction to that which the lad had. He stopped as he passed a fellow transient, sitting in a shop doorway with his faithful hound by his side, and handed him the bag.

“For you, mate.”

His fellow transient thanked him, bewildered to be given charity from another in his own situation. He immediately began munching on a pasty.

“What's your name, mate?” Donald asked. The transient hadn't been asked his name by anyone, other than a paramedic or police officer, in years and was taken somewhat aback. He gulped down the pastry and meat, spluttering his reply before his mouth was fully emptied.

“Mick. I'm Mick.”

Donald brushed crumbs from his overcoat and smiled as he extended his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mick.” They shook hands. Mick realised he'd forgotten how a handshake felt. He couldn't remember other peoples fingers ever being as cold as the fingers he now held.

“I'm Do...” Donald blinked, his smile widening, “I'm Frank.”

“God bless you, Frank.” Mick released his grip on those icy fingers.

“God?” Donald continued to smile warmly and chuckled, “God doesn't come down this far, my friend.”

____________________

He wanted for nothing.

He had been reborn, into the world that had treated him so cruelly in his last incarnation, a free man. The old Donald, given the Earth then banished from it. He'd learnt his lesson. Having things, having people, loving and fearing, those were weaknesses. Everything in his old world had eventually hurt him. He'd wanted, then loved, then lost. Again and again until now...

He wanted to have nothing.

Donald was proof that the old saying about loving and losing was bullshit. “It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” is a phrase that can only have been coined by someone who'd never lost real love. Donald wouldn't make that mistake in this incarnation.

To have nothing wasn't possible, he knew that. Had he been shipwrecked on a desert island with a coconut tree and a fish-filled lagoon it would, but this was Britain and Britain is fucking freezing. So he had to have clothes. Only one set, he wasn't greedy.

When his clothes became dirty and he knew he would have to be around people he stole new garments. Sometimes from an unattended drier in a launderette, sometimes a clothes line, sometimes a charity bag on the street.

When he was hungry he ate. If he couldn't find spoiled food in a supermarket skip and wasn't near a pond to fish he'd steal it.

He spent every day walking, never with a destination in mind. Pure chance had brought him back to this town again. He'd arrived at a crossroads and, having no coin to toss, he'd stood and watched a crow perched upon a fence.

“Once for right, twice for left” He muttered. He waited...

“Caw, caw.”

Donald smiled and set off

“Caw.”

Donald shook his head, turned around and headed in the other direction, smiling at the crow and touching the peak of his cap as he passed him.

“Caw.”

“Alright, alright, I'm going.” He'd laughed.

The crow had been right to choose right, right had led to hot food. Any day Donald was given hot food was a good day. Now it was nearing time for bed, Donald headed home.

Home was anywhere. Last night, home had been a garden shed, the night before a stairwell on a multi-storey car park. Tonight, he was in line for something a little more salubrious. Maybe even with the chance to bathe before he climbed into bed.

He'd spent a number of nights in other people's beds in recent times. He'd become adept at popping open a cheap UPVC window and wriggling through whenever he came across a suitable property. Generally, a “to let” sign on a part furnished house had signalled opportunity, but not this time. The house he found himself stood in front of, an hour or two after receiving the very Northern gift of pies from the lad in the town centre, had been empty for a good while (for well over a year, in fact) but still no sign advertised it's availability. Donald stood at the gate.

“Orchard Cottage” read the little, wooden sign on the gatepost.

He had recognised that pervert, the one whose arm he'd twisted and whose body lay undiscovered in an old mill somewhere. He hadn't remembered where he knew the predator from initially, and he'd not been bothered enough to ask, but the driving licence had jogged his memory.

“I voted for that cunt” he'd thought.

He'd recognised the address on the pink plastic card. It was a house he'd driven past many times when he was still Don the butcher, occasionally at breakneck speed having been let down by Harry.

“Orchard Cottage”.

He'd not intended to come here. He'd just chosen a fork in the road at some earlier point in his journey that had led him to this gate.

The property had begun to show signs of disrepair. Donald passed through the gate and approached the house. There was a small, metal postbox situated on the wall by the shuttering ply that served to secure the entrance. A notice from the police, so faded by now that only the logo on the letterhead was distinct, was stuck to the plywood, while beneath the long since full postbox unopened mail lay scattered all around. Donald checked the names on some of the envelopes. The name from the driving licence was on them all.

The place had clearly remained untouched for a long time.

The joiner employed to fix the shuttering ply had done a fine job, Donald wouldn't be getting in that way. He took a step back and looked at the rusting bell box a few feet above his head. It was ancient looking and contained an actual, mechanical bell, not one of those newfangled, electric sirens. Donald went to look around the back of the property, hoping to find an external electricity meter so he could kill the power to the security system.

He was disappointed to find no such thing, but there was a shed. His back-up bed for tonight should he be unable to break in to the house.

The shed was secured with a padlock, though the padlock would have been more suitable securing a suitcase and was easily overcome. It was a potting shed, with shelves lining one side and a bench on the other. A set of stepladders and some rusting garden tools hung from hooks on the far wall. Donald examined the shelves, smiling when he spotted the tall can with the yellow cap.

Expanding foam.

Donald used the stepladders to climb up to the rusty bell box above the front door. He pinched the tip of the plastic pipe that fitted onto the nozzle of the can he carried and forced it through one of the gill like vents. He pressed down the nozzle and smiled as the hiss indicated successful delivery. The foam began to set immediately and, by the time Donald had returned the can and the ladders, had set sufficiently to prevent the hammer striking the bell. The electricity was almost certainly not connected, but dead Donald was very much a 'better safe than sorry' kind of guy.

He used his elbow, wrapped in a blanket that had been beneath the bench in the shed, to smash the small window in the back door. Then, having cleared the remaining shards from the aged putty, Donald slipped his arm through and turned the big, old key that was still in the keyhole of the ancient rim lock. 

As he opened the door the frantic beep-beep-beep of the burglar alarm's control panel sounded, proving Donald right for his belts and braces attitude. The electricity was still connected.

The external bell remained silent, but for the constant, quiet click of a solenoid,

Ignoring the shrill warning signal, Donald turned on the kitchen tap. There was a clunk and a clang, the surface mounted pipes behind the kitchen units rattled and banged before oily, brown water spluttered, sprayed and then flowed into the cracked Belfast sink. Donald left the water running and went to fetch a shovel from the shed which he then used to remove the beeping control panel from the wall. The little, internal battery kept the unit alive even once Donald had carried it into the kitchen but even the pesky back-up power source was rendered useless once the entire thing had been stamped into fragments on the kitchen floor and kicked down the cellar steps.

Once all was quiet, Donald went to explore his new home while waiting for the running tap in the kitchen to flush the poisonous, stagnant water from the pipes. He was dying for a cuppa.

____________________

The dead man Donald's new bed had belonged too had been dead a long time, but only Donald and Owen knew this for sure.

He'd had no family. His disappearance had been reported on the local news, as was his continued absence a few months later. It was nearly a year since his BMW had been found burnt out, ninety eight miles from home (and eighty seven miles from the locker in which he remained).

The police officers investigating weren't being bothered by heart-broken relatives demanding they get results and so other cases were prioritised. Then, once his internet search history had been revealed to them, those officers involved in the already half-hearted search stopped caring about the dirty old bastard's whereabouts at all.

His story quickly faded from the newspapers and soon became forgotten by all. Direct debits had been set up for his council tax and utility bills and his bank balance had been healthy enough that it was still able to satisfy the automated demands.

The cottage was a humble enough abode, though deceptively valuable. Low ceilings, exposed oak beams, an open fireplace in the little lounge, a salmon pink bathroom suite and pelmets above every window. A home more suited to a benevolent grandfather than a predatory rapist of the young.

The cottage contained a cellar. The cellar floor was covered in heavy, stone flags and the walls were whitewashed. A huge train set, fixed to a sheet of plywood and decorated with plaster of Paris topography, sat on four trestles, taking up thirty-two square feet of space slap bang in the centre of the room.

The model railway was a work of art, something the old pervert had put his heart and soul into, and he'd loved it...

...though not nearly as much as he'd loved that which was buried beneath.

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EPISODE FOUR