Andy and Anneka

By Eric Bray

Anneka is struggling to make ends meet, until she meets, Joe, who saves her from a nasty situation, then following his guidance and advice, gradually gets her life back on track, until she meets Andy. Then everything changes for both of them.
Will it be for better, or worse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Bray
• Release date: Mar 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466092372

Eric Bray

Born in 1950, after school,I served my country in the Royal Navy, the least said about which the better. Since then I have made plastic drain-pipes, driven a fork truck, worked as a courier in the multi-drop rip-off game, and for the last two years have watched a conveyor belt going around. I have now achieved retirement. I began writing for amusement during my lunch-breaks, and rose to the challenge of becoming published when I commented on a book I had purchased, saying something along the lines of - "I could do better than that!" - when someone said - "Go on, then!" My other hobbies are scuba-diving, designing, building, and flying radio-controlled model aircraft, ham radio, photography, and avoiding gardening.

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Andy and Anneka.

Published by Eric Bray at Smashwords

copyright 2012 Eric Bray

This collection of scribblings is entirely a work of fiction created entirely within my imagination. Any resemblance to any other work, person, place, or thing, is entirely accidental.

No affront, harm, slight, or damage is or was intended to any being or place, either living, deceased, or not yet created.

chapter------------------title

1--------------------The beginning.

2--------------------Dive club.

3--------------------First Open dive.

4--------------------Five years later.

5--------------------Andy.

6--------------------Together, perhaps.

7--------------------Discovery.

8--------------------Holidays.

9--------------------Antigua.

10-------------------Home again.

11-------------------Last bits, and loose ends.

Chapter one.

The beginning.

This night, there was a big wind. It came roaring out of the West, bringing the warmer sky from far away with it, only to crash impotently against the rocks that reared up higher than the top, up into the thin sky where we couldn’t go. The wind hammered at the rocks all of the night, but as usual, totally failed to move them one tiny amount. When the light came, the wind was still hammering, but not so strongly now, as it tired. It was not so weak, though, that any incautious soul that ventured too closely, in search of titbits, could escape being dashed against the unforgiving rocks, and become titbits, themselves, whirling in the maelstrom. The cleaners would dine well, today, or tomorrow, when it was safe for them to venture out of their sheltered places.

As always, when the wind relaxed, and the battering surges subsided, we found new things resting on the top of the sky, forever trapped at the bottom of the thin sky, and the top of ours. In time, they pressed onto the rocks, where they scraped and rubbed as though trying to rid themselves of the itching parasites that we all suffered. Sometimes, they had the remains of the green growing things on them, or the little hard-skins, which showed that they had flown a long way. Others had newness, and a sour taste, to show that they had not.

These things were not as hard as the rocks, because the rocks and the wind could break them. Nor were they as flexible as the green growing things, although sometimes they were as long. Some said that they were the bones of the big noisy things, which were also trapped between the top and bottom of the skies, because they tasted similar. The little hard-skins, and the long green growing things also lived on the big noisy things.

Normally, the big noisy things pushed the top of our sky aside, and surged past over the deeper sky, without stopping or venturing near the rocks. They never spoke, apart from the big booming noises that could be heard from far away, and the lesser rattling noises of the parasites they carried on their backs. One of them fell off, once, and after thrashing feebly for a short while, it fell slowly down through the sky until the cleaners dealt with it. The rattling parasites are not sleek and compact, like us, but have little wings on the end of long floppy rods, which look a little like an Angler’s lures. They cannot fly through the sky, as we do, and seem to belong in the thin sky, yet they cannot fly through that, either, unlike some of the small eaters, which have similar long, thin wings.

We have a game we play with the big noisy things. As they push through the top of our sky, they make a little wind in front of them which we can ride along on, going very fast without flying. Sometimes, we leap up into the thin sky, to better see the big noisy things, but they are a confusion of things, without a streamlined shape, unlike the fat part that sits on the top of our sky.

From below, they look a little like the other big boomers, only their tails don’t go up and down, like theirs, and ours. They don’t fly in the same way, either, driven by the powerful tail. They just seem to slide along, somehow, just using the tail to steer with. It is most odd, but they get by, mostly!

They don’t like the big wind, though. It makes them wobble and splash about most clumsily, and if they are not careful, they get hurt, just like this one we are watching. It is creeping slowly up to the rocks, to die. This one must have some terrible stomach disease, too, because it was voiding constantly, with a horrible slurping and gurgling noise.

Oh so slowly, it crept towards the rocks, barely able to keep pointing in the right direction, because its tail was bent over and crooked. We could hear the parasites on its back struggling with it, trying to force it to leave the rocks, but it kept turning back towards them, wanting it to be over. The parasites always died when the big boomer reached the rocks. This one had been in the sky for a long time, because its underside was covered with the green growing things.

With a long, groaning rumble, it reached the rocks, and crushed itself onto them with a desperate sigh, and a final burst of rumbling and roaring, before it fell silent. The parasites living on it were doomed, as they had nowhere to go, now. Some tried to leap onto the rocks, but fell off, into our sky, where they thrashed, before falling down, blowing bubbles of the thin sky. Others managed to cling onto the rocks, until our sky washed them off, then they joined their bubble-blowing likenesses, then they became still, on the stones on the bottom of our sky.

The big noisy thing, now quiet, lay there for a few days and nights, and then a new big wind came, and beat it against the rocks until its skin broke. Its innards spilled out and fell down the sky to join the remains of the parasites that the cleaners were dealing with.

Later, it moved a short way along the rocks, to where a long spine stuck out. It draped itself over that, and then snapped into two pieces, before it also fell down through the sky, bringing a few more parasites with it. Dead, it lay silent, slowly being eaten by the grinders and the borers. The round stones they all carried in their bellies became scattered about, spreading out from a heap near the back part. It’s long, hollow, blunt teeth lasted many seasons longer than the creature’s flesh, which was soon squashed flat and broken up by the winds. The teeth lasted so long that they became part of the rocks. The hard-skins and the green stuff grew over them until their presence couldn’t be seen, only tasted.

Some of the parasites had little yellow stones, too, which they had kept in pouches in their skins, around the middle of their bodies. As the skins decayed, the yellow stones spilled out. They tasted different to the other stones, but were no good as food.

Over time, the big fat boomer and its parasites were forgotten.

The freighter, grossly overloaded, and her decks awash, came staggering and lurching around the headland in an attempt to make the harbour before the full force of the storm arrived. Its mixed crew of Asian and Filipino boys barely had ten words of common language between them. These were mostly limited to duty and task phrases, such as ‘On duty’, ‘Off duty’, ‘Scrub’, ‘Paint’, "Chip rust off’, and maybe ‘eat’, and ‘drink’. (That’s only nine, but who’s counting?)

The Captain of this rusty disaster-waiting-to-happen was an alcoholic Irishman, with the red hair, red skin, short fiery temper, and the big fists to prove it. His only other Officer was the Engineer, a sour-dispositioned Scot with a liking for Islay Mist. He took Islay Mist with everything, from breakfast, to supper, and all times in between, to keep his whistle wet. The two sort-of English speakers shared one over-riding ambition, which was to annoy the other into leaping over the rail in mid-voyage.

The wheel-man, all sixteen years, and five stone of him, studied the orange-black sky through the cracked bridge window, and crossed himself. Cap’n, him wind get big, real soon, hai?

Hai, you Chinky sprog! You’d better steer straight, or you’ll have us into the rocks, now!

Me good steer ver’ straight, Cap’n. Go 002 degree!

The Captain surveyed the headland through the glass that used to contain a drop of the Irish grain. Better make it 358, hai?

Hai?

Three, five, eight. Left a bit, you daft bugger!

Tree, fi’, ate. Hai, Cap’n! The boy inched the wheel over a couple of spokes, then waited for the ship to notice. He knew it took a while to start a turn, and another while to stop.

Go tree, fi’, ate, Cap’n. He announced, after a few minutes. Goffers come over top, now! He had learned a few slang terms, to supplement his limited English.

The Captain blearily watched the next water mountain crash down onto, then race along, the deck, until it smashed into the steel wall that was the base of the superstructure topped by the bridge, where he sat in his bolted down swivel chair. He picked up a hand microphone that connected with a speaker in the engine room. Into it, he bellowed, McTavish! Watch the bilges, man!

McTavish, really one of the McCloud clan, named Hamish, heard, and suggested that the Mad Pad Captain do something improbable with his genitals. He was busy trying to keep the fuel feed pump feeding fuel to the thirsty diesel engine. The fuel tanks were desperately low, thanks to the skinflint Panamanian-registered Company. Every time she rolled to port, the fuel pick-up sucked air, which vapour-locked the pump. That necessitated bleeding it, then re-priming it, before it would pump fuel. Hamish had been pumping, bleeding, and priming for five hours, now, without a break, and hoped that the Malay greaser was doing his job of lubricating the shaft bearings, and not sleeping in a corner, somewhere, as usual.

Captain Mad Pad O’Shaughnessy didn’t hear the reply, as Hamish wasn’t within reach of his own microphone.

In the galley, the cook had a huge vat of rice steaming gently, as he diced fish and vegetables, ready to add to it, along with the stock, really yesterday’s stew boiled to soup, with added stock cubes, the internationally known Oxo’s. The meal was timed to be ready half an hour after they reached the harbour, if they got there on time. That was the beauty of rice, and stew, an extra half an hour or three didn’t matter.

Using his third hand, he caught a ladle that skittered across the work-top, then dunked the business end into the liquid, ready to give it a stir when the ship levelled off long enough to do so. Through his feet, he felt the engine falter, then pick up again. He knew the signs, from long experience, but he still had a thousand dollars to pay to the man who had brought him here, and found this job for him. Once he was paid, he could see about getting a shore job, then bringing his woman to him.

On the bridge, the Captain felt the engine falter too, as did Ho Chun, the wheel-man. He saw the lights dim, then brighten again, and warily eyed the jagged teeth of the rocks, which were nearer than he felt comfortable with, to starboard, and eased the wheel over another spoke, without saying anything.

Hamish, down below, flogging away on the manual wobble pump, felt all but mechanical resistance go, as the fuel level fell too far for it to pick any more up. In the minute he had left, before the engine stopped, he opened all the cross-feed cocks, in the hope of gathering sufficient dregs of fuel from the lines, in one tank, to give a few more pumps. He flogged futilely at the hand-pump again until the engine began to mis-fire. Hamish gave up, then, and grabbed for the hand-mike that connected to the bridge speaker. That’s it! He bellowed You Irish bastard, there’s no more fuel! You’ve got about two minutes to get the hook down and park this bloody -. The engine stopped. That meant that the generator also stopped. Without electricity, the intercom stopped, the lights went out, and all the ventilator fans ran down. The gyro, which supplied repeater information to the ‘ribbon’ that the helmsman was watching, also began to slow, sending nonsense information to the unit, causing it to spin randomly, until that gave up, and stopped at an arbitrary position.

Cap’n. Compass, she broke! The boy continued steering away from the rocks.

In most ships, should the generator fail, for whatever reason, there is a backup unit that cuts in automatically, which is able to maintain essential services. This old tub did not. A lash-up system was capable of running the secondary generator from the drive shaft of the main engine, because the owners, in the interests of economy, had assumed that the generator might fail, but not the engine. Technically, they were correct, the engine hadn’t failed. In most ships, there is a bank of batteries, should both generators fail, which were capable of running the absolutely essential services for a short period. This old tub did not. They had been quietly ‘borrowed’, and sold off for their lead content.

Standing in total darkness and unnatural silence, apart from the creaking of the old hull, the slow thud-roar of the breakers striking it, the steady drip-, drip-, of an unlocated minor leak, and the subdued rushing noise of the sea on the still moving hull, pressed forward by inertia, Hamish pondered the fact that he had just become unemployed, and homeless, to boot! He gathered up his bottle of ‘Mist’, his log, and his pen, by touch, then headed for the ladder leading to the outside, steering by long practice and memory.

Cap’n! The boy spoke again. Steering she broke, too! Without power, there was no hydraulic pressure, either, and the wheel span freely.

The Captain spoke one word in response to Hamish’s, and Ho’s statements. The one word seemed to encapsulate everything, from a comment in response to the words, to a statement covering the immediate future. Fuck!

The cook didn’t notice anything different to normal. He was used to the lights failing, because the wires were rotten and forever blowing the fuses. His burners were powered by propane supplied from big cylinders mounted in a rack at the rear of the superstructure. He felt the engine stop, of course, but assumed it was because they had reached harbour, and were drifting, waiting for a Pilot, or a tug, to take them to a mooring. That also explained the vague sensation of slewing round. Satisfied that all was well, he checked the progress of his stew, tipped in the rest of the veggies, and turned the gas up a notch, so the meal would be reaching perfection when the crew came down. He reminded himself to get a new battery for his torch from his locker, when he had a minute. He had just tasted the stew, and added a final dash of salt, when the ship screamed, because rocks were chewing into her hull.

She lurched, jerked, twisted, and screamed again, before coming to a halt. She was lying, pressed against the one thing she was never designed to, and could not, resist. Her thin, rusted plates crumpled, split, and tore, allowing the hungry sea to roar in, weighing her down by tons per second. The increased weight pressed her down further, tearing more holes, letting in more sea, weighing her down and-.

Hamish, fifty feet up his ladder, was shaken like a spider vibrating its web to attract a mate, or a meal. His bottle of ‘Mist’ arced down to shatter in a blue flash of flame on the still glowing exhaust manifold, followed by Hamish. He didn’t vanish in a flash of blue flame, although he contained a high level of alcohol. He just lay, broken, staring up at the small square of dim light he’d nearly reached which marked the hatch to the outside. For a few moments he stared, then, although his eyes remained open, he saw no more. His last breath sighed away, and his remains lay roasting on the manifold.

Ho looked at the Captain, who was sitting in his chair, and beginning the task of emptying a fresh bottle, without bothering with the nicety of a tumbler. Cap’n?

Just go, Boyo. I don’t know where, but go.

Hai?

Piss off! The Captain pointed at the bridge door.

I no do bad, Cap’n?

No, Boyo, you steer good. Go home, now.

Home? Phu San?

You’d better start swimming, son!

Swim? No swim, Cap’n. Ho took the hint, though, and groped his way down to his locker, from where he took a picture, his only picture, of his woman, then went up top, to try and find somewhere to go.

He found two Chinese and a Sikh trying to work out how to launch the lifeboats, not realizing that the winch motors required electricity, of which there was none. At Ho’s insistence, they gave up, and tried the self-inflating life-rafts. There were six, three on either side, lined up along the upper deck in their glass-fibre shells. With a struggle, they released one, and heaved it up over the rail, to fall into the water. It sank cheerfully, with no sign of inflating. They tried again, with another, which oddly, seemed lighter. It fell to the water, where the casing split into two halves, as it was designed to do, whereupon they found that it was empty. So was the next, and the next. The sixth, and final one, was heavy. They heaved it over the edge, and the lanyard snagged on something as the shell dropped, triggering the inflation mechanism. The raft exploded out of the clam-shells, becoming fully inflated well above the water, and whirled away like a giant Frisbee. The wind carried it off to dash onto the jagged fangs of waiting rock.

Ah fook! One of them used up half of his English. Blooty fookin’ hell! That was the other half.

Hai!

Cook was studying the winch. There must be a way, he surmised, of bypassing the electric-less motor. He’d seen a movie where the crew had big winding handles, after the old ship had hit the big ice-cube. They had used the handles to put the boats down. Cook was correct. The motor drive shafts had large square section stubs on them, just waiting for this eventuality. If only he knew where the handles were kept! All he had was his stew ladle, which he was still carrying, until he threw it over the side in frustration, before babbling at the Sikh in Malay, while pointing at the square drive, and making cranking motions. The Sikh responded with a universally recognized single-digit sign, and went to look for something that might float that could be pressed into service as a raft.

Wing Chun, the deckhand, (that wasn’t his name, but he was Chinese, so had been christened such,) had an idea, and went to collect the component parts of his unusual hobby, and his pal Lee Sun Fat, (Fatty) who was a good number two paddler. Between them, they assembled Chun’s folding kayak, then, picking their moment, heaved it over the side with them inside it, and paddled furiously away from the rocks and the sinking ship, straight into the teeth of the wind. They put a good half mile between them and the instant death of the rocks, then rested, wondering which way to go along the coast. Neither of them was dressed for outside. Chun had on shorts and a tee-shirt, while Sun Fat wore only ‘y’ fronts and his gold chain. As they rested, the wind sucked the heat from their teeth-chattering, blue bodies. After a minute of panting for breath and shivering, they decided to keep going in the direction the ship had been heading, following the coast until they saw signs of habitation, and maybe a decent beach or breakwater, where they could land before they froze to death.

With a long, agonized groan, the remains of the rusty ship rolled to starboard, tipping some of the crew into the seething foam, and onto the waiting teeth. One or two saw a possible way out, and fought their way up the side of the superstructure, until they were free of the pounding surf. On up the mast which supported the useless radio aerials, and the non-functioning radar, they climbed. Non- functioning because the radios would not work without electricity, and the radar that hadn’t worked for a year or more, which was academic, now, anyway. At the very top of the mast, they were very nearly over the cliff edge. There they waited, hoping the ship would roll another couple of degrees, allowing them to step over onto the waiting grass that tempted them from a few feet away. A couple more of the crew joined them, and they debated jumping. One tried it, and leaped desperately shoreward. He nearly made it. He clung to the very edge of the cliff with desperate fingers, his feet flailing, searching for purchase, the skin shredding and leaving crimson streaks on the brown rock. Then the tussock he held broke free, and the man slid, screaming in fear and agony as the razor edges flenzed him, down to the boiling foam, and the teeth below. A red stripe, and a pink foam patch that was rapidly dissipating, marked his passage.

The others decided, unanimously, and in several languages, to wait.

Our Sikh found a proper life-ring attached to a long rope, called on his God to watch over him, and then climbed down the rope to the bobbing ring. The next breaker dashed him carelessly against the hull, leaving his God to watch over the broken, lifeless body as it washed along the hull, and onto the waiting teeth.

With a long, ear-piercing shriek of tearing metal, her back broke. The longer piece from the bow to the front of the superstructure, broke off, and sank into the swirling foam.

Hamish McCloud swirled gently and limply out of the now exposed engine room to join his crew-mates, most of whom he’d never met, amongst the rocks. He went to the drunken strains of ‘Sweet Molly Malone’, sounding from the partly windowless bridge, through one of which an empty bottle arced down to hit him on the uncaring head as a final, chance, insult.

The rear portion of the ship rolled obligingly to starboard, before sliding off the rocks and sinking, seemingly in chase of the already submerged forward part. Three startled Malays and a Filipino were deposited gently onto the grass of the clifftop, proving that they had been right to wait. When they had finished screaming in terror, and clutching the grass, they counted their arms and legs, finding they all had a full set, then took stock. They could see about six feet in the dark and the developing fog, now that the wind had dropped.

Wing Chun and Lee Fat, still paddling and freezing, had lost sight of the coast in the murk, but were going straight, following the star they had seen earlier. Unfortunately for them, their star was attached to the masthead of a Super-tanker heading back to Texas. If they had known that, they would have realized that it was a long way to paddle in an open kayak, with no food, water, or clothing!

When dawn broke, the four on the clifftop managed to get a fire going with twigs, using a piece of broken bottle as a lens. A carefully manufactured trap had caught them a rabbit, which they cooked in its skin, as they lacked a knife. They shared the half-burned, half-raw, breakfast, and argued about what to do next, until a moving twinkle drew their eyes. It was the low-angle sunlight reflecting off a car window, about a mile away. That cheered them up no end, where there were cars, there was a road, and roads went somewhere!

The fog finally lifted, allowing Wing Chun and Lee Fat to see that they were lost! The sun was rising behind them, and not where they expected it to be, on their right side.

Shit! Chun used up some of his English, then curved them round in a circle, so that they could paddle back the way they had spent three hours going.

Lee Sun Fat just grimaced, and paddled. His backside, clad only in ‘y’ fronts was dreadfully sore from the friction against the plank seat, and his hands were just big blisters. He said nothing, because he could see that his friend Wing Chun was in the same state. At least, they were on top of the bloody sea, not in it! He’d rather have a blistered bum, and breathe air, than try sucking water. Water! He was spitting feathers. He pushed the thought aside, and continued paddling. Water, they were surrounded by it, and not a drop to drink. Wasn’t that a Gaijin song? His mind wandered, as he paddled.

A thin, reedy, tweedling sound tickled their ears, and they looked around hopefully, but there was nothing to see but leaping lumps of water.

That tweedle, then a whistle, sounded again, followed by a rattle like a machine-gun.

Oh shit! Lee Sun croaked. Someone was machine-gunning the survivors!" They paddled furiously for a minute, and then faded back to their steady, exhausted plod.

‘Tat tat tat skree tweedle!’ A silly smiling grey face, with a long beak filled with teeth peered at them from a few feet away, exhaled fishy halitosis, and then sank beneath the waves again. A flat tail waved at them for a moment, and then the creature speared down, round and up, leaping over them in a glittering arc of shed droplets. They were liberally spattered as it plunged down again on the other side of their wobbling kayak.

Fuckin’ shark! Lee Sun went white inside his blue, red and yellow skin.

No, not shark. Is Dolphin! Wing Chun corrected him. Is ok!

The dolphin looked again at this strange turtle thing, long and thin, with four fins, that splashed along at the top of her sky, then called to it again, inviting it to play. Getting no response, she went in search of the rest of her group, over there, where they were chattering.

The four on the clifftop set off towards the road, picking their way between the brambles, briars, and thistles that barred their passage, until they found a narrow track that meandered in the right general direction. Once, they disturbed a reddish brown dog with a white chest, which was sunbathing in a clearing. It leaped to its feet, and vanished into the scrub with a sharp yap of warning.

Three stone walls and a barbed wire fence later, they arrived at the tarmac strip of the narrow road. It was barely ten feet wide, with weedy grass edges, then the now familiar stone walls again. A short way to the left was a wider patch with wheel-marks, and a sign on a post. Hopefully, they trudged up to it, and looked at the unfamiliar squiggles it bore. An arrow pointed to the indicated Bird Sanctuary, which was back where they had just come from. Back is where they didn’t wish to go. Instead, they went along the road, which looped and wound around like a pen-testing doodle.

An hour later a car came past, without stopping or slowing down. If anything, it sped up when the driver saw them, then had to brake hard to make the next bend.

Matilda, the sales rep, saw the bunch of rag-tag kids playing in the road a mile outside the village, then noticed that they were all part-naked. She wasn’t going to let THEM involve her in their dubious games, and pressed on the accelerator pedal, blasted past them, over the crest, and BRAKE! The road turned, hairpin sharp to the right! These bloody back lanes were a right pain in the -. Language! She chided herself, think swear-words, then one day, they slip out when you are talking. She dragged her lumbering Mondeo away from the dry-stone wall, and back onto the ribbon of tarmac. It wouldn’t do to bend the Company’s car!

The village Constable, off-duty at last, hung his tunic on its hanger, turned on the telly, and settled down to watch the latest repeat episode of ‘Coronation Street’. He had a steaming mug of tea and a bacon butty to hand. He’d just spent three hours searching for a group of people seen leaping from the back of a truck on the ‘A’ road, by the butty wagon proprietor, with no success, and his feet ached. How one person was supposed to search a thousand miles of scrub, he didn’t know, but still. The adverts finished, the opening titles rolled, and someone knocked on the door!

Bloody Hell! The Constable climbed to his stockinged feet, and went to see who was disturbing him now.

They trudged wearily up the road until they reached the picturesque little village, a little backwater in the middle of nowhere. The pub, with the church next door, were immediately recognizable, but were not what they needed, although a pint would have been welcome! The Village Store was equally useless for their purpose, then one of them saw a sign he knew, from another time when he had got lost in a docklands town. They trudged up the path, between rose bushes, to the door, and -.

He opened the door, and then froze for an instant, not believing his eyes. Four bedraggled, half-dressed Asians, their legs all scratched and bruised, stood shivering on his doorstep. Unbelieving, he invited them in, to watch them huddle around his fire. They were mottled blue and red from cold, and streaked with mud and blood. It took about ten seconds to find that they had no English, nor schoolboy French, and he hadn’t a clue what they were saying, and vice versa!

His humanitarian instincts won, and he went back into the kitchen, refilled the kettle, and made some more butties, before ‘phoning Head Office, and his Sergeant.

Sarge, you won’t believe this, but -.

It is understandable how he jumped to the entirely wrong conclusion.

-those illegals we were looking for, well, they just knocked on my door! They’re standing round the fire getting warm, as I speak! Do you want to send – van, yeah! Twenty minutes? No, I can’t see them running off anywhere!

The three Malays and the Filipino saw the blazing log fire through the open door, and accepted the gesture to go in. They soon learned that they had no common language with the Policeman, who shrugged, said something incomprehensible, and went into another room, leaving them to thaw out in front of the fire that didn’t burn the logs, but had a kind of strip-light set above the cold dancing flames. After a few minutes, the Policeman came back with a plate of sliced bread, layered with strips of crispy meat, and