Torn

By Drew Wagar

“A fascinating exploration of a young woman caught up in fundamentalist Christianity. I found it hard to put down. “

“A great story line describing how religion, science, faith, love, moral and values challenges the main character Catriona in the way she lives her life and what choices she makes.”

"Torn" follows the thoughts of a young woman who is Christian at heart but struggles with her belief and experiences different intensities of worship in her family, amongst her friends, and in the different churches she comes across as she moves to a new town in England. In addition, she has engaging dialogues with an agnostic which tests her faith and leads her to question how much to the letter she wants to follow the Bible."
After losing her job and having her ambitions cruelly dashed, Catriona Turner has no choice but to join her parents in a move to an unfamiliar country village. Joining a charismatic local church, she finds purpose and meaning in a renewed Christianity. When news of the proposed construction of a science park reaches the village, Catriona finds herself in direct confrontation with the scientist behind the proposal. She finds her new found faith threatened when discovers that her church does not have a monopoly on the moral high-ground, or the truth...

Torn is a contemporary romance novel featuring a born-again Christian and a scientist, exploring the interaction between religion and science, set in Kent, the garden of England.

Dawn Rite Publishing is an independent UK press, founded in 2011.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Wagar
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466194533

Drew Wagar

Drew Wagar is a science fiction and fantasy author, living in the UK. He is the author of the Hegira Series, the Shadeward Saga, The Midnight Chronicles, the Elect Saga and the official Elite Dangerous novelisations.You can join a mailing list and discover more about Drew's books at his website.www.drewwagar.com

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Torn

A Novel by Drew Wagar

Published by Dawn Rite Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Drew Wagar

More Ebooks available at

www.drewwagar.com

Dedicated to my Grandmother, Vera Ada Leeson (1918 – 2010)

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

I started writing this story back in 2005 and it has gone through many iterations in the six years it’s taken to bring it to a completed work. The number of people involved is probably numbered in the hundreds now and it would be almost impossible to identify every single one. Thus, whilst thanking everyone who helped me, I’d like to single out a few of the most significant people in person.

Firstly my wife, Anita. Not only has she agreed to act as my publisher after repeated failed attempts to draw the attention of ‘traditional’ agents and publishers - a quest worthy of a book in its own right - but she acted as much of the inspiration for the story, combining her own experiences of religion and family with my own. Many of those experiences were very painful to recall and I’m grateful for her permission to include them. She’s also allowed me the time and energy to write this all down, edit it, tweak it, swear at it and deal with the usual ups and downs of trying to support me whilst balancing a thousand other things at the same time.

To my two boys, Mark and Joshua, who have allowed me to have some time off in order to finish this book and haven’t complained about it at all.

Neil Bennett, an old school friend of mine, for writing his own non-fiction account of his own experiences with fundamentalist religion in the 1980s. On reading this back in 2008, it spurred me on to finishing this story. Check out ‘Trust and Obey’ on Amazon.

My army of volunteer proof-readers and editors; and in particular Dave Styles, Emma Thompson, Neil Bennett, Michael Werle, John Hoggard, Ronny Worsey and Paul White. Many extremely valuable suggestions on the story in terms of content, style, technical accuracy, formatting and structure were provided and incorporated. The story is much the better for their combined input.

To all my Christian friends who stayed the course. Some I counted as friends viewed even entertaining thoughts of this nature as a betrayal of the things I stated I believed in when I was young. Certainly my views have changed over the years as the vigour of youth has faded and, one hopes, the wisdom of age has begun to set in. Faith for many is a terribly brittle thing, not allowing any flexibility. For those of a wiser and more measured outlook I thank you for your understanding and am still pleased to count you as a friends. For the others, I hope you one day see how your narrow outlook causes much pain and suffering to those you purport to love.

To my fellow astronomers. I’ve loved science, and astronomy in particular, since a very young age. Astronomy gives me a since of wonder, humility and astonishment in equal amounts, far greater than I ever experienced with religion. If you’ve never experienced this you simply haven’t appreciated how utterly enormous the universe is and how lucky we are to live on this precious jewel of a planet, lost in an implacably hostile void. Thanks for sharing this fascinating hobby and being more than prepared to discuss how religion fits, or doesn’t fit, into the overall picture. Much of the dialogue in Torn is based on ‘down the pub’ conversations.

Finally I’d love to be able to add that traditional paragraph you often see; you know the one – No characters in this book are real and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely co-incidental. – The first bit is true, the second bit isn’t. This is all based on real situations and real people. I’ve not singled out any one person – that would be unfair; more taken traits, mannerisms and attitudes and combined them into my characters. Perhaps it would be fairer to say – The names have been changed to protect the innocent… and the guilty.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

About the Author

Chapter One

Catriona scraped the dew from the windows of her car, shivering as the icy water chilled her fingers. Once again she chided herself for not bringing a pair of gloves along. Why was it you always remembered things like that after you’d closed the door and walked down the road? She didn’t have the luxury of parking outside her flat, there was no time to go back and those gloves wouldn’t be where they were supposed to be anyway.

She flicked the water away, threw the scraper into the passenger seat and rubbed her hands on her coat to dry them.

Her breath floated slowly into the air as she looked around her. The street looked cold and grey, almost austere in the pale light. Autumn had arrived unseasonably early this year. It was only September, yet the road was misty, with leaves already choking the gutters.

She climbed in, slinging her handbag across onto the passenger seat. It tumbled off onto the floor, spilling its contents into the foot-well. She cursed, feeling the weight of the day descend on her.

Don’t do this to me. I don’t need this today.

By the time she’d managed to secure everything again and sat back up the windscreen had clouded over. She rubbed at it ineffectually with her hand, smearing water droplets across the screen, before giving up and stretching over to the glove box to grab a chamois sponge she kept for the purpose. Her car’s demister never worked properly. She furiously scrubbed the condensation aside.

I’m going to be late, again. I hate Thursday. Everything always goes wrong on Thursdays.

She twisted the ignition key. Her car spluttered into life, its small engine roaring loudly in the early morning quiet of the street. The engine revved uncertainly for a few seconds before it settled down.

Seatbelt.

She looked in the rear view mirror as she drove off, catching a glance of herself. The face that looked back didn’t exactly look young, fresh and invigorated.

Grief. Did I brush my hair this morning? And the bags under my eyes.

It looked like her mother was right; she did need some new clothes. She looked like a librarian.

She pulled up near an estate that had recently been built on top of the old railway works. The advertising boards were still up, hoping to attract the attention of those few remaining eager buyers.

Brand new 2, 3, 4 and 5 bedroom houses. Last available. Affordable prices.

And those are supposed to be cheap?

Catriona knew she couldn’t afford even half of the advertised price. She had managed to save a few months’ salary over the past five years. She thought she’d been doing quite well until she realised that house prices were rising faster than she could save.

At least I can rent a flat, my own space...

She arrived at work just before half past eight. It was typical trading estate, a collection of low-rise pre-fabricated buildings divided into units of various sizes. Cars and vans were parked outside each one; a mix of plumbers, electrical outlets, car-parts suppliers, plastics and other light industrial businesses. She passed a billboard advertising the new DIY superstore that had recently opened across the road. It was a well-known international company. Catriona had nick-named the store Stack em ‘n’ Flog em.

Her regular customers hadn’t been affected, but there had been a noticeable drop in occasional trade in the last few months, notwithstanding the bigger problems introduced by the economy. Her boss had been spending more time going over the accounts and trying to make things more efficient. The financial strain was showing and Catriona knew the little business was struggling.

She parked outside the small unit that served as the hardware store. She smiled at the old fashioned sign over the door.

Odds and Ends.

It was affectionately known as ‘Odds and Sods’ around town. Who the ‘Sods’ were, nobody would ever admit. Mr. McGregor liked to play the part of the stern patron, but he wasn’t very good at it. He was a small rotund chap, going by the name of ‘Stan’. He wasn’t a ‘Stanley’, but nobody seemed to know what his real name was. He was usually found in the local pub down near the railway when he wasn’t tending the shop. Catriona was employed as the secretary, although dogsbody was nearer the mark. She did everything that needed doing. Stan was not the most organised person in the world.

Without Catriona none of the correspondence or accounting would get done properly. She had organised the accounts for him and now ran the book-keeping too. Stan wanted them all in ledgers and account books, endless columns of neat pencilled handwriting. There were no computers in evidence.

‘Hardware is what I do,’ he’d often said. ‘I can understand that. Can’t stand all those numbers and that Dear Sir and Madam crap. That’s your job.’

Martin, the only other employee, was a young lad who did the deliveries. He’d dropped out of school after failing almost all of his GCSEs and was only looking for simple manual work. Most of his career plans seems to revolve around winning the lottery, drinking and mucking around with cars. Catriona got on all right with him, but they had hardly anything in common other than working at the same place.

Martin was into his cars in a big way. He had a low-slung white Honda with a huge bucket-sized exhaust. It had a collection of numbers and letters on the boot lid that meant little to Catriona. The inside of his car was a shrine to miniature blue lights and music. Unfortunately his music taste didn’t extend to the classical genre Catriona preferred. He’d given her a lift home one evening, terrifying her with his high speed driving – and her ears had been ringing for days afterwards.

He had his uses though. He’d procured her a car, a little Volkswagen Polo. She hadn’t asked too many questions as to where it had come from. He kept it tuned and serviced for her. It saved her a lot of expense.

Catriona was dismayed to see Stan wasn’t there. That was odd in itself, he usually unlocked before eight o’clock. Catriona would usually put the kettle on when she arrived, make some tea, sort the post and get the shop ready for the morning customers. Martin would sort out the day’s deliveries and leave after he’d finished his tea.

‘You got a key? Been waiting ages.’ Martin called out, stepping out of his car as he saw her arrive.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be late. Where’s Stan?’

‘Don’t know, probably having a lie in, lazy bugger. You got a spare key?’

Catriona checked in her handbag. ‘Yes, hang on a moment.’

She found the key and unlocked the door, Martin pulled the shutters up. Stan was never late.

Something has happened. I knew it.

The interior of the shop was dark and dingy, the lights off. Martin fumbled for the power switch, a delightfully old fashioned circuit breaker, and pulled it down. The lights flickered on with a crackle and a hum.

Catriona walked down the neatly arranged aisles of tools, equipment and assorted hardware towards the back of the shop. The room smelled of wood, grease and the peculiar metallic tang of light industrial machinery.

Everything looked normal. There was a pile of invoices and paperwork jumbled up against the old typewriter Stan kept in his ‘office’. Catriona remembered her ‘interview’ for the job.

‘Do you want a computer?’ Stan had demanded, looking at her with an intense beady eyed stare.

‘I don’t mind really.’

‘Well you’re not getting one, can’t stand the damn things m’self. Can you use one of these? If you want a namby-pamby word processor, you might as well let yourself out now.’

He’d pointed to an old black cast iron typewriter. Catriona hadn’t seen anything like it since she was a child. It wasn’t even electric. It belonged in a museum.

‘Of course I can.’ she’d replied, hoping she could manage it. She was thrilled. Most jobs she’d applied for were asking for computer and word processing skills. It wasn’t her forté.

‘Well, let’s see you type this out then.’

‘Sorry?’

He had thrust an untidy hand written letter at her.

‘Don’t you want to see my CV?’ she asked.

‘Don’t mean nothing to me luv. I need you to type stuff and organise things.’

She had typed the letter for him on the old typewriter, feeling bemused by having to pull the carriage return handle as a bell rang at the end of each line. By the end of it her fingers were feeling sore, but she pulled the letter out with a flourish and handed it to him.

He studied it over the rims of his half-moon glasses.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘When do you use a semi-colon?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Grammar, child. Grammar. When do you use a semi-colon?’

‘I...er…’ Catriona had desperately dredged up her memory of her early secretarial skills. ‘To join two sentences together that are strongly related?’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used a semi-colon.

‘Good for you. Right. That pile of invoices needs addressing and posting.’ He gestured one way and then the other. ‘Oh, and that filing cabinet needs going through.’

‘But I…’

‘Don’t stand there like a flaming gooseberry, jump to it.’

‘I’ve got the job then?’ She hadn’t expected to start immediately like this. She’d planned on going back home for lunch.

He looked at her as if she had gone mad. ‘And if you want paying, start filing.’

Catriona smiled involuntarily at the memory. Modern he was not, but he’d been a good employer. He was often cantankerous, occasionally bigoted, and on rare occasions rather racist. But he was an honest man whom you had to take as you found. He looked after both of them with tea, coffee and biscuits during the day, and there had always been a Christmas bonus at the end of the year. All three of them worked well together. She did the paperwork, phones and accounts, he did the sales and advice, and Martin did the deliveries. She’d been working here for six years. It was a cosy little arrangement.

Stan had never been late before. He was one of those crack-of-dawn types. The whole shop seemed pervaded by an atmosphere of gloom and foreboding.

‘No messages on the curmudgeon,’ Martin called out, looking at the answering machine and referring to it by Stan’s derogatory term.

‘Strange,’ Catriona murmured, feeling an unpleasant tightness in her stomach.

‘Not many deliveries ready either,’ Martin said. ‘Suppose we’d better set up shop. Get the kettle going.’

‘It’s your turn.’ Catriona replied, starting their regular tit for tat game.

‘You’re the secretary. It’s your job.’ Martin shot back.

‘Since when?’

‘Since Stan didn’t turn up. I’m the boss.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me. You’re just the char-lady.’

‘Charmed I’m sure. Can I have a pay-rise then, boss?’ she said, putting on a sweet voice and batting her eyelashes at him.

‘For what?’ Martin was completely immune to her.

‘Putting up with sexism and intimidation in the workplace?’

‘Sod off and make the tea woman.’

Catriona had served three or four customers with Martin’s help and worked her way through most of the outstanding paperwork. Martin was busying himself loading up Stan’s old van at the back. Catriona finished the invoices and called back to Martin to pick them up.

‘Paperwork’s done.’ she announced.

Martin returned and picked up a sheath of notes, looking them over. He frowned.

‘What does that say? Nom...nomen...’

‘Nomenclature?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m making sure all the lists use the same categories.’

Martin looked at her. ‘So why didn’t you just say that?’

‘I did. That’s that nomenclature means.’

‘You and your words. You’re a bloody walking dictionary.’ he said, shaking his head.

‘I read a lot.’ Catriona replied. ‘You should try reading something.’

‘Like what?’

‘A book, perhaps?’ she said, giving him a pointed look.

The front door bell rattled and the door opened.

It was Stan.

Catriona jumped up. ‘Stan. Where have you been? We were getting worried…’

She stopped at the look on his face. He looked as if he’d run over a cat. Her heart lurched, she was sure she knew what was wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Is Martin about?’ he asked.

‘Just loading up, but he hasn’t gone yet. I’ll call him.’

‘Good, we need to have a little chat,’ Stan replied, not looking at her. ‘Put kettle on.’

Catriona did as she was bid and before long they were sat at one of the workbenches near the back of the shop.

Martin sat with his feet on a nearby desk. Stan sat on a stool, his head hung down. Catriona sat nervously opposite, nursing her tea.

‘Business hasn’t been so good, has it?’ Catriona prompted, wanting to get the details out into the open.

‘No easy way to say this,’ Stan began, his head hung low. He was turning the cup in his hands round and round. ‘Went to the bank this morning, to discuss the lease.’

‘The bank?’ Catriona echoed. ‘Why?’

‘Hoping to cut a deal on the payments and extend my loan, but they weren’t having none of it.’ Stan put on a posh sounding voice. ‘Not a viable business model.’ His voice returned to normal. ‘I said I’d been working in this business since before they were lads. Bloody suited cretins, what do they know?’

‘Not viable?’

‘Takings are down forty per cent since last year and we don’t have enough regulars. Lost too many customers to Stack em ‘n’ Flog em.’ He gestured to the superstore across the road, just visible through the windows. ‘Bald truth is we’ve been losing money since they opened and it’s getting worse. The park landlord is ratcheting up the lease next month too. So much for the government getting money into the hands of small businesses.’

‘Should be a law against it.’ Martin offered.

‘So…’ Catriona said, fearing the worst.

Stan looked up miserably. ‘I’ve got no choice. We’ve got to close. I can pay you to the end of the month, but that’s it, otherwise I’d have to sell my house to keep financing the store. I’m sorry. I can’t risk it.’

Catriona’s heart thumped. It was physically painful. Then a wave of heated anger washed over her. She wanted to strike out at something. The end of the month was only three weeks away. She loved this job. How could things have gotten so bad? She clenched her mug, her hands shaking. They all stared silently into nothing for a few moments.

Three weeks. I can’t get another job in three weeks. How can I pay my rent without using up my savings? How could this have happened? It’s not fair. Why is the world so bloody cruel?

‘There must be something we can do?’ she demanded, her voice cracking.

Stan shook his head grimly. Catriona burst into tears.

‘How can they do this to us? We’re part of the community. Doesn’t that count for anything? The local shops have gone, most of the pubs – now us.’ Catriona snapped. ‘They keep saying that communities are breaking up and they wonder why. Just allowing small businesses to go to the wall. It’s wrong.’

Neither Stan nor Martin had an answer for her.

‘Come on lass,’ Stan said. ‘Something will turn up.’

‘Will it?’ Catriona said. ‘From where? There aren’t any jobs now. There’s a recession on, remember?’

She cried again. Neither Stan nor Martin were able to give her any solace, both uncomfortable with her raw emotions. She heaved a deep breath and tried to regain control.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed. ‘I don’t mean to take it out on you after what you’ve been through. It’s your business that’s closing.’

Stan patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘What will you do?’ Catriona asked, rubbing her tears away.

‘Oh, I’ve got my home paid off and enough of a pension to live on. I’ll explain to our regulars what’s happening; guess they can sort out new contracts with Stack em ‘n’ Flog em. I feel so bad for you two, you’ve worked damn hard for me and I feel I’ve let you down. We had all those dreams of growing the business and opening another store. Ain’t gonna happen now.’

‘No.’ Catriona replied, her anger flaring again. ‘Don’t think that. It’s not your fault the council allows these big brands to tramp all over local communities.’

‘What will you do?’ Stan said, eyeing both of them with a concerned look.

‘I’ll probably get a job over there,’ Martin said, gesturing towards the superstore. He flinched back from Catriona’s furious glance. ‘What?’

‘No, that’s smart enough. Work is work at the end of the day,’ Stan agreed, before looking at Catriona, ‘what about you, dear?’

‘I’ll start applying for secretarial jobs,’ Catriona said, with a bright confidence she knew was false. ‘Like you say, maybe something will turn up.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Stan patted her knee. He’d never done that before.

The three of them looked at each other. The conversation petered out so they got back to the day’s work, their tea left to go cold.

I knew I hated Thursdays...

Helping out at the Nash Street Mission took Catriona’s mind off her problems for a while. Once a month she volunteered to get up early on a Saturday and help prepare breakfasts on behalf of the homeless people in the area. After breakfast she would spend the rest of the morning washing, drying, ironing and sorting clothes. A bunch of people from some of the local businesses chipped in with support and money.

‘Top breakfast, luv.’ It was one of the regulars, his face split in a wide, toothy grin. ‘Top. Got m’ order? Expect the best of the Ritz, y’know.’

Catriona smiled, knowing precisely what he was after. ‘Here you go, George. Always save the last bacon for you. More tea?’

Catriona topped up his proffered plate and mug. He giggled with anticipation, as if pulling off some audacious scam. ‘You’re an angel, proper angel you are.’

‘Just don’t dob me in, ok?’ she whispered, smiling back.

He gave her an excruciatingly unsubtle wink before returning to his seat. ‘Mum’s the word.’

The mission supervisor, hands nursing a soggy tea-towel, smiled at her. ‘You’ve got a fan there.’

‘I wish I could do a bit more to help.’ Catriona sighed, looking up at Jake. He was a big man, with tattooed arms, a huge dimpled nose and an enormous greying moustache. He looked like a friendly pot-bellied pirate.

‘You do good girl.’ he replied, giving her a hug. ‘Cheer up. You see a bit flat today. What’s up?’

Catriona grabbed another tea-towel and began helping with the washing up. ‘Lost my job this week.’

This puts it into perspective though. At least I have somewhere warm and safe to sleep.

He sighed, shaking his head. ‘That’s dreadful. Oh, I’m sorry m’dear. Wasn’t that Stan’s old place?’

Catriona nodded.

‘Cantankerous old bugger he was. Bet he didn’t pay you enough anyway. Did he still have that old typewriter?’

‘Right to the end.’ Catriona replied, managing a smile. ‘He wasn’t one for spending money if he didn’t need to.’

‘Tight old git.’

‘He tried hard though. He really cared about us. He was gutted.’ Catriona looked downcast again.

‘You’ll find something. You’ll see.’ A huge calloused hand gripped her shoulder. ‘You’re a good ‘un. Heart of gold.’

‘I only help out once a month...’

Jake gave her one of his stern looks. ‘Don’t put yourself down. Not many like you. You remember that.’

Catriona smiled gratefully. ‘I’ll try.’

‘So how are you today?’ The minister’s crinkled smile was the same every week.

Say it girl. Go on.

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Catriona replied, saying the same thing she always said. She just nodded with a simpering smile on her face.

Why do I feel the need to put on a show at Church?

‘Good, good.’ The minister’s attention moved on to the next person passing into the church.

Catriona had been attending their small Baptist church for many years, ever since her father, Brian, had given up his job as an electrician and decided that God had called him into ministry. He’d been an assistant minister here for over a decade now.

Catriona took her seat next to her mother, Joan. Richard, her younger brother, no longer came. He’d orchestrated a long campaign of protest against the weekly ‘Sunday trudge’. Brian bobbed around at the front, preparing to lead the service. He shuffled his papers and arranged Bible notes ready for the sermon.

It was a small church, a tatty 60’s building now in need of some care and attention. Paintwork was peeling; the linoleum floor was scuffed and worn. The chairs were the cheap plastic kind that made the place look a bit like a classroom. Single glazed windows let in the chill and the heating was turned down so low and was so inefficient it might as well have been switched off. Catriona shivered and wrapped her coat around her tighter.

She waited for the service to start, looking idly around at the walls. They were covered in the usual scrappy leaflets advertising the hardships of relief work in Africa, exhortations to give to a variety of charities and the inevitable ‘letter from afar’ from some church member who’d left years before and wrote back with progress updates on their ‘ministry’ every so often.

Does anyone actually read any of that stuff?

As she was looking, somebody leant over beside her. She recognised Dennis, a friend of hers. They’d gone out a handful of times a couple of years ago, but it had not worked out. They had remained friends afterwards, if not especially close.

She had realised that none of the guys at church fitted what she was looking for. She’d once overheard Dennis and one of the others talking about her - was it David, or Spencer?

I can’t even remember – how dreadful is that.

‘She’s nice enough, but she’s so bookish. She’s all wound up and never chills out. You watch a film with her and she wants to debate the motivations of the characters afterwards. Or she wants you to read a book and then dissect the pros and cons of the author’s approach and style with you. Me, I’d rather just stuff down some pizza.’

‘Ha. That’s it exactly. All you want is a quick snog and she wants to get your considered opinion on something. I know women like to talk but....’

‘It’s like she expects you to be thinking and planning all the time. How did the interview go? What happens next, are you going for the promotion? Where do you want to be in five years? It gets a bit intense.’

‘She wants to get married and settle down, that’s why. Too much commitment, man. She wants a husband, not a boyfriend. Time ticking and all that. Maybe if she just kicked back and went with the flow...’

‘Yeah, you just spend all your time worrying whether she’s giving you marks out of ten for your conversation and future plans. She’s too clever for me. I probably only got a three.’

‘You did better than me then. I reckon I flunked Cat in the first week.’

‘If you called her Cat no wonder you blew it - she hates that.’

The conversation had depressed her initially, but on reflection she took it as a fair assessment, confirming her decision to dump them. Why wouldn’t you want to share an interest and talk about it until the cows came home? She’d just never met anyone who did.

‘Catriona?’

Dennis’ voice brought her back to the here and now.

‘Sorry, Dennis. I was miles away.’

He frowned, looking irritated. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know. I’m ok.’

‘That’s good.’ he said. ‘Could I...’

‘I’m having a bit of a tough week at the moment, that’s all,’ she managed to interject quickly, wondering if a bit of prompting might illicit some concern.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I lost my job.’ She tried to stop her voice from catching, but was only partially successful.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. I’m sure something will turn up.’

Catriona managed to smile politely.

‘Will you be around after the service?’ Dennis asked. ‘I’m hoping to get a rota organised for the collection...’

Oh, so it’s fine to ask me to do jobs for you.

‘I can’t today I’m afraid,’ she replied. ‘I really need to write some application letters. I need a job you see. Bills to pay and all that?’

Dennis looked disappointed and a little disapproving. ‘Oh. I’ll have to see if somebody else can help then.’

‘I guess you will.’

He straightened and left her to her thoughts.

The service commenced, as unremarkable and turgid as ever. Catriona realised she knew exactly what was coming next, how long it would be, what would be said and when it would all end.

Why am I still here?

Catriona lost count of the application forms she filled in. She got no response from any of the jobs she applied for.

She walked down the High Street, trudging heavily towards the lower end. She stopped by a post box and dropped in a new series of envelopes, wondering if she would get a response to any of them. In some ways it hardly mattered. Her deadline had already come and gone.

Catriona walked into the estate agents determined to get the task over as soon as she could. One of the staff members gestured for her to come over.

‘How can I help you?’

Catriona swallowed. ‘I’ve come to hand back the keys to my... to the flat.’

The woman didn’t even look up. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Turner. Catriona Turner.’

The woman typed into a computer, squinting at the screen, the text reflecting in her glasses.

‘Ah, yes. Got the landlords report. No problems. Excellent. He’s cleared the deposit so we can write you out a cheque.’

She clicked a button and a cheque was printed out on a nearby printer.

‘If you can just sign here.’

She pushed a document in Catriona’s direction. She took in the details at a glance.

Termination of Rental Agreement between...

She signed it quickly, her signature wobbly and uncertain.

‘Here’s your deposit,’ the woman said, handing her the cheque.

‘Thank you.’ At least that had been trouble free. Catriona rubbed her forehead; the stress was giving her one of her headaches.

‘Moving somewhere nicer?’ the woman asked.

Catriona shook her head, biting her lower lip, ‘No. I lost my job and...’

The woman looked briefly sympathetic, but constant exposure to the same sad situation had dulled her ability to empathise with another unfortunate victim of the economic gloom.

‘You’d better let me have the keys then,’ she said, all matter-of-fact.

Catriona pulled them out of her pocket, fumbling with the keys as she tried to detach them from her battered VW key-ring. Finally she managed it and handed them over reluctantly.

It was my flat. I worked so hard...

She bit down angrily on the thought. It was over, yet another dream that wasn’t going to come true.

The woman took them and placed them in a tray in her desk drawer without ceremony.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

Catriona looked at her, and then slowly shook her head. ‘No. No thank you.’

She stood up and hastily made her way outside, walking swiftly down the street. She steadied herself at a lamppost, gathering her thoughts before moving on.

All I can do is sign on to the dole. Why won’t anyone give me a job? I work hard.

She wiped furiously at her eyes, and then walked back up the High Street to the car park, wincing as her head throbbed more severely. She had to get back to her parents’ house, the headache was quickly getting worse. If it was anything like usual it would be horrible. She could already feel the nausea beginning to build. She needed to lie down, and soon.

Another migraine. This stress...

Her car was waiting for her. She thought it too looked sad and dejected. She noticed, almost for the first time, that one of the doors had been replaced in the past. The bonnet was a different shade of blue from the rest of the car and there were a few spots of rust.

This is all I have. A tatty old car, a little money saved. Hardly anything. I can’t get a job. My life is a mess, what am I going to do?

Catriona unlocked the door, and climbed inside. A piece of the door trim came loose and dropped onto the floor. She picked it up, staring at it stupidly for a moment before tossing it into the back seat. She closed the door and grasped the steering wheel, clenching it hard.

Grief, fury, resentment and bitterness overwhelmed her and she shuddered into hysterics, tears flowing freely down her face. Catriona lowered her head against the wheel, unable to prevent the feelings flooding through her.

I’ve achieved nothing, the little I had achieved has been snatched away. What was the point of it all? I might as well have not been born.

Her headache burned.

Chapter Two

Benjamin Lawrence sat, deep in thought, in front of a large mahogany desk. Light from the lead-lined window filtered vaguely in; it was a damp overcast day. The view from the window was a typical Kent country scene; small woods composed of oak trees, a collection of old and picturesque houses clustered around an ancient church in the distance, the occasional Oast-house, with the North Downs, a series of low rolling hills, serving as a backdrop.

The desk showed signs of normally being tidy, with a variety of boxes and containers neatly arranged. There was a dual screen Apple Mac computer with a print and fax machine, a drawer file, a stacked in-box/out-box tray and a pot of pens and pencils. Along the side were a row of reference books sat in an ordered row, a laptop computer, and more books tidily arranged in bookcases. A cup of coffee sat nearby, cold and unwanted.

The Mac was showing a large number of unread emails on the screen, and a word processor on the other.

An old mechanical ship’s chronometer on the wall behind Benjamin ticked efficiently away, marking time as it had done for the last eighty years. It looked strange on first sight, with too many numbers on the face. Slightly battered and well used, it marked time in twenty four hours, rather than the usual twelve. The minute hand moved to sixteen minutes past ten.

Scattered across the desk in front of him were a number of letters, a set of newspaper cuttings, and a picture of a family group – a small boy, an older girl and a blonde woman. The newspapers were dated from four or five years before and were already turning yellow with age. Idly, Benjamin read through some of the articles. One particular page showed signs of being well used, the edges dog-eared.

The letters were strewn across the desk. A cursory examination of them showed a common theme. Letters of condolence. A number of them remained to be opened; he’d not worked up the will to finish them off. He ran a hand through his dark hair, flicking it out of his eyes.

A set of certificates and older letters formed a separate pile. These were likewise set haphazardly across the desk. There were a series of congratulatory messages, invitations to speak and award nominations.

The screen-saver on the computer kicked in, replacing the applications with an ornate aquarium complete with exotic tropical fish. Benjamin shoved the mouse forward instinctively. The fish vanished, being replaced with the emails and the document he was trying to type. He’d managed a paragraph in the last two hours. It was useless and needed deleting. He knew he’d never get anything done today, but trying to do something was better than sitting around trying to avoid thinking about…

Five years.

He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing as he found it tepid. He toyed with the idea of making another cup. What was the point? It would only go to waste like the previous one.

The phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. Most people knew not to ring today. Some had permission to interrupt him. One would regardless of whether they had permission or not.

Benjamin reached forward to pick up the phone. ‘Jack.’

‘Ben, I know this isn’t a great time…’ an American accent drawled from the other end of the phone.

‘That’s right, Jack.’

‘What you need is some work buddy, keep your mind off things.’

‘You’re not going to take a hint are you?’

‘You know me. Only results.’

‘What time is it there?’

‘Two o’clock in the morning. I got some news for you.’

Benjamin sighed. ‘Go on then.’

‘I got some feedback from the Californian Seismic team I told you about. There’s a start-up out there looking to set up a series of GPS locators in the bay area. They need your algorithm like yesterday. I set up an introduction and they almost bit my hand off. They want to meet you in the New Year once they get their VC funding. Do you want me to fix it up? Licensing should be worth a fortune.’

‘Uh-huh. The new year is good for me.’ Benjamin rolled a pencil through his fingers.

‘Maybe we could tie it in with that AstroPhys conference in the spring, they’re bound to ask you to speak again. It’s only six months away.’

‘Sounds good.’ Benjamin’s tone was flat.

‘I got some other news you might be interested in. I think I’ve found a place for your pet project.’

Benjamin’s face registered some interest and he sat forward in his seat.

‘Yes?’

‘Yeah. You’re not going to believe this.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Wealdbrook.’

‘Wealdbrook? What, this Wealdbrook?’ Benjamin looked out of the window in surprise.

‘Yeah, crazy eh? After all the places we’ve tried. There’s a disused quarry site the council want tidied up. There’s enough space and the price could be right. They’ve just opened it up for redevelopment applications. They’re keen to get your famous sponsorship and once I mentioned you live next door they were doubly interested. They should be able to cut us a good deal. Most of the other offers are the usual dull stuff, I think I inspired them with the whole astrology idea.’

‘Astronomy, Jack,’ Ben sighed.

‘Yeah, that. Anyway, there is space for the building; decent car parking. Access is a bit crappy, but the developers have initial planning permission for a new junction with the bypass along with the park. Should work well, assuming the locals don’t object. I’ll sort out some cartographers and get some detailed surveying going.’

Ben pulled his laptop across and tapped out some notes. ‘This sounds good.’

‘I’ve spoken to a few people about it. There’ll doubtless need to be a public consultation, but most people are aware the area needs urgent regeneration and new investment. I think we’re in good shape. We need to move quickly though, deadline for applications will be the end of the year.’

‘So what’s next then?’

‘I’ll arrange an appointment with the mayor and the local councillor to discuss.’ Jack continued, ‘Probably worth contacting the local schools and colleges too, drum up some enthusiasm. Have you got any collateral I can use for that?’

‘It’s on the website.’

‘That website is junk, Ben. Get a design agency in to sort it out. Too many clicks. Can you...’

‘I’ll email it across in a minute.’

‘I’ll sort out an agenda and we’ll go canvassing. You happy with that?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘If that goes well we can commission a project manager and get some proper cost estimates. I spoke with that Italian company about the dome. They sounded excited.’

‘Italians usually do.’ Benjamin smiled.

‘Ha, well, Franco seems a good guy. Seems like a lot of money for a metal roof, but there you are.’

‘It has to be a half sphere. We’ll be projecting on the inside. It’s a proper piece of kit.’

Benjamin picked up a glossy brochure from his desk. A large silvered dome dominated the front cover, reflecting blue sky, clouds and sun.

‘Your call. Now about the projector...’

Benjamin reached over for his cup of coffee and almost took a sip of it before he remembered it had gone cold.

‘Yes?’

‘I checked into the Zeiss Company and they’re quoting something ridiculous. Tried to knock them down with the usual flannel but they weren’t having none of it. I found an alternative though.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘A little hobbyist outfit up near Birmingham. Yeah. I know, but I think these guys know what they’re doing. They’ve taken some opensource software and stuck it in a projection box, all you need is a PC and you can do anything you want, you can even record the whole programme and get the machine to play it back. Might be a big time-saver.’

‘Sounds interesting. How much?’

‘That’s the good part, practically pennies. Add a bit more to make sure it’s reliable. They seemed quite keen to help us out, so we can probably cut a deal.’

‘Send me the link, I’ll go take a look at it.’

‘Funding wise, it looks like we can get the finance from the VC firm that did our last contract. They owe us one and want to keep our goodwill, so I figure they should back us as a sweetener.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘I’ll let you know, ‘Jack replied. ‘Ben, is there…’

‘I’m fine, Jack.’

‘Speak soon.’

Benjamin put down the phone and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘He’s got a nerve calling you today.’ said a voice from just outside the room.

Benjamin turned. Phee had just emerged from the shower and was wandering around in a fluffy dressing gown with a huge towel wrapped around her head.

‘That’s what makes him good at his job,’ Benjamin replied with a shrug. ‘He makes things happen.’

‘Defending people as always,’ she chided. ‘You should have told him to sod off.’

‘He’s trying