Fleeting Breath

By Mike O'Donnell

Jack Dunster wants more from life than his struggling parents accepted. His uncle, Tom Sweeney, moves through a world of crime with impressive ease, his philosophy: Life is short, grab what you can. A role model for young Jack. Untroubled by conscience, Jack's beginnings as schoolboy gang leader set him on the path to money and power. Finally he takes on the city's head villains. But life is never as simple as Uncle Tom suggested. Detective Rick Hellyer and lovely Raven Bellingham bring complications.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Donnell
• Release date: Jan 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9798215385401

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

Book preview

For my two sisters

Mrs Patricia Reid & Mrs Morag Palmer

who understand the value of their families.

––––––––

Fame hath a fleeting breath,

Hope may be frail or fond;

But Love shall be Love till death,

And perhaps beyond.

Arthur C. Benson – 'The Gift'

Prologue

In 1997 Jack Dunster celebrated his thirty-fourth birth­day with the excess and lack of restraint that had marked the day for as long as he could remember. Jack did not recall how the tradition of overindulgence had come about. If his brother Frank had pointed out that the extravagant birthday flings were grounded in his child-hood, Jack would have laughed. One of many features missing from his early boyhood memories was extravagance. Not that elder brother Frank would do any pointing out at Jack's birthday gathering. He was in prison for a fourth time.

Jack's disbelieving laughter would not have lacked foundation. What in his past could compare with the opulence of the house and grounds, the quality of catering or the throng of well-dressed associates and their ladies? He had outdone himself. A dissolute Roman emperor would have smiled at the obscene amounts of food and wine; he may not have realised that the scant dress of the beauties dispensing drinks represented mini-togas, but he would have acknowledged a kindred spirit in most of the hard-eyed guests.

The previously grey mid-May weather had relented on Jack's birthday and the sun added to Starrings' magnifi­cence. Jack had decided on occupying the house from the moment he knew he wanted Raven Bellingham to marry him. He had not yet got down on bended knee to ask her but he intended to do just that when he had found an appropriate romantic moment and location. He already had the ring. It was the first piece of jewellery he had actually paid for. It made him smile to think he owned a huge country house and was on the verge of proposing marriage. He had come a long way in a short time.

Starrings had never been on the market. The former owner had no intention of moving out but Jack had never let minor difficulties prevent him from getting what he wanted. It was usually just a question of finding out whose arm needed twisting and how hard. Only a few pieces of the arm in question, and the unattached body, had been found. The title deeds were acquired from the widow, and Jack had moved in and planned a final bachelor birthday fling.

Under the sweltering sun, the grey stone façade of the Georgian mansion glowed and the clear blue sky enhanced the lush green of the immaculate lawn running up to the terrace. The glass of a newly rebuilt conservatory sparkled and a white canvas birthday marquee lay to one side. This was his first birthday at the house and he wanted it to be a milestone from his low beginnings and a marker for a change in his career.

I want everyone here, Rosie, he had told the trim lawyer who had replaced Jack's former muscled number two. Everyone.

I'll take it 'everyone' doesn't include Courtland or Glover.

Them too. When they find out what's to happen they'll morph into reasonable people.

Jack, you know Glover doesn't understand the word reasonable, he's a hot head. Besides, by the time they find out what you're planning, he or Courtland's hooligans might do something stupid.

"What? You think one of them would have the balls to start any aggro on my home turf? Do behave! I might have done it when I was damp behind the ears but those two? Naa!"

Rosie smiled. I'll get the invitations out straight away. Not even Courtland and Glover are stupid enough to cause aggro and miss one of your birthday parties. They might send in the heavies the day after, but not before.

If Detective Inspector Rick Hellyer could have spared the manpower, he would have been interested in monitor­ing all the invited guests arriving at Starrings. He knew from experience that most of the four-wheel drives negotiating the narrow lanes to the house would have dark tinted windows. He also knew from long association with Jack Dunster that many of those windows would need to be bullet proof. Not that a notebook-wielding constable taking down licence plate numbers would have pencilled in any of the first division contenders. The major players in Jack's shady world would be ferried to Starrings in Jack's hired helicopter.

DI Rick Hellyer stood on the distant Monument Hill with a star-gazing size telescope noting the villains assem­bling on the lawn at the back of the large property. Rick had known Jack Dunster for twenty years, and as school­boy and student had taken part in the wild excesses that always featured in Jack's May birthday thrashes, but that was before.

Unlike Jack's brother Frank, DI Rick Hellyer had no idea that the origin of the extreme self-indulgence on this one day in the year lay at the very beginning, six years before they first met. Jack Dunster had no reason to recall that particular day from nearly three decades earlier, but it was the first birthday he was old enough to remember clearly, if he cared to.

1

In 1970, Jack Dunster was seven years old. He had been six and three quarters for what seemed an age, but now he was finally seven. It was unusual for him to wake up without the sound of his parents banging about below or Frank stumbling around to dress. He lay for a minute enjoying the unaccustomed quiet. It seemed a good start to the birthday not to have his mother's shrill voice calling up the cottage stairs to hurry him up.

The brothers slept in the same cramped room; there were only two bedrooms in Oakley Cottage. Even if twelve year-old Frank hadn't purposely crashed around, his lumbering movement would have woken his brother. When Frank first started the paper round he made sure he woke Jack every morning before dawn. Frank liked to share life's trials but keep its windfalls to himself. But as with everything else, Frank found it tiresome to fetch his boots from outside the kitchen door merely to clump across the wooden floor, or kick Jack's bed in passing ensuring that his younger brother shared the discomfort of too early rising. Frank was not a volunteer paper boy.

You're bloody twelve, you'll start contributing like I did when I was your age, his dad told him.

But it's not even legal. You've got to be fourteen, Frank argued.

Who'll bloody care? Not that piker of a newsagent. Anyway, you tell 'em you're fourteen they'll never know different. You're bleedin' nearly needing a shave as it is.

The darkness around Frank's chin was mostly grime but his father was not far wrong. Within a year, Frank needed to drag the razor over his face at least twice a week. Unfortunately, Frank's body grew at a far faster rate than his brain and it was two years before McCaully the newsagent thought him bright enough to send out collect­ing the money due from his customers. That was both McCaully's loss and Frank's, who would have earned a shilling for every pound collected.

Frank had a forthrightness and confidence that his size gave him. He could easily have thumped into submission any two of his classmates at the same time, and he was the first by a year to lose his virginity. It says much for Frank's physical rate of growth that the sixth form schoolgirl who relieved him of his innocence came back for more, long after she got a job in the local chemists.

When Frank finally did get his fingers on McCaully's black leather-bound collection book, he intimidated the householders who were falling behind with their newspa­per and magazine bills.

You'll get no more deliveries unless you clear off a few quid. And McCaully says you'll get no more fags at the shop 'till ya do. Lies came easily to Frank and he usually got a pound or two to lessen the guilty defaulter's account.

He was a successful debt collector. McCaully was pleased with the results. Frank could threaten with a menacing smile on his face. Several bored village house­wives delighted in his bold approach when they answered the door in their nightdresses, and only a few stayed annoyed at him when he refused to take something off their bills for their hospitality. Sorry, darlin', but it ain't me you owe the money to, is it? McCaully will still want payin'.

Frank soon discovered that the chemist's young assistant and the occasional hard-up housewife weren't the only females in the village who liked what they saw. Jack didn't realise he had such girls to thank that his brother wasn't around to make his life a misery when Frank got bored after school. Oakley Cottage, into which Janet and Len Dunster had moved during 1961 with infant Frank, was at the top of the hill outside the village. The Dunster telly tube had given up the ghost before Jack was seven and Len would not allow pop music on the battered radio. Frank's only home entertainment was thumping Jack or boasting to his young brother of his cash collection and amorous triumphs. In his early years, brother Frank provided Jack's understanding of the world. Violence was casual and frequent, and money and sex, the youthful measures of success, were obtained through lying, sharp practice, or smooth talking. Without the eager girls, Frank's idle viciousness would have outweighed his tales of sexual conquest, scams, cons and swindles which shaped young Jack's view of the world.

Len talked of finding a replacement television for the Mexico World Cup. Dreaming up ways of acquiring the money was the ongoing challenge for both Len and Frank. Little else in life was as important as the competition start date at the end of May.

Jack quickly realised his seventh birthday clearly merited a great deal less consideration. He got up for breakfast and found none of the family were at home and the stove was almost out. There wasn't even toast and margarine on offer. Luckily, the cold snap of the previous week was over, otherwise the stone-flagged kitchen would have been icy. It was a Tuesday, so his father was at work. Only on Sundays did he indulge in a post-Saturday night late lie-in. Frank was out on his newspaper round. During the week he never bothered pedalling back up the hill after he finished, he always found some girl to chat up in the bike sheds before school. But his mother should have been there. She spent most of her waking hours in the kitchen: cooking, washing-up, baking, sorting laundry or ironing. And it was his birthday! He wanted a card and some presents. Even Frank had said he'd nick him a comic or two from the paper shop. He'd slipped a birthday card into his newspaper delivery bag the day before. They'd both had a laugh when Frank presented the white and black card the previous evening because he wouldn't be around in the morning. It had 'Condolences' written in silver on the front.

I thought all the fucking cards on the rack was for birthdays. And they all looked pretty puke so I just grabbed one when old McCaully turned his head as I went past. Look! I even wrote my name in it. Didn't properly look at the fuckin' thing did I? Anyway, what does condolences mean? Must be sunnink to do with the church with a miserable front like that. No colours nor nothin'.

Even before he'd attained the eve of his present un­acknowledged seven years of age Jack knew better than to answer the question. He'd get a thump for being a 'smart arse' for knowing the meaning of a long word like condolences.

I'll nick you another one. Wiv cake and balloons or sunnink on the front this time.

That was all very well, but where was his breakfast? And shouldn't his mum be telling him about the cake she was going to bake for him? He didn't remember last year's birthday but surely there had been a cake? Megan Wainwright had a birthday party round her house two weeks ago, after school. Some of his class had been invited although he was surprised because he wasn't really Megan's friend. Her dad had the big house, and their back garden was a wide as Farmer Stobart's field behind the woods. They'd had a load of fun in the pirate boat contraption at the bottom of the garden. You could climb through holes and hatchways and up to the lookout barrel round the mast. There was even a big spoked steering wheel and pretend cannons. After, they'd sat at two long tables with plastic table cloths; a naff clown had turned up and Mrs Wainwright had brought out a stonking great cake with seven candles. Megan had chopped it up and they'd all got a bit. It was chocolate and cream and tasted brill. Why should she get a cake and not him?

The idea of cake brought back a memory of a visit by Janet Dunster's younger brother, Tom Sweeney. Jack had never seen his uncle before. He'd turned up in a new car for a couple of days and brought his own cake with him. It was covered with icing and nestled in a paper-lined cardboard box.

You'd best call me Nunkie, he said in an Irish accent a great deal stronger than his sister's. They solemnly shook hands. Oi'm a bit on the pale side to be called Uncle Tom.

At the time, Jack hadn't known what he meant but he certainly looked very pale beneath his abundant freckles when compared with his farm labourer brother-in-law, Len. He had red hair and green eyes.

Is it your birthday, Nunkie? Frank had asked, looking greedily at the cake. He'd had the same expression when he'd seen Tom's car.

Indeed it is not, young Frank. But Oi believe you can have yer cake and eat it. Oi've always bought our Janet a cake whenever Oi visit, to remind her, loike.

It's all right for them that hasn't got a family to feed and can afford cake. We'll have this with tea. Jack could tell his mother was pleased despite the attempt at severity.

Tom had stayed three days and galvanised the Dunster household. Unlike Jack's parents, he seemed to have unlimited energy. If an idea occurred to him he hated any delay in carrying it out.

In the mornings, Tom Sweeney read the tabloid that Frank brought back from McCaully's shop. Frank pedalled back up the hill for breakfast during the few days his uncle was there. Len had already left for work at Stobart's farm. Tom tapped the newspaper page showing an advert for Cadbury's Picnic bars.

We had some grand picnics when yer mum was a kid, didn't we Jan? Pack a basket with grub and off we'd go. He dropped the paper on the table. That's what we'll do! 'Tis a glory of a day, we'll have a picnic.

We will not. What about school? Janet had said. And I've work to do.

Carpe Diem, Janet is what yer poet Horace said. Seize the day. There's too much drudgery and daily groind. Yer a corpse before ya know it and that's an end of it all. Seize the day moy girl. Skule will be there tomorra for what little good it'll do. We'll droive into town, pick up a box of treats and head for the hills...or the beach, or the woods. Whatever we fancy.

And they had. Jack remembered the picnic for years afterwards. His uncle had not visited the cottage often and the outing was never repeated. He also remembered the breakfasts his mother had prepared for her brother. Not just the bacon and eggs that his dad demolished, but mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, fried slice and fried potatoes.

Most important meal of the day, Jack. Has to set ya up roight so yer ready for anyting and everyting. Can't go beltin' off if there's no fuel in yer engine, can ya?

So where was his birthday breakfast? Ought to have more than toast and marge. His uncle had a plate full even when it wasn't his special day. Jack was looking round in frustration, and no little hunger, when he noticed the time. It was nearly a quarter to nine. He should be at the bottom of the hill by now dashing through the school gates so that he wouldn't be late. Why hadn't his mum woken him as usual? Where was she?

If it hadn't been his birthday, Jack might have gone without breakfast and raced down the hill to school. But that had been when he was six and three quarters. Today he'd make his own breakfast if no one was here to do it for him. And he'd have bacon and eggs as well as toast and marge. Bugger school! He chortled and said it again out loud. That was what Frank always said when the subject of Nightingale Road came up.

He took two logs off the pile and using the metal hook, opened the stove and threw them in. He peered inside but knew better than to blow on the glowing embers because he'd had a face full of hot ash when he'd tried that once before. He'd lob some paper in to get it going. Jack scrunched up a couple of sheets from a tabloid Frank had brought back and watched until the logs were burning brightly.

Jack's first attempt at cooking breakfast was not a huge success. The fried eggs were runny on top but greasy with well-browned melted butter underneath and spotted with fragments of eggshell. The bacon remained a damp pink until Jack resorted to opening the stove door and holding the slices over the flames with a toasting fork. The lower ends were black but the tops were decently crisp. He had singed his hand holding the toasting fork so he decided to give the toast a miss and had a doorstep bacon sandwich to dip in the runny egg instead. He poured a glass of milk although the initial spurt from the bottle missed the glass. He essayed a minor burp and considered that his birthday breakfast had gone very well.

Even if he had thought of clearing up the debris covering three surfaces, he would not have done it. He was annoyed at having to fend for himself on this important day and thought it only right that someone else did the easy post-cooking and washing-up duties. After all, he'd made breakfast hadn't he?

After his meal, he changed back out of his school clothes. It was too late to go now. There was no one at home to yell at him to get a move on or move his skinny arse, his dad's favourite directive. He'd escape soppy Miss Sibley patting his head as she always did when she passed his table. There were seven others round his table in class and she never patted any of their heads. He wondered if that's why his dad was bald; his teacher had probably given his head a rub as well. One thing was certain, he wouldn't be able to stay at home. When his mum came back she'd go apeshit that he'd skipped school. He knew that it wasn't so much that he'd miss the reading, writing, or Miss Sibley's weird dancing-round-the-room lessons, but Mum said she didn't want him under her feet all day. She seemed perpetually shouting when it was school holidays.

Jack sat finishing his milk while he thought about where to go. If he went down to the village someone who knew him would notice and ask him why he wasn't at school. He rocked onto the back legs of the creaky old wheelback chair to consider the alternatives.

How many bloody times have I told you not to do that, his dad always complained. You'll have the back off again one of these days. Don't know how many times I've mended the bugger.

Jack held on to the table edge and got a satisfying squeak of strained wood as he leaned back as far as he dared. It had been Frank who'd cracked the spindly pieces of the chair's back last time, not him.

He sat forward with a jerk. He'd spotted the black-stained and battered silver teapot on the top kitchen shelf. The holy of holies.

"If I see as much as one sticky finger mark on this teapot I'll get yer dad to take his belt to the both of you and...." Their mother had paused to consider the direst of consequences. ...and you'll be having dry bread and water in your room for a week.

Just once had their father taken his belt to Frank. It was the only time Jack had seen Frank cry. Len had regularly warmed the side of their heads with his callused hand or repeatedly reinforced a point with the back of his knuckles rapping the top of their skulls. Only when reeling drunk did he give them a proper thumping. The bread and water idea didn't frighten them but the belt was a strong deterrent.

Even Len Dunster recognised the untouchability of his wife's silver teapot and both boys wondered what he'd been threatened with. But thoughts of Tom Sweeney still lingered. Jack's uncle had said more than once when there was hesitation. "Shure, just do it. Better to have a crack at someting and maybe get yerselves a bit of fun. Even a bejesus cock-up is better than sod-all. The last ting you'll be wantin' is a lifetoime of regret about chances missed. When Oi turn me toes up Oi don't want to be bleatin' over a bunch of, Oi wish Oi'd done thats."

Jack dragged the complaining wheelback chair over the stone floor so that he could stand on it and reach the shelf. The teapot contained an untidy roll of several green pound notes. He held the pot close to his chest as he looked at the contents.

Jack was a bright lad for his age. Frank would have peeled off one of the notes and taken the chance that Janet Dunster would think she had miscounted. Jack knew his mother's arithmetic skills were poor but he also knew that she could tell to the penny how much she had in her purse and would make no mistakes with the silver teapot contents. If his mother was late back from wherever she'd gone, the house would be empty and unlocked; anyone could come in and steal things. An old tramp or gypsy maybe. Jack had never seen anyone like that in the village but knew from the TV that there were such people about and they'd know that spare money was always kept in tea caddies or the like. He didn't for a second think of taking only one note. He knew that no thief would ever do that and if he were found out anyway he might as well spend all of it. The punishment would be the same. And without proof, Frank was more likely to get the blame.

Ten minutes later found him halfway along the track behind the hedge at the back of Noel Stobart's biggest wheat field. He was off for a birthday adventure. He could catch the bus that he and his mother sometimes took at the weekend for shopping in town and play the machines in the arcade. He could have gone into the village but that bus stop was right outside McCaully's newsagents and the nosey old man knew Jack was Frank's brother. If he had to wait for the bus, McCaully would probably saunter out and want to know what he was doing there.

*

Janet Dunster had left the farm's tied cottage in the early hours of the morning. Betty Brundy's fifth child was on the way. Janet had helped with number four, Ellie, who had popped out with surprising ease, so Betty had asked her to be there for this confinement. This delivery was much more of a struggle. After minor panic the doctor was located and Janet stayed on to help clean up and look after the four hungry children. She guessed Len would be livid to find no tea waiting but he could fend for himself and at least make oven chips for Frank and Jack. She had told him a week ago that Betty had asked her to be there for the birth. He'd guess where she was and have to make the best of it.

Even though Len Dunster had been told a week previously, he would have forgotten under normal circum­stances, and on that Tuesday, circumstances were far from normal. Noel Stobart drove off to Swindon to see about a new combine harvester; Len was left at the Home Farm replacing weatherboarding on the barn's side. With Noel away, Len decided to take an early midday break and fancied a lie down among the hay bales stored in the barn loft. He pulled a couple of bales together and uncovered an earthenware scrumpy jug.

Ol' Tolly's pick me up, he chuckled to himself. So that's where you keep it.

Tolly Oliver was the farm's hedger. He kept his tools below in the barn and worked when needed. Most of his heavy cutting was done later in the year and he kept the gallon jug of cider for fortifying himself when necessary. Len always needed fortifying and he applied himself to the potent cider with a will. He would have probably got away with nothing worse than a sore head if he hadn't thought it a lark to take the tractor home and hadn't met the patrol car on the narrowest corner in Scratchface Lane. Len was so surprised at the police car's sudden appear­ance, he swerved into the ditch. The police constable smelled the cider from five paces away and Len found himself nicked. The desk sergeant at the station considered a night in the cells was required to sober Len up before he appeared before the magistrate on Wednesday morning. Coincidentally, the magistrate's court was across the square from the arcade that Jack visited that Tuesday afternoon.

Unlike his father, Frank had a lucky day. After school, his first task was to deliver a slim bagful of evening news­papers. The village had only six hundred or so inhabitants but the local Evening News was full of gossip and con­sequently popular in a wide area round the county town. Frank didn't mind the evening round since his bag was relatively light and there was no need to remember which paper to push through a particular letter box. Frank could dash through the round in twenty minutes. He had every chance of breaking his record before he reached the detached bungalow on Ambleside.

How many more have you got to deliver, Frank?

Only half a dozen, Mrs Bainbridge. Why?

I've got one of those silly flat pack television console things and I can't understand the instructions. Harry's away on business for the night and I don't want to have to watch the telly while it's sitting on the floor. Can you help me put it up? It'll be worth a quid or two.

Frank didn't even pause to consider. No probs Mrs Bainbridge. I'll just finish this lot.

Great. Put your bike in the shed round the back and you can get in by the kitchen door. I'll probably be in the bath but you'll find the thing in the living room.

Frank wasn't destined to get back home until Wednes­day morning.

Jack returned from his adventure in town to find the house still empty and no tea. Not that he was feeling hungry since he'd had a burger and chips at the brand new McDonalds, an ice cream from the Italian place where he'd mixed three sorts together, and a bar of chocolate and a coke from the machine in the arcade. No one had seemed to notice that he was on his own. Even the pimply bus driver hadn't looked at him when Jack dropped the money in the tray for a return ticket. He'd punched the buttons on his ticket machine but concentrated on adjusting the driver's seat and tutting when he couldn't get it right. On the return journey, Jack got on with an old lady and waved his ticket like she did, the driver nodded as he pushed the lever to close the doors. He probably thought the woman was Jack's mum.

The house felt cold even though the day had been sunny enough and Jack wandered out into the overgrown garden because it was warmer out than in. By the time he was hungry again there was still no one back and Jack was in a paddy. It was his birthday! He stamped his feet and thrust his hands in his pockets where his fingers encountered the remaining pound notes and the change he'd got in the arcade. He thought of Megan Wainwright's birthday and the brilliant pirate ship. That had been a lot of fun. The proper way to spend a birthday.

It didn't take long for the idea to come to him that if no one was going to give him a birthday party then he could go and make his own. He didn't need anyone else to have fun. He'd proved that in the arcade where he'd had a great time.

The wooden pirate galleon was behind the trees at the bottom of Megan's garden. No one would know he was there and he could get some raspberry pop, biscuits, cakes and stuff from the village shop. He'd get some comics to read as well. He'd tell Mrs Armitage his mum had sent him because it was his birthday. She wouldn't know the difference. He didn't need to pay for all of it either. He'd stuffed his pockets in there before and the silly old moo hadn't even noticed. He might need a torch, he couldn't remember if it was dark inside the ship.

He gave it no more thought but grabbed his satchel and Frank's winter coat and set off.

Mrs Armitage seemed even more dithery than usual. Han't since you for a while young Frank, she wheezed.

Jack didn't bother to put her right. Maybe the big coat he'd put on made him look even older than he usually did. It was warm enough and he didn't need a coat but it had big open pockets that things might accidentally drop into off the shelves. If anyone spotted him, the school satchel would make them think he was fresh out of class, and he'd need it to put all his loot in. He remembered he needed a torch after he'd got the food and drink but couldn't find any electrical appliances in the little shop, which made him realise what he really needed was candles. Pirates didn't have electric.

He found a shelf with a pack of twenty-five nightlights for one-and-six and he spotted a Mickey Mouse lighter that would make a perfect birthday present. He checked that the old lady was busy behind her counter and flicked the lighter off the shelf into his pocket. Mrs Armitage would be the only one to pay for a present for him and she wouldn't even know she had.

He'd run out of pounds and only had change left by the time he came out of the shop and headed towards Wainwright's big house.

He felt a bit like an explorer loaded down with his crammed leather satchel and pockets full of stuff. He was also too warm in the big coat and was sweating by the time he reached the high crumbling brick wall that encircled the Wainwright house and grounds. The size of the property made it easy to get in because the gravel drive was long and circled behind a stand of trees before reaching the distant house. The old wrought iron gates attached to the granite pillars guarding the entrance had been donated to the war effort in 1942 and never replaced. No one was in sight on Manor Rd so Jack slipped round the right-hand pillar and scurried behind the rhododen­drons. Many of the shiny-leaved bushes were in full bloom and there was no danger of him being seen. It was like moving through a tropical jungle and Jack picked up a short stick to use as a machete. He'd seen natives use them in a Tarzan film for hacking a path. He forgot about the noise he was making as he lashed and crashed his way through the undergrowth, keeping an eye out for lions and leopards.

His imagination shifted to 'Treasure Island' at the sight of the children's play galleon. It looked more lonely than he remembered. The afternoon sun was behind the trees and the whole area looked more sombre. The two rows of bunting had been taken down and there were no balloons dangling over the sides as there had been when the village children swarmed over the deck and up the short ratlines. The outline was blurred with the black safety nets strung underneath obstacles where little feet might slip. For the first time Jack noticed that a skull and crossbones flag hung limply from the top of the short thick mast.

He looked both ways before rapidly crossing the stretch of grass separating the ship from the bushes. His satchel bounced solidly against his back as he made the crouching run, his stick held at the high port like a soldier's Lee Enfield. He unslung his load and scrambled through the large gun-port in the bow. The ship was his.

Jack roamed over the play galleon occasionally sword-fighting an imaginary Bluebeard with his machete-rifle-cutlass. He had stood at the wheel and twirled it to come alongside a French man-of-war before boarding, but soon tired of the game. It was little fun on his own and didn't feel like a birthday. He decided to lay out his party feast below decks in the Captain's cabin. There was no separate cabin since there was just one long open space from stem to stern but two broad planks could be used as a table and there was a bench along the back