He hears a voice calling his name. It is, feminine, familiar, gentle and inviting. Startled, Pete turns to find the carriage empty but for an old man – down and out by his appearance – grumbling drunkenly to himself. Catching Pete’s eye he leans purposefully to his right and breaks wind loudly, wetly. Chuckling inanely, he fumbles in his coat pocket for a half bottle of whisky. Taking a long drink, he performs a flatulent encore   before resuming his inebriated murmur. 
     Disgusted and confused he turns from the scene and stares blankly at his newspaper. The incident has unnerved him and his hands begin to tremble. Recognising the symptoms he scrambles in his bag for medication. He has the Prozac in his hand before he remembers his decision – no more drugs. He has been taking Prozac and Effexor for nearly a year now and is sick of it; it’s time to move on.
     Stuffing the pills into his pocket he wraps his coat around himself and tries to relax. Dr Sharpe says that if he feels panicky he should talk to himself, describe his surroundings, rationalise events and try to think positively about his situation. He says that this is important for suffers of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as it helps to relieve the feeling of threat.
     Pete thinks that Dr Sharpe is a tosser; even so, at least he recognised that Pete had a problem, which was more than the MoD had. Discharged as medically unfit he had received nothing more than exhortations to ‘pull oneself together’ and ‘get on with life.’  Two years of ‘getting on with it’ later, the nightmares and ‘therapeutic’ drinking had finally exploded into violence when a local lout had called the army nothing but ‘a bunch of fuckin’ murderers’. Only a statement of good character from Pete’s old Colonel and a guarantee of employment by his current boss had kept Pete out of jail. Therapy, and Dr. Sharpe, had been the price of his freedom.
     Despite his opinion of the doctor’s sexual preferences, Pete’s drinking is now under control – mostly – and he actually sleeps most nights. He decides that old Sharpie might be worth another visit after all; this ‘hearing voices’ was becoming a frequent occurrence.
     He rests his head against the window and concentrates on the train’s movement. His ‘paper is unread as the ‘ta-dack, ta-dack’ of wheels on rails voice their familiar soporific.
     He wakes, as normal, just before his station. He holds out a hand – the shaking is barely noticeable. He stands and, stuffing his newspaper into his haversack, makes his way to the doors.

Ben loves his car. He loves everything about it: the colour, the bucket seats and five point harnesses, the alloy wheels and the throaty roar of the after-market exhaust. He loves the Paris – Dakar styling, the sequential gearbox and rally lights that burn away darkness with a blaze of halogen. Most of all he loves to drive his car – fast.
     On the whole, the local police leave Ben alone so long as he keeps to the back roads – they have better things to do with their time. Today, however, he’s managed to take the wing mirror off a visiting chief inspector’s Mercedes. Failure to stop – out of principal – has seen him become the target of the area patrol car.
     Ben makes a hard left into the railway station car park. He spins the Evo around in a handbrake turn in time to see the police Vectra pirouette gracefully past, wheels squealing as the driver struggles for control. Ben laughs, wondering if Clarkie will ever learn to drive. He roars out of the car park turning right, heading back the way he came. A cloud of smoke and the smell of burning rubber are all that’s left to witness his presence.

Outside the station Pete gags on the residue of Ben’s departure. The acrid stench gives momentary rise to uncomfortable memories. Quickly suppressing the memory, he gazes at a hunter’s moon ringed with the promise of frost. He hails silent salutations to the lunar face – a fascination since childhood – and, turning his collar to the cold, heads for home.
     The small town streets are quiet again; empty save for a young couple huddled warm and passionate in the butcher’s doorway. Ahead, ‘The White Lion’ flirts with his resolve. Company and a warm alcoholic haze compete with a hot bath and sleep. He hesitates, undecided, tempted, and then starts violently as sensual laughter caresses his senses. He turns sharply and sees nothing. Even the butcher’s doorway is out of sight. Shaken, he hurries on muttering reassurances about sleep deprivation and commuter life-styles.

She has been following him since he left the office. At first, it hadn’t been easy tracking him through the crowded London streets. A multitude of auras had formed a swirling vibrant rainbow of colour; the brilliant yellows and oranges of the young, the crimson and blue of the middle-aged all washing through and over the dark purple and browns of the elderly. However, the longer he was immersed in the crowds the more uncomfortable he became and the more his aura flared green – a sign of ill health. Once so marked, he was easy to spot. She had noted the incident on the train – it was almost as if he sensed her presence. The others had reported similar experiences over recent weeks. They must take care, he mustn’t suspect their presence.
     She trails him through the town. Pausing briefly, she turns her gaze towards a doorway taking pleasure in the colour of copulation that blazes there. Hurrying on she turns her attention once more to her charge. He is standing in front of the pub. The yellow green glow of poisoned auras envelops the building. She can sense that if he enters the place it will end in a classic drunken binge. He doesn’t need that – especially not tonight. Settling into the shadow of a large oak, she channels power briefly, projecting a gentle, sensuous laugh. Fleetingly, she pities his confusion and fear. She puts it aside as his aura deepens momentarily towards black – he will soon be beyond the need for pity.
     She watches as he approached the door of his yellow-stone terrace. She makes her way to the rear of the house via the service alleyway. Finding a comfortably dark spot underneath a large juniper she settles down. She calls to the others briefly, requesting their presence, and then proceeds to wait.

Pete pulls the plug with his toes and languishes as the water slowly drains, moving only when his body starts to chill. Wrapping his robe about him he heads for the lounge, stopping off at the kitchen to grab a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a large Jameson’s, before collapsing onto the sofa. On the T.V. young American soldiers struggle to control a large mob protesting the fifth anniversary of the fall of Baghdad. He reaches for the remote control unwilling, unable, to focus on the continuing debacle in Iraq – the memory is still too strong, too horrific. He flicks aimlessly through the channels before settling on golf as being harmless and undemanding. 
 
P.C. Clark has had enough. His Vectra hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of even catching Ben’s Evo – never mind stopping it. Reluctantly, he admits defeat and calls for the helicopter.

Before long the hot bath and whiskey begin to take effect. As he loses his grip on consciousness the memories creep back haunting his repose once more.

A line of policemen stand across a road, riot shields ready, batons raised. Their familiar dark blue serge stands stark against the desert terrain. Behind them a thick black pall of smoke threatens to blot out the sun. The constables scream abuse at him, their batons beating time against the shields. To his left, a cacophony of bleating rises from a gigantic herd of goats that float by on a river of oil. The river flows, arrow straight, through banks of stretch Cadillacs.  The majority of the goats wear traditional headdress, the Shemagh or the veiled Hajib. A smattering of Stetson clad elephants drift by trumpeting loudly and from upstream comes the yapping of bowler-hatted bulldogs.
     The English police are replaced by Saddaam’s Fedayeen. He watches in horror as they deploy along the river-bank - RPG’ now where once there were batons. They fire their weapons and the river becomes a conflagration. Overhead, an armada of B52’s drop their payload.  Airbursts shower the land with dollar bills. Where they land buildings begin to form; McDonalds and Starbucks sprout from the desert like flowers at an oasis. Hordes of reporters proclaim a miracle to the waiting world; a miracle of rebirth. In the midst of this baptism a holy Shamal wind hurls ton after ton of corrosive sand towards the proud parents. Ancient Silicon strips paint, eats away at facia and brick. It etches its message into window glass and peels flesh from bones. On and on the wind blows; buildings are buried with the dead beneath new born dunes.
     Where the dollar bills fall over the river, burning goats reach desperately for them, clutching for a life-line. Their bleating becomes a scream as their saviour chars and bursts into flame. The screams rise to a crescendo, amplified by the sound systems in the Cadillacs – the soundtrack to Hell.
     Unable to move, he can only look on, horrified, as this world moves around him. Bands of Republican Guard are chased across the desert by giant eagles that tear and rend, gobbling down the flesh of their victims with relish.
     A Toyota pick-up lumbers across the landscape, loudspeakers mounted on its roof. The message blares forth repeatedly – ‘No Collateral Damage, No Collateral Damage.’ Behind the truck a mass of child amputees lurch forward on bloody stumps.
     ‘Hey! Corp! Cup of tea?’ The voice burst painfully against his eardrums.
     The world spins. It is quiet. Pete sees a Warrior troop carrier parked by the road some fifty yards away. On the lee side, shaded from the sun, Fusilier Daniels holds up a mug of tea. Beyond Daniels, Fusl. Jackson heaps curses upon the Scimitar V radio pack. Declaring it a “useless pile of shite” she stands and snatches the mug from Daniel’s hands. She pulls off her helmet and runs a hand through her hair. Turning towards him she raises a hand in greeting before returning to her battle with the radio. Daniels shrugs helplessly and bends to pour another mug. On the road, Sgt. Peters and Fusiliers Bellamy and Davies man a checkpoint. Relaxed but alert they watch the constant stream of people passing over the Shat –al –Basra bridges.  Pete is positioned some fifty yards down the road – an intercept point in case of ‘fleeing fugitives.’
     The sharp crack of an AK shatters the peace. Bellamy is down, Davies and the Sgt scrabbling for cover back towards the Warrior. Daniels and Jackson are still reaching for their weapons when the first RPG slams into the position followed by another, and another. Pete is unable to move, unable to speak. All he can do is mouth a silent ‘Nooooo!’ The world spins.
     ‘Hey! Corp! Cup of tea?’ Fusl Daniels holds up a mug of tea …
     The scene plays out again and again before he finally breaks free.

Ben speeds past the railway station again. He knows it’s pointless – the helicopter has him pinned in its searchlight beam and he’ll never lose it. He decides on another lap of the town before he gives up. He shifts down a gear and accelerates away from the despairing P.C. Clarke.

He wakes screaming, desperate to escape the carnage. Dazed, still in the grip of the nightmare, he falls from the sofa, crushing the whiskey glass which ploughs a deep furrow in his thigh. In his confused state the pain and blood panic him. Hysterical now he heads for the door. Get out, get out. The words hammer through is mind. The ‘wop –wop-wop’ of a chopper promises help – medevac! He bursts through the door into the street and is bathed in light.

Ben hauls desperately on the steering wheel knowing it is too late.

It is time. She rises and passes through the house to be with him. The others are coming – she can feel them – but she is the first to approach as agreed. She reaches out to him, calling his name.

He hears a voice. Pete squints at the roiling spectrum of colour that assaults his eyes. He tries to stand but finds himself unable to until a hand takes his and gently helps him to his feet. A figure resolves itself from the confusing palette; a woman, surrounded by a pale lilac glow. She runs her hand through her hair as she steps forward to embrace him. Other figures begin to appear. A hand comes down lightly on his shoulder.
     ‘Cup of tea Corp?’