First two parts of a longish story I'm writing. Have to admit I've stuttered somewhat writing the next part. I've had several attempts but been happy with none. The prologue and chap 1 were easy to write and I felt comfortable with style (mainly) and how it moved. It felt very natural. Every attempt since has seemed forced. Perhaps I've bitten off more than I can chew.

Prologue

Thinking back, it was probably a pretty bad idea in the first place.  I mean, I knew absolutely nothing about it.  No, that's not true.  What I mean to say, is that I knew no more about it than your average bloke on the street.  I suppose that's what I was and always will be.  They'll carve it onto my tombstone, "Andrew Freeney, he was just an average sort of bloke."  But even average people leave their mark on the world.  My mark wasn't to have children or do some great deed of high importance.  My mark was the same that most of us leave.  I had an effect on other peoples' lives.
 My mother always said I'd be the death of her.  That's quite a responsibility to land in the lap of a boy of ten.  My father said I gave him a headache.  You see, touching other's lives starts at an early age whether we like it or not.  Well I never was the death of my mother.  She's alive and well, if a little doddery, and living in Brighton.  I don't see her now on account of the fact that she can't stand my guts.  She says she brought me up to be a nice boy and can't believe the shame I've brought her.  I suppose that's why she moved to Brighton where nobody knows her.  Actually, more to the point, nobody there knows me.  I told her she shouldn't believe everything she reads in the papers, but you know what old people are like?
 My father on the other hand, couldn't be more silent on the subject of my recent difficulties.  This due to the fact that he went gaga with Althimers and now chews the carpet in a rather seedy care home cum mental hospital.  Perhaps all those headaches I gave him as child pushed him over the edge.  I don't visit much because as far as I understand it, he doesn't even know who I am.  Well what's the point?  I could certainly do without the hassle.
 Dad said once, "Me and your mum don't want to be a burden on you son.  If we ever get too old or frail to look after ourselves, we'll be quite happy in a home."
Mum just looked sad and nodded. 
 It's times like this when I'm reminiscing that I think I get an insight into what was actually happening.  I suppose I was about thirty then and mum and dad would be in their mid sixties.  They had me quite late in life as you can tell.  Apparently there was something wrong with dad's sperm.  They couldn't swim properly or something.  Of course, all those years ago there wasn't very much in the way of artificial insemination or anything like that on the NHS.  I think you just kept banging away and hoped for the best.  Well mum and dad kept banging and here I am.  Probably not all they'd hoped for but here all the same.
 I was doing pretty well, earning a fair deal more than mum and dad ever had.  I had a long career with even better prospects ahead of me.  I wasn't married but I did have a steady girlfriend.  You know the type.  You sort of get into a rut don't you?  Meet, go out, go to bed, it sort of becomes a habit.  Anyway, mum and dad probably had it all planned out.  I'd buy a big house, get married, have kids, and when the time came that they couldn't cope anymore, I'd have them live with me.  This was just their way of broaching the subject.  Well I took them on their word.
 "Right-oh," I said, and went out to the pub.
There again they could have meant it.  I mean, perhaps they really didn't want to be a burden.  It's so hard to work out other people's motives.
 Ah, there's that word, motive.  I suppose I'd better shut up about mum and dad and get on with it.  

Chap 1 - Motives.

What made me do it?  I'm not really sure yet myself, but I do have some ideas.  Of course I know what made me do it at the time.  The immediate reason if you like.  But the underlying factors I'm only just starting to uncover for myself.  Actually, not all by myself.  There is of course my defence lawyer, Gibson, who pulls at his hair trying to figure it out.
 "Just run that by me again," he says.
That's just about all I do now.  Run through it again and again.  It helps to pass the time.  Don't get me wrong.  Some people would say this shows no remorse.  I'm afraid they'd be wrong though.  I am sorry in my own way.  I'm sorry I ever had the idea in the first place, I'm sorry I ever got caught and I'm sorry I got lumbered with this sorry excuse for a lawyer.
 "Just run that by me again," he says.  He has absolutely no idea what to say in court because he absolutely doesn't understand what I've done.  He knows the facts nearly as well as I do, but he doesn't know the motive.  He doesn't know how it made me feel.  He doesn't know how it still makes me feel.

I suppose it all started just after that awful Christmas I'd spent with my parents.  Why I ever went is beyond me.  Every Christmas since I'd left home I'd be on their doorstep on Christmas Eve.  It was more of a habit than a tradition.  That Christmas was no different from all the rest.  Mum was in the kitchen peeling brussels, dad was there too, stuffing the turkey, and my grandmother, my bloody grandmother was sitting in the lounge watching some god awful shit on the television drinking her fifth sweet sherry.  She was so dreary.  My dad must have taken after her, the boring old sod.  Mind you, she didn't go mad, she died of a heart attack when she first heard news of my little mishap.  I suppose there's hope for my father yet.  I can see it now.  She would have been sat there in front of the television in that crappy little terrace watching the local news when she found out.
 "Oh, the shame," she probably croaked as she grasped at her heart and crashed to the floor, spilling her sherry of course.
 Anyway, back to that Christmas.
 "You know where you are don't you love?" my mum called.
This of course a reference to where I would be sleeping.
 "In the spare room.  Your grandma's staying in yours," she added.
This was completely unnecessary.  Every year I stayed in the spare room squashed between back issues of Angler's Weekly and bags and boxes of old fishing tackle.  Typical of my father.  Not fished for years but he still kept all his old stuff.  I suppose he used to go up there every so often and practice casting off over the banister.  Of course, he used to take me fishing .  I couldn't see the  point of it.  We'd be sat on some freezing river bank somewhere:
 "All right son?" he'd ask.
 "Yes dad."  I mean what do you say when you're bored out of your skull?  Dad thought I loved it until the day I told him.
 "All right son?" he asked.
 "Actually dad, no.  I can't stand it and I never could.  It's boring, just like you.  I don't know what you see in it and I certainly don't know why you keep bringing me with you."  I was quite articulate for a ten year old.  Dad didn't say anything.  He just started to pack all the tackle away and we went home.  All the stuff went in the spare room and I don't think he's been fishing since.  Silly old sod.  It could have been handling all those lead weights that sent him gaga.
 Anyway, I was in the spare room and my bloody grandmother lorded it in my old room.  This was completely wasted on her because by bedtime she'd always drank so much sherry she wouldn't have known, much less cared, where she was sleeping.
 That evening, just like every other Christmas Eve for god knows how long, we all gathered in the front room (or parlour as my mother insisted on calling it) and put our gifts for each other under the tree.  My grandmother's were always misshapen things she'd knitted herself.  I don't know how many pullovers I've had knitted me.
 "Why don't you ever wear that nice sweater your gran knitted you last Christmas?" my mother would say from time to time.
 "Oh it's too warm today," I'd say.  I mean I couldn't say it was a load of old crap and besides which I'd thrown it away at the first possible opportunity now could I?
 Grandmother's parcels were made further irregular due to the fact that her hands shook like crazy and the sticky tape got all twisted up.  It sometimes looked as though a three year old had wrapped her gifts.
 Mum always wrapped the presents that my parents gave and they were always startlingly neat and tidy.  They were always startlingly boring too.  One year, after I'd moved into my first flat, they bought me a slow cooker.
 "So you can make your tea before you go out to work love," my mum said with a sickening smile on her face.  I mean was it really likely?  That went in the kitchen cupboard and never came out again.
 I never knew what to get the lot of them.  Dad didn't have any hobbies, mum didn't do anything but cook and bake and all I could think of for my grandmother was a bottle of sherry.  So this particular year, just like every year, I'd bought them all gift vouchers.  I'd not had a particularly good year and so it had set me back a bit more than I'd have wanted.
 After grandmother had staggered back to her chair I took them out of my pocket and slipped them under the tree.  It was then I heard it.  It was a definite sigh from my mother.
 "What?" I asked.  "Go on, what."
 "Oh nothing love."
 "No," I insisted.  "If you've something to say I'd really rather hear it."
She looked embarrassed.  Dad looked at his slippers and my grandmother poured herself another sherry.
 "Go on," I said.
She took a deep breath.  "It's just that I thought you could have put a little bit more thought into it love.  That's all.  Nothing really."
Bloody ungrateful cow.  I'd gone out that morning especially to buy the vouchers.  I was just about to tell her when grandmother interrupted.
 "Every year.  Every year.  And why don't you wear my sweaters?"
 "Why don't you drink another sherry and be quiet?"  I asked her.  "I have gone to the effort this year just like every year.  It's just that I never know what to buy you.  You never do anything."
 She looked like she was about to reply but at that point my dad perked up.
 "Another sherry mum?  What's on TV Shirl?  Anything good?"
 And that was it.  The subject had been closed.  Well I wasn't pleased.  I mean would you have been?  Well there you are.  I suppose that's families for you, I certainly didn't choose mine.
 I can't remember what was on television but it wasn't long before my mother got all the old photograph albums out.  There's always something a little disconcerting about looking at old photographs.  Looking at your relatives is fine.  They've always been the same, just a little less grey and with fewer wrinkles.  But looking at yourself can be quite disturbing.  I mean, do you ever get the feeling that it's not actually you there in the picture, but some other self in a different time?  For example, there's one photo of  dad, my grandmother, grandfather and me stood together on the end of Llandudno pier.  In those days we used to go on holiday together.  I look about ten years old.  Grandfather is stood behind me with his left hand on my shoulder.  In his right hand he's holding one of those sea side fishing nets; a length of cane with a plastic net held on with a piece of bent wire.  My grandmother has her left arm linked through his right.  Dad is squatting next to me with a bucket and spade dangling from his clasped hands.  I suppose mum must have been taking the photo.  The most striking thing is that everyone, even me, is smiling.  I can't remember us all being together and happy since those times.  Another time , another place, another me.  This was the photograph that caught my grandmother's attention.
 "He was a lovely man, your grandad," she said.  And for once she was right.  He was a lovely man.  He'd died not long after that holiday in Llandudno.  "Do you remember that holiday Andrew?"
 Well of course I remembered it.  Grandad had spent a lot of time with me, as he always did, without ever making me bored or fed up.  He had the knack of knowing just when to suggest moving onto the next thing.
 "He'd have done anything for you you know."
That was it now.  Once she got going about the old days and my grandfather, there was just no stopping her.  The longer she went on the worse it got.  Old, faithful subjects, like how life had been much harder for them and how people generally, and me specifically, had it easy now.  I mean where's the fun in that, listening to a half pissed, geriatric harp on about days gone by and belittle my present problems?  There was no wonder we didn't smile much anymore 
 The evening wore on in much the same way and then, thank god, it was time for the next great Christmas tradition.  Getting grandmother up the stairs to bed.  First she called in at the downstairs toilet which she could just about manage when she was sober.  How she did it after all that sherry was a mystery.  Dad went first, backing up the stairs and holding her hands.  I brought up the rear with my shoulder in her backside pushing her up every damn step.
 "Come on mum.  Keep going.  Not far now," my father coaxed.
 "Fat old cow," I mumbled.
We finally got her up the stairs and onto the landing.  Dad squeezed past and went back down the stairs.  It was my job to get her into her room and onto her bed.  Thank god I didn't have to undress her or anything like that.  I think she usually just pulled the duvet over her and passed out.  This Christmas she didn't have time though.  I don't know if it was the sherry or her age catching up with her, but she was out as soon as she collapsed on the bed.  You can imagine it wasn't pleasant prising off the old dear's slippers and levering her under the duvet.  It was probably this sort of stunt that killed off my grandfather.  She'd said he'd died in his sleep but it was more likely he died in her's.

 And so Christmas morning followed.  Not for us peels of bells and hearty slaps on the back.  Not for us a feeling of good will and happiness.  No, for us a weeping, hungover geriatric sat head in hands at the kitchen table.  Mother was busy with the turkey and yet more brussels while dad was crouched next to her with his arm around her making cooing noises.
 Mother was probably pissed off because she thought it was all due to copious amounts of sherry.  Dad was making cooing noises and desperately beckoning me behind her back because he didn't know what else to do.
 "See what you can do," he whispered and slunk off upstairs.  Probably to read some old fishing magazine.
 "I saw him.  I saw him last night.  He told me we'd be together again," she sobbed.  The look my mother gave her suggested it might be quicker than she thought.
 "I saw him.  Clear as day he was.  He was dressed in his wedding suit, he looked ever so handsome.  I felt embarrassed because I'd only got my pinny on.  We were in this big posh restaurant, sat at a table in the corner next to the kitchens.  He said we'd be together again soon and please could he have his dinner now.  I left, I didn't want to, I just had to.  I went to fetch his dinner and when I got back he was gone and a young girl was sat at the table."
 Well how about all that for Christmas morning?  She didn't just tell me this, she sniffed and slobbered her way through it.  Now I'm not one for family affections, but what could I do.  Dad had buggered off somewhere and mum clearly didn't want to know.  I put my arm round her.
 "There, there," I said.  I know it wasn't much but it was about all I could muster.  "It was only a dream"
 "But it was so real.  You don't know how real it was."  This with more sobs.  "Do you think it means something?  Do you think it means I'm going to die?  He did say we'd be together again."
 "You're not going to die gran.  He probably just meant that some time you'd be back together again and that when you are it'll be just like the old days.  That's why when you came back with his dinner there was a young girl sat in your place.  It was you when you were young, when you got married.  That was why he was wearing his wedding suit."
 I've got to admit, I even surprised myself.  This just came straight off the top of my head.  Well not quite, it was the second thing that I had thought.  The first was probably much the likelier, but in the spirit of what passed for Christmas I decided to keep that one to myself.  You see, I'm not all bad.  I mean can you imagine it. 
 "Well grandma, your dream was what you always suspected of grandad.  You were wearing a pinny and cooking dinner.  That's how he saw you; a dowdy, boring, old drudge.  You went away and there sat in your chair taking your place, was the exciting and beautiful woman he'd been shagging right up to when he died."
 Not the sort of thing that even I would say.  It was a pretty well known family secret that grandad had had a lover.  Dirty old sod.  Still, being married to my grandmother you can see why.  I can't imagine them copulating even when they were young, although they must have done it at least the once to conceive my father.  My father; the almost immaculate conception.
 My grandmother seemed calmed by what I'd said.  Calm enough to ask for a sherry anyway.  
 The rest of the day passed much like any other Christmas Day at my parent's.  Over cooked vegetables, too much to drink, watching shit on the television and flatulence.  I couldn't wait to go home.  I mean there's only so much you can take.  The earliest I could leave without looking like a total bastard was about six o'clock, so that's when I ordered the taxi for.  It wasn't so much that I wanted to be at home on my own, it was more that I wanted to be away from them and all they meant to me.  They were probably glad to see the back of me if you want to know the truth.  Anyway there was one thing I wanted to think about on my own with out the constant background drone of, "Another coffee dear?" or, "Pass the chocolates mum."  I had to get away from their cosy domesticity to concentrate.
 Earlier that morning mum had said, "Well done love.  I didn't know you had it in you."
 Well neither did I .  I don't mean what my mother meant, that I'd calmed down a distraut old lady.  I didn't realise I had the capacity to fabricate so quickly.  You see my grandmother's dream had unsettled me even more than it had her.  Of course I wasn't worried about imminent death or meeting the dead.  What disturbed me was the ease in which I hoodwinked my grandmother into my interpretation of events.  I hadn't thought too hard about it, I just came out with it.  Perhaps she had already considered my less savoury interpretation.  I mean even she couldn't have been completely oblivious to my grandfather's little affair.  She must have had some inkling.  Perhaps what I had told her was just what she wanted to hear and that was why it was accepted so readily.

And it's now that I finally get to the point.  The immediate reason for my recent undertakings.  As I've said, I'd had a bad year and the next was looking even tougher.  My big idea: Andrew Freeney, Interpreter of Dreams, Modern Day Joseph.  Now I know it sounds ridiculous, but I really thought I could make money from it.  When you're getting desperate anything sounds like a good idea.  As it turned out it did earn me a handsome extra income for some time.
 "What qualifications did you think you had to support such an undertaking?" asks my incredulous lawyer.  As I've told him before, I didn't have any qualifications as such, I just felt I had the ability to say the right thing at the right time.  I also believed, and was proven correct, that there were enough gullible idiots out there to take me seriously enough to pay me.
 "But what made you think anyone would pay you to tell them what their dreams meant?" he asks again as if he can't believe my stupidity at thinking up this whole thing in the first place.  But it wasn't my stupidity.  What he actually finds hard to believe is that people actually did part with good money for me to interpret their dreams.  From his educated, middle class perspective he finds it difficult to envision anyone so sad and lonely that they have to pay some stranger to listen to their dreams and offer them comfort.  From his secure, career centred life, he can't grasp that a lowly oik like me could exercise so much influence and power over people's lives.  And there's the rub of it.  Be honest and tell me you've never wanted just a little more control, just a little more say.  Well I found it.  Quite by accident, and I think it was maybe that that made me do it.  I mean, it beats wanking, but more of that later.