Ten Steps to Happiness

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Jo, clambering to her feet. ‘At last! Come on in. Have you got everything you need? Is the room comfortable?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Messy. ‘It’s the prettiest room I’ve ever stayed in. Everything’s lovely.’

‘Is that correct?’ She heard Grey chuckling complacently. ‘That’s not what you were sayin’ to Charlie, so I hear.’

‘Oh.’ She looked embarrassed.

‘Aye…Is it for yourself or the wee daughter that you’re worryin’, Messy?’

‘No. Neither,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind. Don’t be disgusting. Can I have a drink?’

‘’Cause, darlin’, you really needn’t worry on either account.’

‘You can be as rude as you like,’ she snapped, ‘but the fact is you’re a convicted sex offender and I had no idea when I agreed to come here—’ She nodded at the vast space where Grey was lounging, watching her insouciantly through his long dark lashes. ‘I had no idea we’d be staying here…’ He smiled at her, an incredibly intimate smile, full of mischief and good humour. She lost her thread. For such a famously evil pervert, she thought, he was amazingly, really amazingly attractive. ‘…With a convicted sex offender,’ she finished weakly.

‘Ha!’ said Grey. ‘And I had no idea that anyone could be so bloody fat!’ He laughed, a low rumble at his own wit, and waited lazily for Jo to step in and smooth things over.

But she didn’t. She’d been doing her breathing exercises when Charlie reported Messy’s concern about Grey’s difficult history, and now she was thunderstruck. All this preparation, all the money they had spent, all the telephone calls, the clever little plans…and this most obvious of problems had never even occurred to her. Grey McShane, however innocent, was going to frighten away all her guests. ‘Grey’s a nice man, Messy,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press.’

‘That’s what I told her,’ said Charlie.

‘After all this is meant to be a sanctuary for—’

‘The universally condemned.’ Grey lingered enjoyably on the words.

‘—The victims of media abuse,’ corrected Jo. ‘You’re going to get all sorts. You’re hardly likely to be meeting Snow White. And I think, you know, that we all have to respect that. As I said to you on the phone, this thing isn’t going to work if we can’t trust each other. We’ve invited you into our home with a lot of trust, OK? And I think it’s only fair for you to trust us in return…’

The General groaned quietly to himself.

‘Och, Messy. Relax, for Christ’s sake!’ said Grey. ‘Do you think these fine people would allow me near this place if I was as wicked as people say I am? Have a drink! Sit that great big fat arse o’ yours on the chair over there, if it’ll take the weight. And if it’s not collapsed in a minute or two I’ll reward you wi’ a nice big glass of gin.’

‘Ha ha ha!’ spluttered the General. ‘I mean as a matter of fact,’ he added hurriedly, to camouflage the snort of naughty amusement with which he had greeted Grey’s rude and feeble joke, ‘you really look quite – petite – in the flesh.’

‘Absolutely,’ Jo lied blatantly. Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Well, maybe not petite, but then you’re so lovely and tall. Anyway! Ha!’ She patted her bump. ‘I mean who am I to talk!’

Messy wavered. They looked so relaxed by the soft light of the fire. And she’d been so lonely for so very long. ‘I’ll have some whisky then,’ she said with a wan smile. She had no idea where she was, and she was already feeling slightly confused as to why she had ever agreed to come. But there was something about the place, about this peculiar mismatch of people, which made her feel less lonely and more relaxed than she had for a long time.

‘Good on you,’ said Grey. ‘And good luck to you, my chubby darlin’. By tomorrow morning you’ll never want to leave our little Eden ever again.’

ACCIDENT REDUCTION

There are large numbers of non-fatal accidents in and around gardens. These involve mainly those under 65, and 60% of the victims are men. The question of falls in the context of the garden will be difficult to reduce. It will be difficult to reduce cuts and abrasions except where specific activities are involved. The use of protective gloves while gardening may help.

From GARDEN SAFETY, Home Safety Network, UK Department of Trade and Industry’s website on home safety

(iii) PRIORITISE END-PRODUCT-RELATED GOALS (#ulink_a912e065-f5e6-53a5-b77d-c45fc4d135ec)

The following morning Charlie had yet another early meeting with his solicitor, so he left before anyone else was up. Afterwards he was ambling down Lamsbury High Street back towards his car, worrying about this and that. Worrying mostly, on this occasion, about the council’s announcement that it needed to inspect the Fiddleford water supply (from a private spring. They might choose to declare it illegal), when he was startled by the nearby sound of shattering glass. He looked up to see the greengrocer’s shop window had been smashed and the obvious culprit – a feeble-looking red-headed boy barely in his teens – belting away from the scene of the crime, hurtling blindly along the pavement towards him. Instinctively Charlie stretched out an arm and grabbed him.

‘Fuck you. Leave me a-fuckin’-lone,’ shouted the boy, in a rich West Country accent. He was twisting helplessly. ‘Bloody…fucker! I’ll fuckin’—’

It soon became clear that everybody in Lamsbury knew the boy by name. A crowd very quickly gathered to gloat at his captivity – something, Charlie got the impression, they had been wanting for a long time.

He was standing there holding the boy, wondering what to do next and actually feeling slightly uncomfortable about his role in the proceedings, when a middle-aged man – one of many already mustered around the action

– dashed right through the crowd and skidded to a halt in front of them. ‘Now we’ve got you,’ the man panted happily. ‘And no law here neither.’ At which, and to Charlie’s astonishment, he delivered a fast, efficient thump to the middle of the boy’s face.

The crowd gave a spontaneous cheer.

‘Hey!’ said Charlie. ‘He’s half your size. What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘He’s a pain in our backsides and he knows it. Don’t you, Colin Fairwell?’

Next thing Charlie knew, a man from the vandalised greengrocer’s shop had stepped forward to thump the boy again, and once again Lamsbury High Street was voicing its approval.

‘Do that one more time,’ said Charlie, ‘and I’m letting him go.’

‘Anyway I don’t fuckin’ care,’ said Colin Fairwell, smiling defiantly from behind a large bubble of blood. ‘I don’t fuckin’ care about none of you.’ The bubble popped, leaving a scarlet spray across his cheeks and forehead.

‘You’re not allowed down this street, you little bugger. Next time we see you down here, we’re going to belt you ’til there’s not a breath in your puny, pathetic little body, do you hear?’ The man from the greengrocer’s thumped him yet again.

‘Oh no,’ said Charlie sadly, reluctantly doing as he’d promised and letting the boy go. ‘Really. You can’t do that.’

In a flash, before anyone had even thought of recapturing him, the boy had ducked under Charlie’s arm and run for it. They could all hear him laughing as he disappeared around the corner of Market Street, but nobody bothered to go after him. They knew from experience they wouldn’t catch him. Colin Fairwell looked pale and feeble, but he ran very fast.

‘Silly sod!’ shouted a woman with low-slung bosoms. She pulled a can of baked beans out of her shopping trolley and flung it haphazardly after him. But he was long gone. A few people watched as the tin plopped onto the pavement and rolled slowly into the gutter but most of them had already started to wander away. Colin Fairwell’s destructive and apparently motiveless outbursts were a fairly regular feature on Lamsbury High Street. It was his entrapment which had caused so much excitement. By the time the police arrived only Charlie and the greengrocer were left.

‘It’s that bloody Colin Fairwell again,’ said the greengrocer, absently wiping some of Colin’s blood from his thumb knuckle. ‘When’re you goin’ to lock that bugger up and throw away the key?’

The policeman shook his head sympathetically. The boy was a bane on the existence of the entire town. He was forever wandering alone into the shops, randomly knocking over displays and smashing things, and then running away. Nobody knew why he did it.

‘Attention, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said the policeman amiably. ‘’Is mum’s a nutter, in’t she, David? In ’n’ out o’ the nut’ouse, poor ol’ thing. And God knows where ’is dad is.’

‘Bein’ frank with you, Carl, I’m not one of these ones ’oo cares too much why someone’s doin’ somethin’.’

‘I know you aren’t, David.’

‘I’m more interested in gettin’ the little buggers to stop. He should be scared, walking down here. But he’s not, Carl. That’s what’s so strange. The more we ’ave a go at ’im the worse he seems to get. And we all do, mind. We all ’ave a go.’

‘I know you do, David. I know.’

‘We don’t put up with ’im down ’ere. Anyone catches sightin’ on ’im, we’re after ’im. We ’ad Margaret throwin’ her beans at ’im this afternoon.’ David shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But he just gets worse…’

The boy was cowering behind the van next to Charlie’s car when he next encountered him. His face and clothes were covered in blood and across his cheeks his tear tracks were outlined in red. He was sitting on his haunches, scribbling with a stone on the tarmac around his feet and he looked so small, huddled up like that, Charlie wouldn’t have noticed him if it hadn’t been for the muttering.

‘Colin Fairwell?’ said Charlie, looming over him. ‘We meet again.’

Colin Fairwell’s head shot up. ‘How d’you know my name?’