Chapter 1. A Hot August night 1969. 1.15am.

Alan Wilton sprawled in the middle of the floor trying to work out where the hell he was. His befuddled brain refused to follow the logic involved however so he simply lay there and stared at a tiny hole in the ceiling. His eyes couldn't to focus on the large brown stain where water from a burst pipe in the flat above had seeped through, nor could they find the dint in the plaster caused by the cork from an exploding wine bottle at a party some weeks before. He wasn't able to see the flaking paint over the door or the cobweb in the corner by the wardrobe. He stared only at the tiny hole as if seeking whatever might be hidden in there.

As he continued to stare the hole began to grow, expanding from a pinprick to a gaping cavern; engulfing the universe of his vision with an ever deepening blackness. He passed out.

When Alan came to, McCarthy was bending over him. McCarthy lived in a bedsit downstairs. A small man with a little pencil moustache, he was a retired warden and had worked at a bungalow complex for the elderly for many years. This probably accounted for his disconcerting habit of checking on his neighbours at all times and without invitation - or it might simply have been nosiness.

"By God lad! You gave me a right turn when I came in" he said. "Let's see if I can get you to your feet". He placed his hands around Alan's chest and hauled him upright. "Jesus you're heavy!" he grunted, struggling to lift a man a foot taller and almost double his weight. At last he got Alan to a chair and dropped his burden gratefully.

Alan slumped into the chair only half conscious of his surroundings. Dimly he heard the door close as McCarthy left. Had the old man said that he would pop in again later? His memory was fuzzy and anyway he didn't really care. Relaxing, he burrowed into the depths of the armchair. His eyes meandered over the familiar objects in the room; the scratched and battered bookcase with its scanty collection of dog-eared books and tatty magazines; the fireside coal scuttle and the little stand of fire brushes glinting chrome silver in the moonlight; the ancient roll-top desk with its tarnished brass fittings and the stained wood that cast a shadow across half the room.

The roll-top desk caught his attention. He seemed to remember that he'd put something in there but he couldn't remember what! For several minutes he puzzled over the problem and; still unable to remember; he decided to take a look. Pulling himself out of the chair he
managed to propel himself across the room by holding on to various items of furniture. Finally reaching the desk he collapsed into the swivel chair; whisky-dizzy. After a short rest to clear his head again he found a key, unlocked the lid and pushed it back. Rummaging through weeks of accumulated rubbish he couldn't find any thing to jog his memory, so sweeping the debris to the floor he started a haphazard search of the compartments and drawers.

All sorts of things turned up in that desk. An ancient stamp album; a paper bag full of buttons and pins; an old tobacco tin with several half smoked butts in it and a few pages of a story he had started to write. Nothing that he found registered with him though.

Accepting temporary defeat, Alan sorted out one of the cigarette butts, managing to light it after a couple of attempts. His head was starting to throb and the room felt stuffy, so leaving the safety of the swivel chair he window-sill made his way unsteadily to the window and opened it. Carefully negotiating the he climbed onto the small flat roof outside, Hunkering down with his back to the window he felt as though his legs didn't really belong to him. Indeed, his whole body felt as if it was about to float away.

From his vantage point on the roof Alan stared out on a sparkling rainwashed city. He had seen this view many times but on this occasion it was magical. Terrace after terrace of brick houses cascaded down the hill to merge with the shops, offices and warehouses nearer the city. A fitful moon laced by scudding shreds of cloud spangled the streets, gleaming patchily from wet pavements and mossy walls. The archaic gas lights in the immediate vicinity and the sodium lights in the main streets combined to cast an amber corona that complemented the silver glint of the moon. Even the rats scurrying amongst the dustbins appeared more as benevolent guardians or the gutters than the disease infested scavengers that they were.

Eventually Alan climbed back into his room and walked very carefully to the kitchen. On the way he lit another cigarette butt. Two coffees later he felt a little less drunk but a lot more drowsy. The room felt hot and sticky even with the window wide open and there was a pungent odour in the air; sweet and slightly sickly.

Alan lit a third butt and settled down in the armchair again. Once comfortable he allowed his thoughts to drift. Long forgotten memories began to peek out from his subconscious and; too tired to resist; he allowed them freedom.

July 1954.

The road stretched out in front of me, oily cobbles glinting dully in the watery sun. A few minutes earlier, when my 'uncle' Jack had ordered me to stay at the table until I'd finished my tea, I had thrown my plate on the floor and run out of the house in a tantrum. Still running, gasping for breath and with tears of anger streaming down my face, I wasn't looking where I was going until I ran slap into a stout elderly man walking in the opposite direction.

"Whoa there little man!" he boomed at me, catching me by the wrist to stop me getting past him. "Where are you going in such a hurry?".

"I'm running away mister. Please let me go" I gasped, frantically trying to wriggle from his grasp.

"What's your name son? How old are you?".

"I'm called Alan and I'm nearly seven".

"And why are you running away then Alan?".

"Because my uncle says that I've been a naughty boy and I've got to stop in!".

"And what did you do that was so naughty?".

"I wouldn't eat my tea and some of it fell on the floor".

"Well that was a silly thing to let happen wasn't it? What will your uncle do when you get back?".

"He'll probably hit me! He's always hitting me for being naughty".

The man gripped my arm harder, obviously alarmed at what I'd said and it was then that I realised he believed my lie - for that's what it was; a great whopper of a lie. My 'uncle' Jack had never hit me. He wasn't really an uncle at all, just a friend of my mother's and the truth was that I just didn't like him. It wasn't for want of trying on his part.

"Does he often hit you?" the big man asked.

I knew that I had just lied my way into a corner. I was certainly aware that it was wrong to tell lies but at the same time I was too scared of the consequences to back down now. I was terrified that he would tell my mother about me, so the only way out seemed to be to keep the lie going and to get away from him as quickly as possible. "He hits me all the time" I answered. "He doesn't like me at all!".

The fat man looked alarmed. "I think we'd better have a word with that bobby" he said, pointing to the local constable who was standing across the street talking to a neighbour.

By now I was really panicking over what I'd done. As we began to cross the street towards the policeman the stout man momentarily loosened his grip on my arm. Seizing my chance I wriggled free and ran away as fast as I could. He called after me but I ran even faster, terrified that he'd catch me again.

Finally, no longer able to hear his voice I stopped and turned round to see what was happening. In the distance he was talking animatedly to the policeman and the passer-by.

Eventually they parted and the policeman moved off towards my house. For a few seconds I wondered what to do? Should I go back home and face up to my lies or should I go off and hide somewhere until the fuss died down? Eventually I decided to stay out of the way until it got dark in the hope that everything would be forgotten.

Reaching Canal Road by way of the old mill yard; a convenient and often used short cut; I crossed it and began to walk towards the old canal and the tree covered escarpment beyond. I was passed occasionally by a rumbling wool wagon or a dray but didn't see anyone else. Eventually I reached the deserted and half blocked waterway; abandoned many years before, and risked the crossing by way of a rotting footbridge at Spink's Lock. Once across I crawled through a gap in the fence at the bottom of the steep embankment and began the stiff climb up the hill towards Bolton Road. When I felt that I was far enough away from any road I settled down under a small tree and tried to get comfortable.

I must have dozed off for the next thing I knew it was dark. My arms and legs were paralysed with cramp and my trousers were soaked; whether from the damp ground or from having wet myself in my sleep I couldn't be sure.

Glowing; the moon hung suspended in a cloudless black sky and street lamps shone dimly through the trees from the road above me, casting odd shadows into the little glades and hollows. I was starting to get jittery. Any small boy alone in a strange place is apt to start seeing things and I was no exception. The shadows were alive with my imaginings; darkness flitting from branch to branch like a great black bat; leaves rustling with the cold breath of the north wind and devils with lights trampling noisily through the undergrowth.

I scrambled to my feet and began to run from the noise as fast as my shaking legs would carry me. I soon discovered that my feet refused to keep pace with my terrified imagination. I stumbled and fell to my knees; picked myself up and immediately tripped up again. I could hear the devils getting closer and closer, chattering amongst themselves as they came. Voices called across the darkness and I could hear a dog barking . Suddenly a bright light appeared a few feet away. Terrified of my own fears I cowered deeper into the undergrowth.

The light swung in a wide arc, eventually coming to rest in dazzling illumination on my hiding place.

A voice called. "Hey! I think we've found him". I blacked out.

********************

I am back in the woods. The dark shadows are creeping upon me, swirling round the outermost limits of my sight; intruding on the boundaries of my fear. The voices and the barking dogs have passed me by, leaving me alone in the spectral gloom of the trees. I rise to my feet, running to escape the horror lurking there. Roots slap across sandstone outcrops and slither through decaying leaves, tripping me. Branches reach forward trying to lift me up to the sky. One grasps my wrist; another wraps itself around my ankle and I am hoisted aloft. I am floating in the air. Beneath me the lights of the town sparkle in a giant coronet around the inky blackness of the wood. Car lights weave intricate patterns in the streets and the golden illumination of a train arrows its way across the distant countryside towards the heart of the city. Slowly the luminescence builds to a crescendo, exploding in dazzling glory in the depths of my mind, and I am falling towards the black abyss; falling towards oblivion. Falling; Falling; Falling....