The 49ers

It wasn't on Lloyd's to-do-list that day to catch a criminal but curiosity got the better of him when he spotted Catherine Macaulay swipe a box of floating candles from Benson's Gift Emporium. If he hadn't been in there buying the usual box of floral soaps for his grandmother's birthday he'd have been none the wiser about her or her blossoming talent for shoplifting.
As Catherine strolled out of door Lloyd hurriedly paid for his gift, tossing coins and notes across the counter, and scuttled out into the rainy car park.
It had crossed his mind to turn her in, to shout thief across the shop, but he was impressed by the stealthy way Catherine swept the box across the shelf and into her open rucksack, as though it accidentally got caught by her jacket sleeve. Instead he decided to follow her, wondering what a fifteen year old could possibly want with six floating red candles moulded into roses. Was it a gift too, albeit a hot one?
He followed Catherine, keeping a safe distance, through a rundown housing estate where every other house was boarded up, and then down to the disused aluminium plant by the harbour. Catherine snuck inside the compound through the corner of a mesh fence that had been peeled back like a lid on a can of sardines and then scurried down the weed-strewn road that snaked between derelict warehouses and office blocks. As Lloyd tailed her he spotted a mobile phone laying on the cracked concrete road. Assuming it was her he pocketed it just as she disappeared through a broken door to one of the blocks. Peering round the doorway he watched her scale a metal staircase that led to a mezzanine floor of offices.
It crossed his mind, briefly, that what he was doing was dangerous, that if she caught him he might be in trouble, but he had seen Catherine round the school before and althoughs he hung about with a bad crowd she seemed pretty harmless, if a bit wimpish.
Brushing his mild concerns aside, he stealthily climbed the stairs and peered over the sill of the office she walked into. Catherine was at the far end of the room. She had unzipped her bag, pulled out the candles and was placing the box on a bookcase filled with a variety of other objects; a picture frame, a teddy bear, a loaf of mouldy bread, a cd player, a vase, a set of glass tumblers and a host of other random objects. Was she living here?
Boldlyhe stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him.
Catherine spun round and glared at him, her eyes wide.
"What are you doing here? Get out," she spat, reaching for a broken chair leg and brandishing in front of her like a sword.
Lloyd held his ground and her voice.
"I saw you steal those candles from Bensons," he stated.
"And what of it," said Catherine.
"You're Catherine Ziane aren't you?" he asked.
"What do you care who I am?"
"I'm just curious why a nice girl like you does something so damn stupid, that's all," he said as he casually strolled over to a dusty red office chair and sat down.
"You better get out of here quick smart of I'll hit you. I'll bash your skull open like a...like a..."
"Like an coconut? Melon? Egg?"
Catherine clenched the chair leg tighter, making her knuckles turn white, and she snorted through gritted teeth. "I will. I swear it."
"Where are you from?" Lloyd asked, swivelling round on the chair's castors. "I mean originally. Where you born in England?"
"Of course I was. I speak English don't I?" she spat.
"I only asked if you were born here."
"Well I was. I'm a Londoner. My mum's a Londoner."
"And your dad?"
"From Morocco."
"That explains a lot then."
"What do you mean?"
"Your funny accent."
Catherine scrutinised him. "If you're gonna come out with some names you can forget it, I've heard them all."
"What makes you think I want to mock you because you're different?" he asked, genuinely curious to know why she was so defensive.
"Because that's what most of you do," she said. "You stick labels on people."
"And what label would you stick on me?"
"Nosey, for one," she said, lowering her baton.
Lloyd laughed. "Well, I can't disagree with you there. I suppose if I wasn't I wouldn't be here."
"Why are you here?"
"Curiosity."
"Curiosity killed the cat you know. Ever heard that saying?"
"I have," he said. "But I'm not afraid of you. If you were Jonny Boyd though that would be a different matter. I know what he's capable of."
"You better watch what you say. He's a 49er."
"Is that what they're called?" he said as he slid his hands under his thighs and continued to swing on the chair. "And you want to be one too?"
"I am one now," she said, puffing out her chest. "This takes care of that," she added holding up the box of candles in her free hand.
"I don't understand," Lloyd said frowning at her.
"My forty-ninth theft," she said, pointing to the bookcase stuffed with items she had obviously pilfered from stores across Wellborough.
"Why forty-nine?"
Catherine placed the candles on the shelf beside a shrink-wrapped box of blank cds. "Jonny said shoplifters get caught once every forty-nine times they steal stuff. He says if you can steal forty-nine times you're in the gang."
"But surely you could just buy forty-nine things and say you stole them."
Catherine shook her head. "They're not dumb you know. They say you have to video yourself stealin'. Happy snatchin' Jonny calls it."
Lloyd felt his mouth go dry. Did she video herself with her mobile phone? He ran a hand over his jacket pocket. It was still there. "I could turn you in you know?" he said
"You've got no evidence. No-one would believe you," she replied bluntly.
Lloyd thought about revealing what he had in his pocket but decided against it. Although she was a bit soft she might be unpredictable. He didn't want to risk it.
"If you're so sick of being labelled why are you so keen to be a 49er?" he asked.
"Because it's the last one people will ever stick on me."
"Aren't you happy being who you are?"
"I'm not anybody," she spat, hurling the chair leg into the corner of the room where it bounced off the wall and left a dent in the crumbly plasterwork.
"That's not what I heard."
Catherine shot him look that suggested he had better choose her next words carefully.
"I heard you entered the Interschool Under Sixteen Art competition for a self portrait you painted."
"I didn't. Miss Browns did. She did it behind my back."
"And you weren't happy about that?"
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. "Don't mean nothin'. I never won anyway."
"That's not the point. Miss Browns obviously saw something in it that made her enter you."
"Well she shouldn't have. It wasn't meant for no-one but me."
"Why only you?"
"To remind me that I'm worthless," she said as she slumped against the wall and kicked a rusty stapler at her feet across the room.
"Why are you so down on yourself?"
Catherine snapped her head round then marched up to him, her face red and her eyes narrowed. Lloyd held his breath. His body stiffened. He actually felt afraid now, afraid that he had chipped away too much of her outer shell and was now exposing a raw, explosive nerve.
"Because I ain't smart like you," she spluttered, showering Lloyd with spittle. "Yeah I know who you are. Lloyd Carter, school swot."
Lloyd leapt up out of his chair and challenged her. With only a hair's breadth separating their faces it was Catherine's turn to be afraid. Lloyd noticed her taught face loosen and her jaw quiver.
"Don't think you know so much about me, Catherine," he said as he barged past her, deliberately knocking her to the side with his shoulder. "I'm not exactly an angel you know."
Catherine rubbed her shoulder whilst he examined the contents of the bookcase.
"So what's your story then?" she asked.
"Oh you're interested in me now are you and not wallowing in self pity."
"Fine, if you don't wanna tell me."
"No, no. You asked so I'll tell you."
"The only reason I'm in state school is because my parents were sick of me being suspended from public school. They were fed up with having to pay for me to be in class when I was actually at home, getting under my mother's feet," he said.
"Why were you suspended?"
"Because I disrupted my classes. I'd throw stuff around, call the teachers names, tear up books."
"Why?"
"I was desperate to be different. In a sea of boring, stuffy, over-intelligent, ya-yas I wanted to be different. So I rebelled."
"We're not so different really, are we?" said Catherine.
Lloyd shook his head. "The thing is I realised when I left Wellborough Girls and enrolled at the Comp that no matter where I go I'm still me. I can get away from that. You just have to accept it and, without sounding really corny, embrace what you've got."
Catherine looked down at herself and across at her loot.
"Sure, I'm a straight A student. Lah-de-dah," Lloyd said. "But I'd trade that in to be able to paint like you."
"I could teach you," Catherine said. "And you could help me with my exams."
Lloyd extended a hand to her. "Sounds like you've made yourself a good deal there," he said.
Catherine took his hand in hers and with a smile gave it a firm shake.
He let go and made for the door of the office.
"What are you going to do? I mean about this stuff," she asked glancing at the bookcase of booty.
Lloyd reached a hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out her mobile phone and skimmed it across the linoleum towards Catherine.
"I'll leave that for you to decide," he said and left her in the office, alone. "See you tomorrow."

The Clockmaker's apprentice

Albert didn't mean to cause any harm by fixing his master's pocket watch. He didn't realise the clock repair skills included the ability to reverse time. He only did it was because he was angry that Mr Chivers treated him no better than a stray dog-being hurled scraps from the table or potato and carrot peelings from the kitchen, having to drink rain water that he collected in a tin on the window sill because he was forbidden from taking tap water, and having to sleep on the larder floor amongst the rats with nothing but a hessian sack to keep him warm. It hadn't always been that way though and that was what made it all the harder to cope with. But a year ago Mr Chivers's wife was brutally murdered and the police's inability to catch her killer had left him a broken and bitter man. He had lost the love of his life and with it he lost his purpose in life. Everything changed. Instead of being generous he became miserly, hoarding his cash and then lavishly spending it on himself. He kicked Albert out of his quarters and turned the room into his dressing chamber, ordering Albert to sleep in the larder or outside in the street. Albert felt sorry for him, but at the same time was angry at the way he was behaving. Albert felt he deserved better. He wanted to show the old man that if it wasn't for Albert, with his much keener eyesight and nimbler fingers, there wouldn't be a business to support his master's new spendthrift nature. There would be no more weekly visits to the tailor for fittings for new coats and suits and cravats, no trips to the milliners for new hats, or the cordwainers for new shoes, and no extravagant trips to the theatre at which to brag about his wealth and flatter any lady that crossed his path.
So one night, when Mr Chivers was fast asleep, in his hand carved four post bed, Albert crept up the stairs and swiped his master's pocket watch from the bedside table. All night Albert worked on the mechanism under candlelight, fiddling with the mainspring, the gear train, the balance wheels and the jewels until he finally managed to get the watch to run backwards. Then he carefully replaced the backing and returned the watch to his master's chamber.
When Albert woke the next morning and took his master's tea to his chamber he got such a shock he almost dropped the tray. He was expecting Mr Chivers to be bemused and frustrated at his malfunctioning watch but what he saw was Mr Chivers doing everything in reverse. He walked round the bed backwards, pulling down his pyjama bottoms and throwing his pyjama top into a neatly folded pile in his draw. Then the shirt and waistcoat he had on the night before flew through the air from off his chair and slid onto his body, his breeches slid up his legs and his boots appeared to get sucked onto his feet from across the room. Albert looked on agast. He placed the tea tray onto the dresser and looked across at Mr Chivers.
"Are you alright, sir?"Albert asked sheepishly.
"!yob em rewsna, llew"
Albert scratched his head, trying to understand what his master had said. Was he speaking a new language as well as acting oddly?
"?thgin fo emit siht ta ereh gniod uoy era tahw" asked Mr Chivers.
Albert struggled for something to say but rather than provide a response he wasn't sure his master would understand he simply picked up the tray and exited the chamber. It was only when he was sat at the kitchen table, with the steaming teapot in front of him, pondering the strange turn of events that he realised what had happened.
"I not only put his watch in reverse, I put him in reverse as well. And he's talking in reverse too," Albert gasped. "Oh my, what have I done?"
At the moment Mr Chivers appeared at the doorway of the kitchen and said something incomprehensible whilst pointing at the sunrise outside the window and then backed straight out again.
Albert heard the click of the front door of his master's shop and then the tap, tap of his boots on the cobbles outside.
"Where was he last night?" said Albert to himself. "The theatre!"
Albert grabbed his tattered overcoat and ran outside after his master. He expected the rest of the world to be turning in reverse too but was relieved, to discover it wasn't. Mrs Beets the baker was opening up her shop, William the grocer was stocking his stall with fruits and vegetables, and Mr Staines the Haberdasher was hanging length of plush fabric outside his shop window. None of them appeared to have noticed Mr Chivers walking backwards down Whitechapel Lane. He was sure if they had they wouldn't be busying themselves with preparations for the day's work ahead, they'd be doing what Albert was doing; pursuing Mr Chivers down to Whitechapel Theatre.
But when Albert arrived at the theatre he couldn't find his master.
"You haven't seen Mr Chivers at all have you?" Albert asked awkwardly.
The ticket teller, who had a bemused look on her face, pointed toward the auditorium. Albert opened the doors and looked inside. He'd never been in a theatre before and was instantly distracted by the opulence of the building. There was gilding and plush red velvet as far as his eyes could see, and there sat in the middle of the stalls was Mr Chivers. Albert stood in the aisle awkwardly. He didn't know what to do. He was sure if his master saw him there he would scold him. So Albert nestled down into one of the seats and waited to see what Mr Chivers would do. Albert sat there for two whole hours watching Mr Chivers do nothing. Mr Chivers didn't even seem alarmed that nothing was going on on stage. Then when his pocket watch struck ten Mr Chivers got up and backed out of the theatre.
By the time Albert returned to the Clockmaker's every shopkeeper on the street was alerted to the Mr Chiver's bizarre behaviour. They spent most of the day idly gossiping amongst themselves between serving their own customers. Albert was at a loss as to what to do as the Clockmaker changed from his smart clothes into his work clothes and took to his workshop to 'unrepair' a watch he had fixed the day before. Albert knew what was coming and braced himself.
".esool leehw ecnalab eht tfel ev'uoy, yob sselesU" Mr Chivers yelled. He then smacked Albert across the head, studied the watch and placed it on the shelf.
Albert knew what Mr Chivers had said. He remembered it from the day before-"Useless boy, you've left the balance wheel loose."
He knew he hadn't left it loose. Mr Chivers was looking for a reason to give Albert a slap and when he couldn't find one he made one up.
That night, when Mr Chivers had eaten his breakfast and backed into bed, Albert snatched the pocket watch again and tried to undo what he had done. But as he stared at the watch with its hands ticking backwards round the clock face he started to think about happier times. He remembered the day when Mr Chivers picked him up from the orphanage as a five year old. Albert was scruffy and dirty with threadbare rags hanging off his bony little body. But when Mr Chivers took him home he and his wife gave him a nice bath, filled his stomach with roasted meats and steaming vegetables and bought him a smart shirt, woollen trousers, a cap, a pair of black boots and some thick socks. Albert had never felt such luxury as socks. They made his feet feel like they were wrapped up in a warm sunny day. He could hardly believe his luck. On that first night Albert stayed awake all night, afraid that if he went to sleep he'd wake up and discover his new life was only a dream. Luckily it wasn't.
Mr Chivers wasn't just generous to Albert, though, he was generous to anyone in need. He never spent much money on himself or his wife (not that she wanted him to anyway). He preferred to give his money to charities to help the sick and the poor. It gave him comfort and joy. But that all changed that fateful night when his wife snuck out to buy her husband the scarf he had admired for christmas. Albert wished he could go back and make everything alright again. That was when it hit him. He could do just that. He'd already started. Mr Chivers was living his life in reverse. All Albert had to do was wait. Albert closed the pocket watch and put it back on Mr Chiver's bedside table.
Over the months that passed Albert's life was busier than he ever imagined it would be. Every waking moment Albert spent re-repairing all the pocket watches, cuckoo clocks and grandfather clocks he had repaired once before and that Mr Chivers then unrepaired. If it wasn't challenging enough for Albert to explain to bemused customers who suddenly found themselves back in Mr Chiver's shop picking up time pieces they were sure they'd collected some time ago, he found it especially tricky to adapt to Mr Chivers's backward speech. He got used to it soon enough though and was even able to converse a little with Mr Chivers.
After months of work and fending off comments from fellow shopkeepers in the street that Mr Chivers's shop was cursed by some devil work, time had turned back to the day before Mrs Chivers disappeared.
Whilst Mr Chivers was bathing backwards, the soap magically sliding off his skin and onto the bar, Albert took ten pounds from the shop till and dashed outside. He scuttled over the cobbled streets and turned down into Ruby Lane where Silby's the scarf merchant had a lavish collection of imported silks and chiffons. Albert stepped inside and pulled the blue and yellow striped silk scarf that Mr Chivers admired off the rack, and handed over his money. Mr Silby, the shopkeeper gave Albert a suspicious glare, seemingly curious as to why a young lad, not particularly well dressed, was in possession of ten pounds cash.
"I'm on an errand for Mr Chivers," Albert said.
Mr Silby gave him a nod, bagged the scarf and gave him two shillings change.

That night Albert leant over the counter of the shop and waited. He wasn't sure if his wish would come true; if she would really walk back through that door. But he had to hope.
Then just as morning broke there was a tinkle at the door that jerked Albert awake. The bell on the door had rung and there backing into the shop was Mrs Chivers with a childlike, mischievous grin on her face. Albert was so happy he thought his insides were going to explode. But now that he had set his world right he had to fix what he had started.
Whilst Mr Chivers was preoccupied with unmaking a pot of tea, Albert managed to snatch Mr Chivers's pocket watch and hurriedly set to work fixing the mischief he himself had created a year ago. Whilst out of sight he snuck into the workshop and under candlelight once more fiddled with the gears and springs and dropped the watch back into Mr Chivers's coat pocket. All he could do now, once again, was wait and hope.
The following morning Albert was woken with a start by Mrs Chivers gently rocking him.
"Albert, what are you doing sleeping on the larder floor?" she asked softly.
Albert looked up at her and smiled the biggest smile he could muster, so big it almost cut his head in two.
He leapt up and threw his arms around Mrs Chivers.
"I love you. Please don't leave," he begged, as tears began to pour down his face.
"I'm not going to leave," she said as she pulled him away and wiped his cheeks with her apron.
"I have something for you," Albert said and ran to the cupboard where he stashed the scarf.
"I know you wanted to get it for Mr Chivers so I went and bought it for you, to save you going out for it," Albert said. "I hope you don't mind."
Mrs Chivers opened the bag and laughed. "How did you know?"
Albert never considered she would ask him that. Fortunately he had become adept at coming up with convincing answers in a hurry and so simply replied.
"Let's just say I'm a little psychic."

Dodgers

Timi was asleep, nestled in his nook amongst the twisted roots of the silver birch that grew above him. He liked to sleep, it was the only time he got peace. When he was awake he was plagued with constant worry that he wasn't a good enough rabbit to be living in the burrow.
His mother tried to reassure him he would get his confidence back one day and he would rise to be Burrow Chief.
"The best Burrow Chief that Hollow Downs has ever seen," she proclaimed.
Timi didn't see that ever happening.
"You learnt your lesson when you were very young, Timi," his mother said. "You know now never to venture onto the farmer's land, especially when he's out with his gun and his sheepdog."
He had learnt his lesson, but because of it the thought of the unknown dangers lurking out in the big world made Timi tremble like a leaf in the breeze. And so he stayed where he knew he was safe-in the deep, dark tunnels of the burrow.
He was content, curled up with his black nose nestled inside his fluffy white tail, gently snoring, when a thump to his rump jerked him awake.
"Wakey, wakey, droopy ears," said a familiar, cocky voice.
Timi stirred and slowly opened his eyes. It was Curr:Timi's brother.
"Come on, it's a great day outside," said Curr, hopping over the roots on the floor of the burrow. "And I've just discovered a great new game. I call it 'Dodgers'."
Timi looked up. He was desperate to go outside but the terror he felt was like a leash tying him to the ground. He couldn't move.
"Not today," Timi said. "My leg is sore. I want to rest it."
"Timi, you're always saying your leg is sore. I know that farmer scuff it with a bullet but you can't stay inside forever."
Timi knew he was right.
"Come on, Timi," Curr wailed. "If you don't want to see me play dodgers why don't you come to the entrance of the burrow and watch me slide down the hill. I have a fresh slide that I pulled from the farmer's rubbish."
Timi leapt up onto his rump. "Curr, you shouldn't go down there. Not during sun time. He'll get you."
"Not if I have my wits about me," said Curr, stroking his whiskers. "So what do you say? Will you come to the entrance?"
Timi knew Curr would badger him until he agreed. Curr was a determined rabbit. So cautiously Timi hopped through the tunnels of Hollow Down until he reached the circle of daylight at the head of the burrow. A summer breeze blew inside fluttering the veil of roots that hung over the entrance.
"Come on," yelled Curr as he poked his head inside the entrance.
Timi inched towards the roots and just poked his nose though them. He couldn't see Curr but he could hear him.
"You can't see anything from there," called Curr. "Come out further."
Timi pushed his head out, as far as his ears and looked about.
Curr was sat on his rump, a little to the left of the burrow, with a small, empty packet underneath one of his front paws. He was at the top of the steep grassy slope that led down into the heart of the field where a group of black and white cows were happily grazing.
"Watch this, Timi," said Curr as he hopped onto the packet and whizzed down the slope with his ears flapping behind him.
The sight of Curr having fun made Timi angry. He longed to do what his brother could do. But the image in his mind of the red-faced farmer staring down the barrel of his gun reminded Timi that he was not an audacious rabbit. He was governed by a much stronger force that tenacity. He was governed by fear. But rather than face it and give it a swift kick with his hind legs, which was what Curr would do, he darted back down the burrow to the safety of his nook. And there he stayed for the rest of the day. But when night fell he was woken by a panic-stricken voice.
"Timi, Timi," it called.
Timi lifted up his sleepy head. "What's wrong?"
"It's Curr," said the voice. "He's in trouble."
Timi's eyes flicked open to see Silver standing over him. Her ears were back and she was shaking so much Timi felt the earth beneath him tremble.
"What's happened?" Timi asked as terrifying thoughts of what had befallen Curr sent his mind into a spin-Had he fallen down a hole? Was he trapped in barbed wire? Had he been attacked by a wolf or a dog?
"We were playing on the black path dodging the bright eyes as they whizzed up and down," Silver whimpered, wiping a tear from one of her black-glassy eyes with a paw. "Curr was leaping back and forth across the path but he got stuck and now he can't move."
"What do you mean he can't move?"
"He's stuck in the middle of the black path. Eyes are whizzing all around him. He's terrified, Timi. He's curled up into a ball. You have to help him."
Timi shuddered at the thought. "You have to tell our parents. They'll know what to do. They'll do something," he said, trying to make out that the wisdom of the elders was Curr's only hope.
"They're not here, Timi. They're out foraging. You have to do something."
"Why can't you help him?" he said.
Timi felt every one of his words pierce his conscience. They spluttered from his mouth before his brain could stop them.
"He's your brother, Timi," Silver pleaded. "He needs you, or he might die."
That was it. That was the catalyst. The idea of Curr dying and leaving Timi without a brother was more than Timi could bear. He would sooner die himself than see his younger brother hurt.
He sprang out of his nook and bounded through the tunnels of the burrow until he was out into the chill sting of night.
It was the first time Timi had ever seen the night. But he had no time to take it in or to be afraid by it. He pushed his apprehensions about the unknown deep down inside him until he was almost stepping on his fears and scrambled down the hillside.
Behind Silver he darted across the field, weaving through the legs of the black and white cows and round steaming, stinky cowpats toward a mesh fence in the distance. He pushed himself beneath it, after Silver, and then wove down through tall grasses to the edge of the black pathway.
Timi managed to keep his fear at bay, thinking only of the safety of his brother, but when his nose caught a noxious scent that smelt like burning Timi was reminded of the farmer's tractors. He could feel every cell in his body begin to freeze. He wanted to turn tail and run back to the cover of the burrow but the terrified cries of his brother thawed his fear.
"Timi," Curr cried. "Help me!"
Huddled in the middle of the black pathway, trembling, tired and weak, whilst loud beasts with brilliant white eyes zipped all around him, was Curr. One of his back paws was wedged within the slates of a grate. He was struggling to pull it free.
Timi had no idea how he was going to get to Curr but he knew he had to. He searched deep down into his very soul for the brash confidence he once had; the confidence that led him down to the farmer's shed that day when he was just a young bunny. He didn't have a care in the world then. He was curious, and bold. He was invincible. Instantly Timi felt a change come over him. He started to feel taller, and stiffer. He felt his ears prick up, his neck stretch and his shoulders broaden. He took a deep breath and watched the bright eyes. He deduced that the bigger and brighter they were the closer they were and so when a break came, when the eyes were far enough away, Timi took a deep breath. He bounded over to Curr and huddled beside him just as a large beast with four eyes roared past. Timi's heart thumped in his chest as a gust of wind, in the wake of the beast, ruffled his fur and a cloud of fumes choked and burned his throat. But he didn't care. He was glad he and his brother were still alive.
As Timi turned to examine Curr's paw his back legs skidded on something on the black path. It was a sticky, black, slippery substance that had a shimmer of rainbows running through it. An idea flickered into life in his mind and suddenly he felt empowered. He scooped up some of the black stuff and rubbed it onto Curr's back paw.
"Give that a wiggle now, Curr," cried Timi as beasts continued to roar up and down the path.
Curr wiggled and tugged at his paw and suddenly it popped out from the grate.
"I'm free," Curr cried with delight.
"Not quite," said Timi. "We still have to get back to verge."
With Silver watching on, pacing up and down through the grass, Timi waited until the beast's eyes were small and shouted to Curr, "Now!"
Timi and Curr darted across the black path as fast as they could and leapt onto the verge, collapsing in an exhausted heap on a mound of spongy moss.
"Thanks Timi," Curr spluttered between breaths.
Timi twitched his nose and whiskers. "The same to you."
"What do you have to thank me for?" asked Curr. "I made you risk your life to save me."
"And because of that you saved me from fear, from spending my life curled up in the burrow. You made me strong again. You made me feel important."
Curr sighed and climbed onto his Timi's belly.
"So that does that mean you'll come hill sliding with me tomorrow?" Curr asked.
"Only if you can find another slide," replied Timi.

A slice of Sky

My name is Kerry Henderson. I'm seventeen years old, and yesterday my best friend killed himself. Nobody in the town understood how such a strong, confident, gifted and personable rugby player leapt so far off the rails. Nobody saw the signs. I did, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was in fear of my own life.

Connor Willis was fifteen years old when he was injured in a serious house fire. It killed his sister and father and left his mother so disfigured and distraught she abandoned Connor. Nobody ever heard from her again. Connor had seventy percent third degree burns over his body and was kept in an isolated chamber in the Victoria Hospital to minimise infections getting into his open wounds. I was only able to visit him a few times but to be honest it could have been anyone lying in that bed. He was wrapped from head to toe in bandages. If it wasn't for his piercing blue eyes poking through I'd have never known it was him. He was always sedated, because of the pain he was in, so I never spoke to him until he finally got out of the hospital. That was a year after the accident.

Because I wasn't family I was never told the details of his treatment but the Aunt that cared for him said the doctors had found a suitable and compatible donor for skin graft treatment. She said that he didn't have enough of his own healthy skin to cover his wounds. As far as the doctors were concerned the treatment was a complete success. The skin took to Connor well, although the doctors said that he would never look like he did before the accident. I accepted that. I was just glad he was alive.

When I saw Connor for the first time it wasn't his appearance that worried me, it was whether he'd recognise me or not. I turned up at his Aunt's house unannounced. I hadn't planned to. I was going to let Connor get settled back to normal life before I descended on him, but I was desperate to see him, to hear him talk again. I felt like a part of my life had been on hold the whole time he was in hospital. His Aunt was a little reluctant to let me in but Connor insisted it was okay. When I walked into the sitting room he greeted me as he always did with a hug, but instantly I knew something was different. His hug was nothing more than cursory. Cold. I knew Connor. We'd been friends since we were toddlers. I knew him better I think than he knew himself. He was always the warmest of my friends. I put it down to the fact that he'd been through a terrible ordeal and so wasn't quite back to normal. So I sat on the couch and caught him up with all the gossip in the town, like who was hooking up with whom-I included the teachers in that as they all seemed to be at it as well. He laughed but as I continued talking his attention seemed to drift. He'd nod his head as though he was listening but I knew he wasn't. A couple of times I caught him looking out of the window. I didn't know what drew his focus.

I didn't know, when I left Connor's house, that his recovery wasn't going to be pleasant. The weight and strength he lost during his hospitalisation never returned. Before the accident he was always the athletic type. Rugby was 'his' game as he called it. He was passionate about it to the point where he coached younger kids to play. It gave him purpose in life. But he'd lost all interest in it. They say after a traumatic experience you're never quite the same person. For Connor it wasn't that he was never quite the same, he was completely different. He'd become lazy, slobbish, unwashed. He'd gotten into a couple of fights at school and his studies began to suffer as he failed test after test. I did what I could to help him improve his grades. I even sat with him once to help him write his English essay. When he gave up on it and slumped down on the crumpled sheets of his bed I pulled his laptop towards me and finished it for him. It was never my intention to pry, but something within me was curious to see what he'd been looking at on the web. I felt so disconnected, so distant from this new Connor I was desperate to know if a sliver of the old Connor still existed, if he still had his whimsical passion for pointless road signs (I remember him showing me a photo of one that read 'This sign is not in use'. I almost broke a hip laughing at that one. He laughed with me and before long we were rolling on the floor in uncontrollable fits of giggles). But when I flicked through his laptop I was horrified by the links on his favourites to crimes, criminals, murders, weaponry, even hardcore sex. When I challenged him about it he became defensive and angry. He leapt off the bed, grabbed me by my shirt and shoved me against the wall.
"Butt out of my business," he roared.
In all the time we'd known each other we never had a cross word. We disagreed plenty of times but it never came to the point of verbal or physical abuse. I will put my hand on my heart and say that in that moment I was scared to my core. Every bone and fibre in my body trembled and all I could think about was getting out. I packed my bag and left him to finish his paper himself.
The next day at registration he was all apologetic and promised it wouldn't happen again. I told him we needed to talk.
That lunch we sat down by the old oak in the park.
"What's going on Connor?" I asked softly, not wanting to rile him.
It seemed to take forever for him to answer. He kept staring at the ground, fiddling with a blade of dry grass.
"I don't feel like I know you anymore," I said.
He glanced across at me. His eyes were swollen and heavy. He wanted to cry but didn't seem able.
"I don't know me either," he said. "It's like there's something inside me. Something evil, crawling around, consuming me from the inside out. I can feel it. I'm...I'm loosing control."
"Well, I can't disagree with you on that score. The question is how do we put this right?"
"People, doctors, medics, keep telling me that I'm traumatised. That its the accident that's altered me. "
"That's inevitable Connor. Even I accepted you'd be a little different."
"That's just it," he said. "A little different. Not a lot different. I feel like another person."
Suddenly I felt a breakthrough. He'd admitted the extent of his change. That was surely a good thing.
"I'm ashamed of it," he said, his chin slumping against his chest.
I rested my arm delicately across his shoulders. "It's not your fault. You didn't start that fire."
"That's not what I mean," he said, shying away from me. "I...I did something. Horrible."
"Connor you don't have a horrible bone in your body. Whatever it was it couldn't be that bad."
"I killed a cat!" he spat.
The revelation rocked me but I knew I had to remain calm, not because I was afraid of being hurt myself, I was afraid of loosing the connection I had finally managed to make with Connor.
"Why?"
Connor shrugged his shoulders. "It annoyed me. It kept meowing at the patio doors. So I let it in. And," Connor shuddered as he continued, seemingly horrified himself by his actions, "strangled it."
I was horrified and upset myself, especially for Mrs Higgins, the cat's owner. Mogsy was all she had.
"That's not all," Connor said.
I braced myself for another revelation, another confession of abuse.
"While I was at the doctor's surgery, having my monthly check up I swiped a bunch of hypodermic needles. I took them down to the river and threw them at the rats, like they were darts."
"We need to get you some help, Connor. I mean psychological help," I said, rubbing his arm to reassure him I was on his side.
"It was the doctors that made me this way, Kerry. I'm not trusting them to do anything."
"What are you talking about? If it wasn't for the doctors you wouldn't be here. You'd be dead."
"I'd rather be dead than...than this. Than be this thing."
"You're not a thing, you're my friend."
"I'm loosing the fight, Kerry and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it."
At this point I was getting confused by what he was saying. It was like we were both having two completely different conversations. "What do you mean, loosing the fight? Loosing the fight against who?"
"Him," Connor spat with disgust. "The one who made me who I am."
"Connor, I'm confused. You're not making any sense."
"Sky Keppler," he said. The name vomitted from his mouth like poisoned food.
"Who's that?"
"The man who donated my skin," said Connor.
The name rolled in my head trying to find the hole in my brain in which to connect with the rest of the useless knowledge that floated around in there.
"Why do I recognise that?"
"He was in prison for murdering school kids around Birmingham," Connor said.
He pulled the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows and began feverishly scratching his skin, like he was trying to tear it off.
"He's consumed my body, Kerry, and he wants my mind next. He's already in there. I can feel it. He's a poison that coursing through me, infecting everything."
"That can't be right. That's science fiction stuff, Connor," I said.
"You don't believe me," he roared. "I knew I couldn't trust you."
He leapt up on to his feet and glowered down at me. His eyes were burning with rage, his fists were clenched ready to deliver a blow and the wafer-thin skin on his face was taught like stretched cellophane.
I could see the struggle in his eyes. His body was ready for a fight but his eyes were pleading for peace. I wanted to cry; not for me but for him.
He ran off across the park.
I tore after him but lost him through the trees. I searched for him all day and in a last attempt to find him I decided to go down to the rugby clubhouse. The place he spent most of his life.
The lights weren't on but I figured even Connor wouldn't have put them on if he didn't want to be found. I skulked round the building, peering into the windows, looking for any signs of a forced entry. Then I heard muffled cries. Not the cries of a man.
"Why have you bought me here, Connor?" snuffled a young boy. "Are we playing rugby in the dark?"
"Quit your whinging!" Connor snapped.
He was in there. My heart dropped into my feet. I had no idea what he was going to do. In the fragile state he was in he could do anything. He'd already come close to smacking me twice and I'm sure it was only the history we had together that stayed his hand. How would he fair with a child he had very little connection with? I daren't think. A wave of nausea swept across me.
"What do you need a knife for?" cried the boy.
Hearing that sent me into a blind panic. I had to get in. I had to save the boy and try and save Connor, if that was at all possible. I found myself now actually believing what Connor had told me about Sky Keppler. It was the only explanation.
Without hesitation I scrambled around for something I could use as a weapon and happened upon a heavy branch that had snapped from a tree. I pulled of the leaves and twigs and gingerly approached the door. Connor must have had a key as the door was unlocked. As quietly as I could, I unlocked it and crept inside. I had no idea what the layout of the building was and so had to feel my way around, down and round the corridors until I could hear Connor's deep voice penetrating the walls. The boy he held was now terrified and began to scream for help.
"Shut up you whiny little brat," yelled Connor.
There was then a thud that sounded like something falling, followed by screams of pain from the boy.
My hand curled round the handle of the locker room door, my sweaty palms struggling to grip it, and opened it. I was so scared my heart was thumping in my chest.
I dropped the branch realising that any weapon would be useless to me. I had to use my wits instead.
"Connor," I called out. "Are you here?"
"Get away, bitch," Connor yelled.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "I'm here to help you."
"No chance of that now. I've got what I want. I'm free again."
"You're not Sky Keppler, Connor. You're name is Connor Willis. You're seventeen years old and you're my best friend."
Connor grabbed his head with both hands and shook it. "No, no, no," he yelled.
"You live with your Aunt Flora. You love rugby and play golf really, really badly. You love to laugh and you love to make people laugh with you."
Connor smacked back against the wall and slumped down on the floor. While he was distracted I grabbed the little boy and told him to run home.
When the boy disappeared through the door I approached Connor. He thrust the blade of his knife toward me to keep me at bay.
"He's mine," he shouted.
"No he's not Sky, he's mine. He's my friend."
"Kerry!" Connor cried.
"I'm here, Connor. It's me," I said, tears streaming down my face.
"I want peace," he pleaded, then his face contorted. "No, no, freedom."
Connor lifted the knife up, the blade glinted in the streetlight. Before I could stop him he plunged the knife into his throat.
"No!" I yelled. "Connor!"
Blood poured from the wound in his neck, staining his rugby and forming a syrupy pool on the locker room floor. But his life hadn't yet ebbed. I knelt down beside him and looked into his eyes. It was him. Connor. Pure Connor in those piercing blue eyes. In that last moment I saw the friend I knew two years ago. Then his eyes closed. Forever.

The peril of pop

Pearl loved pop. She loved how the bubbles danced on her tongue, how the sweetness gave her a warm and fuzzy feeling inside and how many colours and flavours they came in. It was all she drank. She drank it with her cereal-and sometimes on it-at breakfast, with her sandwiches at lunch, with her vegetables at dinner. She drank it on the bus after school, in the bath before bed, in her class under the desk. Pearl loved pop.

Her parents tried everything to stop her from drinking so much of the stuff. They gave her fruit juice but she poured it down the sink; they gave her water but she poured it into the dog's bowl; they told her that if she drank too much her teeth would fall out but she didn't believe them; they even stopped buying pop altogether, but Pearl cried and cried and stamped her feet until her mother ran out and bought her a bottle. Nothing was going to stop Pearl from drinking pop.

When Efferfizz, the local drinks company, heard about Pearl's passion they asked her to be their official spokesperson. In return for having a picture of her holding a can of pop with a big beaming, toothy smile on billboards and newspaper adverts and posters in bus stops Pearl was given a year's supply of their most popular drink, the Tonguetwister. Pearl was happier than a hyena, happier than a bee in a jar full of honey, happier than a dog in a choc drop factory. But it didn't take Pearl a year to drink all her Tonguetwisters. She' d drunk them all in a month-twelve cans a day. Pearl didn't think anything of it, although did notice her belly expand like a balloon. She was so inflated with pop she couldn't fit into any of her dresses. She couldn't even fit through the door. But Pearl wasn't discouraged.

Efferfizz delivered another year's supply of Tonguetwisters to her house and Pearl carried on drinking and drinking and drinking. She consumed that batch in two weeks and had swelled to the size of a car. Her parents could no long move her. All they could do was leave her where she was-rooted in the lounge, wobbling on the sofa like giant jelly.

Pearl was happy, but after a month of not seeing her friends, not being able to go out and play and having to wear her mother's maternity clothes, she started to feel unhappy. She wished she was a normal size again. She stopped drinking pop but it did nothing to deflate her. Then one night, whilst Pearl was fast asleep, she accidentally rolled off the sofa, across the lounge floor and over her mother's bag of knitting. One of the needles, jutting from the bag, pierced Pearl's stomach and with a pop and a hiss, she was suddenly zipping across the room. Pearl jerked awake when she bounced off the walls. She had no idea what was going on. The loud hissing sound woke up her parents too. They burst into the lounge just as Pearl plopped down onto the sofa. She looked down at the dress that hung off her body like a sack and smiled. "No more pop, mum" she said.

The life and times of Bob the duck

Once again Bob jostled for position against the thousand other yellow, rubber ducks on the River Flowt. He loved the build up to a big race. It was almost as much fun as competing in it-bobbing up and down with the undercurrent of the river, bumping and spinning as other contestants plopped onto the surface out of cloth sacks from above, the anticipation of who was going to win or who would be scooped out before the race began. It was exhilarating. But this race was the most important one of all. This was Bob's last race.

When the rope was lifted to the jubilant cries of the humans on the river bank Bob waited his turn. Experience taught him that patience was key to a successful race. It may not guarantee a win but then being first off the mark didn't either.

As the ducks began to spread out the gentle flow of the river took hold of Bob's underbelly and guided him down. The start of the race was usually calm-a ploy, Bob assumed, to stop any duck getting a head start on the others, or worse getting lost-and this race was no different. It was so calm he was able to admire the scenery: the leafy green trees, the crystal clear water, the swooping birds. But as he was enjoying the sight of a brilliant blue-green dragonfly, hovering over a clump of yellow marsh marigold he was sent in a tailspin and only stopped when he bumped into a rock jutting proud of the river surface. Ahead of him Bob saw a motorised duck whizzed past, weaving through the throng until a wave lapped against it, toppled it over and with a fizz and a pop shorted the duck's circuits.

"Poor thing," thought Bob as frantic chirping to his side, drew his attention.
A rubber duckling was weaving between clumps of grass, alone and in distress.
Not wanting to see a fledgling racer put off from a life on the open river, Bob floated alongside it to keep it company until its mother rejoined it.
"It's okay, ducky," he said softly. "You're mama will be back. A wave has probably blown her off course. Meantime I'll keep you company."
The duckling quieted and smiled up at Bob.
"You look really old," it said. "You're beak has faded to pink, and you're all scratched up and stuff."
"Sadly I am old. But I do remember when I was as young and as pristine looking as you. Oh yes," Bob began. "I was made in China, far, far away, and packed onto a ship for America. But I never made it there. The box I was in fell off the ship."
The duckling gasped in horror but Bob didn't notice, he continued with his tale.
"When the box was corroded by the salt water, it released me and hundreds of my fellow ducks into the Pacific Ocean. That's like a river that's so big it would take you years to cross it."
Bob thought he was entertaining the helpless duckling but the duckling began to tremble. "What did you do?" it asked.
"Nothing I could do," said Bob, casually, except float, adrift, lost and alone on the wild ocean waves.
The duckling began chirping loudly again.
"Oh sorry, no," said Bob frantically. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"What's the meaning of this?" said another duck with long curved painted eyelashes. "What are you saying to my son?"
"Nothing, really, I was just talking about life on the open waves."
The mere mention of the word waves sent the duckling into deeper fits of distress. Rather than cause any more upset Bob sailed off toward a rush of white water that took him further down the river.
The current steered him toward gentler waters near the banking where he came across a pale yellow duck, shivering.
"You're either cold or terrified," said Bob.
"I'm both," said the duck. "Terrified of the cold. It's perishing in here."
"I actually think its quite pleasant in here. Temperate, I think is the right word."
"I wouldn't call it that," the duck huffed. "I'm not used to this northern climate. Give me races in Kent or Surrey any day."
"If you think this is cold you should try being encased in the arctic for a year," said Bob.
The duck looked at him with disbelief.
"It's true," said Bob. "After I was cast adrift, lost and alone. I found the water of the Pacific Ocean gradually get colder and colder and before I knew it was caught up in a big freeze. Stuck in a lump of ice I was for a full year, until the sun came round and melted me out."
The pale duck raised the line of his eyebrows at Bob before drifting into a cluster of reeds and overhanging branches.
Bob drifted on by. "Sorry I can't stop and help," he called out.
Up ahead of him was a group of three ducks huddled together, quivering, their eyes frantically scanning the surface of the water.
"Where did it go? Did you see it?" said one.
"No. It's not here. I must have dived below," said another.
"What are you looking for? Lost a duck?" asked Bob as he cruised alongside them.
"No. Fish!" said the third.
"You're all afraid of fish?" asked Bob.
"Yes," they chimed as a black speckled trout darted through the water beneath them.
"Oh these fish are tiddlers," said Bob. "I've met bigger fish than that."
"Where?" said one of the ducks.
"In the ocean. I was adrift you see, and after I'd been frozen in the arctic and defrosted I was swallowed up whole by a barnacled encrusted gray whale."
The three ducks gasped. "What happened?"
"It didn't think I was tasty enough so it spat me out through its blowhole. I shot out, into the air with a fountain of sea water and landed with a plop into the ocean."
The three ducks' black eyes rolled back into their head and they toppled flat on their backs. Out cold.
"You've got nothing to fear from trout!" said Bob as his underbelly caught the edge of a swirling eddy that propelled him down river.
He sailed past a row of ducks, one following the other, and then collided beak first into a duck leaning on its side.
"Oops, sorry there," said Bob. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Can I help you right yourself?"
"You can try but it won't work. I'm a bit wonky. Too much weight on one side," said the duck.
"How did that happen?" asked Bob.
"Owner tried to repair a slice in my side but he covered me in too much plastic. Now I don't sail upright anymore."
"You don't sound too worried about it," said Bob.
"Nothing I can do really. Just gotta live with it."
"I know what you mean. I was repaired too. See the lump on my back," said Bob. "I had a hook stuck in there. After my expedition on the open waves I was washed ashore in the south of England and picked up by a fairground traveller. He had a 'hook-the-duck' game. They give humans sticks so they can fish you out by your hook, if they get you they get a prize which is determined by the number on your underbelly."
Bob leaned to one side to expose his flat underside and the faded number painted on it.
"Four," said the duck.
Bob nodded. "Well, when the fairground traveller became ill he gave all his ducks away. I ended up on a shelf in a charity shop but not before they pulled the hook from my back and filled the hole with glue."
"Did it hurt?" asked the duck as he tilted further into the water.
Bob shook his head. "I was glad it was taken off to be honest," he said just as the duck capsized completely.
Before Bob could help the poor duck out of the water a fast flowing current whisked him away and through a maze of rocks. He bumped and twisted and turned about them before tipping over the edge of a small waterfall and getting dunked momentarily in the white foam. When he bobbed to the surface he was floating beside a duck who had clearly taken on water. He was sunk low on the surface, with only his neck and head above water.
"Are you okay down there?" asked Bob.
"I think so," it said. "As long as I don't get any more water inside me. Although it is a little worrying. I'd hate to drown."
"You'll be okay," Bob said. "You've got plenty of air in your head to keep you afloat. I've spent a lot of time under the water so I know."
"You have?"
"Oh yes. After I was bought out of a charity shop I went to a house where a very small human used to play with me in its bath. Every day it would dive bomb me under water. Sometimes it would hold me under there just to see if I would fill up."
"And did you?"
Bob shook his head. "And neither will you," he said as the duck sank a little further into the water before becoming wedged between two rocks. "Told you!" Bob yelled as he floated away.
As he rounded the bend of the river and felt the tickle of the swaying reeds beneath him on his underbelly he passed a duck that was frowning down at the water.
"Oh what a ghastly place this is," he said recoiling. "The water's filthy, and heaven only knows what is lurking down there. All sorts of bugs and little nasties."
"I think this is a luxurious river," said Bob.
The duck spun his head round and glowered at Bob. "And what would you know about luxury. I'll bet you've never been the Queen of England's bath toy. I'll bet you've never been pampered with chamomile and orange bubble bath."
"No, but I'll bet you've never been dumped on a pile of festering rubbish when you're no longer wanted as a bath toy. That is far more hideous and foul than floating peacefully in the fresh air," spat Bob as the duck suddenly became entangled in a thick bunch of reeds. Bob didn't want to help him.
As the sun began to peek through the thin veil of clouds Bob could see the finish line, the flags were flickering in the gentle breeze.
He knew he hadn't won as there were a number of ducks already ahead of him.
"Looks like we've lost, mate," said a duck with black sunglasses on, who bobbed beside Bob.
"That doesn't matter to me," said Bob. "I've been in so many now, winning is bittersweet."
"How do you make that out? Winning is the whole point."
"Once you've won you put pressure on yourself to win again, and again, and again. Before long it isn't enough. It's not about the destination, it's about the journey," said Bob as the flags came into full view of Bob and his companion.
"So how many races have you been in then?" asked the bespectacled duck.
"This is my five hundredth. And it's as important to me as my first. I thought when I was left on that scrapheap that that was it for me. If I hadn't been rescued by that duck race supplier I'd have spent the rest of my days on a rotting pile of waste. A purposeless life. But now I've earned my feathers," said Bob with a delicate smile of his pink beak.
As he crossed the finish line his scuffed and scratched plastic gradually softened and the delicate outline of plumage became visible across his back. His eyes suddenly blinked, his tail twitched, his wings separated from the rest of his body and to his delight he rose up out of the water and took flight, soaring high into the sky on the current of warm air. He was real.
'It's not about the destination, it's about the journey,' he thought.

Caspian the Merboy

Becca skipped down the stony slope to the small beach at the foot of the ruins of St Andrews castle with a torn piece of paper in her hands.
"Look, Wallace," she beamed to her brother as she jumped onto the soft, loose sand, waving the paper in her hands. "I was right. I was right!"
"Right about what?" said Wallace without severing his attention from the rock pool he and his friend were peering into.
"The fish boy!" huffed Becca.
"What fish boy?" said Wallace's friend, snapping his head round to look up at Becca.
Wallace was still more interested in studying the contents of the pool than his sister. "Becca thinks she saw a boy in the water with a fish tail, last week, Evan," Wallace mocked.
"And I'm not the only one," Becca announced as she shoved the torn piece of paper under Wallace's nose. "Read that."
Wallace snatched it from her hands and skim read the print.
"Coastguards were called to the West Sands yesterday when several people spotted what they thought was a boy being swept out to sea. However, when rescuers arrived at the scene the boy could not be found. Fearing he had drowned a team of local divers scoured the sea bed where the boy was last spotted but also found nothing. A few local residents who witnessed the incident were hesitant to describe what they saw. One, who was willing to speak to The Citizen, claimed that he had seen the boy dive under water, but instead of seeing legs he saw a fish tail. Further questioning has revealed that others saw the same thing but were in disbelief and reluctant to admit as much fearing ridicule. As a result of this strange phenomena, The Citizen," Wallace continued, his eyes suddenly lighting up, "is launching a competition, with a prize of five hundred pounds, for the first genuine photograph of the fish boy."
He looked up at Becca, his eyes were as wide as saucers and his jaw was flopped open.
"Five hundred pounds!" exclaimed Evan. "Do you know what we could do with that?"
"New bike!" said Wallace, dreamily.
"Endless Big Mac Meals."
"Anyway I still don't think you saw it cos you said he was on the East Sands, not the West Sands," said Wallace.
"It makes no difference. You didn't believe me when I told you and now you have to believe me cos I'm not the only one that saw him," she snapped and stuck her tongue out at him.
"So are we gonna enter this competition then or what?" asked Evan.
"Of course," said Wallace. "And we split the winnings, three ways."

The next day when Becca, her brother and Evan crossed the old golf course to the West Sands they were dumbstruck by the number of people that were out to find the fish boy.
"I thought the streets looked a bit deserted for a Saturday," said Evan.
"We don't stand a chance of getting the first shot now. The entire town must be down there," said Wallace a little crestfallen as he leaned over the white fence by the 18th fairway, and stared out across the throng of eager photographers.
"I saw him at the East Sands," said Becca. "Why don't we try there?"
Wallace glowered at her. "He's not going to be at the East Sands, Becca."
"How do you know? Have you asked him?" she replied stamping her feet.
"Fine, but if I find you've cost me...a third of five hundred pounds," Wallace said. "I'll snap the heads off all your dolls."
"And if I don't I'll snap the heads of all yours," she said and strode off along the gravel pathway that led to the East Sands.

As Becca suspected there wasn't a soul on the East Sands. She jumped over the wall at the harbour end of the beach and made her way down to the shore, with her brother and Evan in tow.
"He's not here, Becs," said Wallace as he kicked a branch of driftwood.
"That's because we've only been here thirty seconds," she replied as she scanned the shoreline for anything poking above the breaking waves. "Beside he's not exactly going to stand up and pose the moment he sees you."
"We need to be stealthy, then," said Evan. "Like them ninjas, except without the balaclavas."
"Ninjas don't wear balaclavas, stupid," Wallace said, slapping Evan on the arm.
Becca ignored them and continued to trudge over the waterlogged sand, getting ever closer to the rocky shoreline at the foot of the cliffs ahead.
With no sight of him Becca was about to concede defeat when Evan began bouncing up and down, gasping for air and pointing at the rocks in the water.
"Over there, over there," he said excitedly.
Waves were crashing over the rocks making it difficult for Becca to make out what he was looking at, but when the water receded Becca's heart leapt into her mouth. There lying belly down with his chin resting on his hands was the unmistakeable figure of a boy. He looked normal from his head to his waist-naked body with short brown hair and blue-white skin-but from the waist down he wasn't. Where he should have had legs he had a long, sleek fish tail instead. Its smooth scales glimmering with pearlescent hues of blue, pink and green-a stark contrast to the slimy, green seaweed strewn rocks . Becca let out a sigh. The boy seemed to be sad as he was staring down at the sea, barely flinching as the waves crashed over him. His eyes were lowered and the corners of his mouth were turned down.
Wallace reached for his camera and began fiddling with the controls and when he began snapping the sounds alerted the fish boy. He sat bolt upright and was about to dive into the sea when Becca called out.
"It's okay, it's okay," she said holding her hands up. "We're not going to hurt you."
The fish boy hesitated. He looked down at the sea and then across to Becca and her brother.
Becca gingerly approached the rocks, wanting to get closer but not wanting to alarm the boy. But when she got within ten feet of him the boy started to twitch. He shuffled himself back, away from Becca. Becca stopped and crouched down between a couple of rock pools.
"Hi," she said. "My name's Becca. Do you have a name?"
"C-C-Caspian," he said.
"That's my brother over there. His name is Wallace. And the other boy is his friend, Evan."
Caspian raised a hand and pointed to Wallace. "B-brother?"
Becca nodded. "Do you have a brother?"
Caspian nodded. "And sister, and mother, and father," he said as a lone sparkle of a tear trickled down his cheek.
"Why are you sad?" asked Becca.
Caspian wiped a hand across his eyes. "Lost," he said.
"Where do you live? Perhaps we could find your home."
"Island," Caspian replied and turned, searching for a direction in which to point but gave a huff of frustration when he couldn't get his bearings.
"There are hundreds of island in Scotland," said Wallace. "For all we know he could've come from as far out as the Hebrides."
"With puffins," said Caspian.
"May Island has puffins," Evan proffered, diffidently.
Becca could see that Wallace was about to come back with a quick quip and stepped in before he had even taken a breath. "You're right,Evan. May Island does have puffins."
She turned to Caspian.
"How long have you been lost?"
Caspian counted on his fingers. "Seven suns."
"And do you think you've swam far away."
Caspian nodded.
"But did you always see land whilst you were swimming?"
Caspian pondered the question before giving a confident nod.
Becca turned back to Wallace and Evan. "That must be where he lives."
"Are we going to help him get home?" asked Evan.
"Of course," Becca replied.
"Yeah but how?" asked Wallace with his hands on his hips. "I'm not about to jump in the north sea and swim with him. Do you have any idea how cold it is in there?"
"We don't have to swim stupid," said Becca. "The coastal path snakes right round the east neuk. As long as we can see Caspian and he can see us we can direct him to May Island."
"But that's a long walk," said Evan, staring up at the cliffs.
"You could use it, Evan," she said looking down at his portly frame before turning her attention back to Caspian.
"Now, Caspian, you have to listen very carefully," she said. "We'll get you home. You have to follow the coastline south, but you must look out for us. We'll be walking to guide you."
Caspian nodded and smiled. He cautiously reached out a hand to Becca. Becca was hesitant to take it at first, after all he was an unnatural being. But when she did she felt a rush of excitement that made her heart skip a beat. His skin was cold and clammy, but as soft as velvet.
"You'll be okay," she said softly.
Caspian dived in the water and waited as Becca, Wallace and Evan scaled the side of the cliff and began walking along the narrow pathway. All the while Becca kept a keen eye on the sea below to check on Caspian's location. He appeared to have perked up and was leaping into the air, twisting and performing somersaults before crashing down into the waves. Becca liked to think that he was showing off for her. The idea of it made her skin tingle.
As they continued on, the pathway dipped and climbed and wove round dunes and thorny gorse bushes but where it curved inland and out of sight Becca worried that Caspian would loose his bearings again and end up swimming north. But she needn't have as when they returned to the coastline there was Caspian, sloshing about in the twinkling water.
A couple of times her heart leapt into her mouth when she spotted boats and yachts skim past where Caspian was swimming. But Caspian seemed to know what to do when they neared and dived into the water, popping his head back out only when they were sufficiently out of sight.
Onwards the three of them walked, passing a number of golf courses, towns and farms before the coastline curved round past a campsite. Becca knew they were getting near to Caspian's home.
"How much further is it Becca?" Wallace moaned. He stopped and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. "My feet hurt."
"Stop complaining you big sissy," she said. "Once we get Caspian home we can get fish and chips from the Anstruther fish bar."
Wallace stood bolt upright. With an expectant and greedy glint in his eye he strode on past Becca. Evan clearly was just as excited by the prospect of making up for lost calories and trotted after him. "So which way is it?" Wallace asked.
When they past by the coastal village of Crail they neared their goal. With the Isle of May clearly in sight Becca stared out to the Firth of Forth and waved to Caspian. When she caught his attention she, Wallace and Evan all pointed to where May Island stood proud of the water. Caspian recognised his home and back flipped in the water. Becca laughed. But rather than swimming off into the mist, Caspian bobbed in the water for a moment or two, staring back at them. Becca waved to him. He waved back then leapt and twisted in the air, diving back down into the deep blue without so much as a ripple on the surface of the water. It was a display of acrobatic grace that made the hairs on the back of Becca's neck stand on end.
And then he was gone.
"Bye," she said choking back tears that threatened to cascade down her cheeks at any moment.
Wallace stepped up to her side.
"What do I do with these photos?" he asked delicately.
Becca smiled at him. "I think you know."
Wallace peered down at his camera and flicked at the controls. "Delete, delete, delete," he said.