Rabbit accumulating all this information so that it could somehow replace you, in a Bodysnatchers type denouement. All the questions were so that it could take over you and know enough of the world to not be found out. I'd also stop the story when your mother screams.

Its been three months since he left me. Its still raw, somewhere deep inside, that he ripped apart what we had. Four years of devotion, of love, gone. Another woman, he said, one who could fulfill his needs. If only he'd spoke to me, made things clear, I could've healed the wound, but no, he harboured it, kept it quiet, the resentment growing. Then that fateful day, it poured out. His anger at me, how I'd let things slide, how I wasn't the woman he met anymore. It'd been a sham, the last year, and now he had to move on, to be with his new desire. He left me, alone in that coffee store with my thoughts and tears, and I turned to dust. I was obsolete, out of date, an old model replaced by the new.

But now, now I take action. I can't keep nursing my own pain with alcohol. I've let my life slide, pushed away those I once held close. Friends and family, they still call, come by the flat. But I don't answer, not for fear of moving on, but for fear of not being myself anymore. A whole chunk of me has been taken away, and now it is time to heal. I sit here this morning with a plan, a goal, something to achieve. I've seen him around town, the new model on his arm. Sure, she's pretty, but you can see, you can sense that there's no spark there. No bond. They walk apart, not linked by the arm or hand, as if two friends just going about their day. I know, deep inside, he regrets what he did to us. I can tell when something is wrong with him, I always could. Today I get my life, our life back.

I was nineteen when we first met. Making my way into adult life, small babysteps. I'd never dated before, had always been shy around men. There'd been a few advances, sure, but nothing to write home about. Recently started my first job, on the checkout at my local supermarket. It wasn't good money, but it was something. I was out with a friend that night, a couple of local pubs. Nothing too flashy, but still I'd got myself done up as best I could. You always did at that age, I couldn't bare to leave the house looking plain, or frumpy. We'd had a few, mainly vodka and orange. Pretty uneventful night up to that point to be honest. It was my round next, so I got to the bar, and then he approached. I wouldn't dare to say it was love at first sight, but it was clearly lust. Before he'd spoken a word, I'd noticed his eyes, a light green, and that warm, inviting smile. He introduced himself, as I did in return, and he engaged me straight away. However, being with my mate, I had to part, and that was it. Back to the table I went, but my eyes kept being drawn to him. He had a presence, an air around him which his friends seemed to lap up. Confidence in abundance.

After a few more drinks, my mate wanted to leave, but something told me to stay. I went outside with her as she smoked her cig, waiting for the taxi. Hugged her and off she went. Back inside, i sat back down, and something made me do this. I looked up at him across the many tables, caught his eye, and mouthed 'I'm alone'. His smile was instant, and with a couple of words, he left his friends and came to sit with me. The hours flew by as I learned he was twent three, a plumber. He lived alone, had been single some time. All through this, I felt myself continually eyeing him up, imagining his body, his touch. I wanted him, and he'd done something miraculous. He'd put me at ease, made me open up and feel. Last orders were called, and it took all my restraint not to go to his that night. We parted with a kiss, brief but fulfilling, and I passed him my number.

I know that sounds like so many other nights out, girl meets boy, things happen. But to me, it was new, something real. It was the first tie I'd felt a spark, a connection with a guy, felt my desire kick in. I'd lusted after celebrities, after those I'd never know, but now, something was just right. I'd check m phone regularly, wanting to hear from him, a text, a voicemail. Anything.

Right now I'm in the store. I need to buy to put things right, what use is a plan without the tools? I know he'll smile when he sees me, like he did that first night. Right now, as I approach the counter with my basket, its all I can picture. Me and him, together again, as solid was we once were. Not partners, but a unit. Shopping done, my items bagged, I wander into the street, the breeze so fresh that each intake of breath alights my senses. I'm positive, and ready for later. Now to head home and make myself so very pretty for him.

We'd been on a few dates when it finaly happened. Leaving the cinema, hand in hand, he invited me back to his. Up to now, I'd said no. I liked to act pure and proper, to make him win me somewhat. Things were going wonderfully, and right then and there, I knew it was right. I agreed, and his face illuminated. Such passion in his eyes. He embraced me, cupping my face in his hands. I'd never felt so protected, so wanted. We kissed, and I could feel it throughout my body. It all felt so right, so perfect. We walked back to his car, and he drove me to his flat for the first time. It was hard to contain my excitement on my way there, I kept glancing at him, almost blushing at times. A permanent smile I couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. Inside his flat, he took my coat, hung it up and offered me a seat which I took. He wandered off to get drinks, and I sat with images and wants dancing in my mind. Am I really doing this? What will it be like? This was my first time, and despite what I thought when younger about your first time being this big occasion, this major step in life, nothing had felt so real as that moment. When he arrived and sat, we didn't speak for what seemed an eternity. And then he pounced, kissing me so deep, so intensely that I could feel my body melt away with every sensation. We didn't even have the time to get to his bedroom, so raw and passionate was that moment.

The morning after, I woke to find his side of the bed warm, but empty. It took me a short while to adjust and realise the night before, that I was at his, that I'd taken that step, that we were now more than just dating. I got up, slipping on my dress from the night before, and headed into the living room. There he sat, coffee in hand, offering to make me one. I smiled, and from then on things became serious between us. We were an item, we were official. Over the coming months, things took a pace. I met his family and friends, he met mine. Things were so right...

This story begins with a dream and this dream begins with a roar and a flash of light. Then, for a very long time, there is nothing but a feeling of loss as if something has been taken away without warning, leaving a space that nothing can fill.

‘It is such a shame just to burn it. Master. May I take it and perhaps make something from it?’
‘Fine, fine. As long as it does not interfere with your studies.’

And for a time the empty lonely feeling is gone, replaced by activity and movement and a strange joy. There is warmth and there is singing, beautiful singing. There is a sense of becoming.

‘It moved! Did you see it Master? It’s alive!’
‘Well, what did you expect?’

For such a long time there is nothing but joy.

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1 - Welcome to St Jude's

St. Jude’s School and Refuge for Pitiful Orphans sat crouched, not unlike a grubby black cat about to pounce on an unwary rodent, on a low hill somewhere between here and a considerable distance from there. If you were wealthy enough to take a trip in one of Mr. Hindenberg’s marvelous airships it would be observed from above looking very much like a wide letter ‘H’ surrounded by a wide expanse of barren ground and threadbare shrubberies all encircled by a high, imposing brick wall in the shape of a flattened letter ‘O’. I know that not many people are well off enough to jaunt around the skies gawping at ugly buildings so I’m afraid you will just have to use that often forgotten power that we all possess, that of your ‘IMAGINATION’ .

Imagine then, if you will, to the east and west of the wall (or left and right if you are not quite sure where you are) a dark and dense woodland where no birds sang and no wildlife lingered, as if even nature knew that there was little pleasure to be found here. If you were to walk north from the outer wall for a few hundred steps you would find yourself quite wet and quite, quite dead at the bottom of a high cliff that drops abruptly down to a churning grey sea and jagged daggers of sharp rock. A walk to the south of the enclosure would be, in comparison, a more pleasant experience, especially if you enjoy bleak moorland interspersed with boggy expanses of insect filled marshes.

If I have not tired your imagination out with all of this dreary work, I beg you imagine now a long stony track leading gradually up from a wider but no less stony road that cuts between desolate moor and unfriendly wall. The track leads from the road up to front of this dreary establishment, but before that it passes through the wall by way of an ugly double wrought iron gate. If you could raise your spirits enough to lift your head up to look for a moment you would see atop of the pair of gates these three words, hard and twisted from the same black iron that excludes the world from St. Jude’s and St. Jude’s from the world…

‘SINE LABORE NIHIL‘

Not many of the inhabitants knew what these words meant, all old and foreign-ish as they were, but if someone did care enough to share the meaning with them they would certainly understand why they could be applied to the dark and oppressive place they found themselves residing in. Unfortunately for its pitiful inhabitants, St. Jude’s School and Refuge was not a place of carefree days and cherished childhood memories, summertime picnics and unbridled joy. Sadly it was a place of gloom and sadness, miserable toil and unending tedium. Because I do care, dear reader, I will translate the words for you - ‘NOTHING WITHOUT WORK’. I’m so very sorry. I know you you were hoping for ‘NOT AS BAD AS IT SEEMS’ or ‘MUCH NICER INSIDE’ or ‘NEVER JUDGE AN ORPHANAGE BY ITS IRONWORK’ but I’m afraid I can only offer you the words ‘QUOD VIDES, ID RECEPIS’ in return.

Oh dear. I fear have painted quite a bleak picture here. You would be quite forgiven if you closed this book straight away and thrust it into some dark corner of your room, never to see the light of day again until you partake in a thorough spring clean or if you were to be moving heavy furniture around looking for loose change with which to buy an ice-cream cone or a bag of jelly beans with.

But fear not dear reader! I hear the sound of laughter somewhere nearby and surely laughter can only be a good thing.

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2 - In which we find sometimes laughter is not always a good thing.

He can see people all around him, looking at him, smiling at him. There is so much joy and laughter here it is almost difficult to take in. He is being carried shoulder high so that everyone can see him and he and he is jostled this way and that as he makes his way through the thronging crowd.It is beautiful.

‘William’

He can see blue sky, bluer than anything he has ever seen. He sees the laughing happy people all around and they throw orange coloured flower petals into the air all around him. He sees mountains and grey rock and hears a roaring, rushing sound far below him. It is beautiful.

‘William’

There is cracking, ripping sound and he lurches this way and then that. Sounds of happiness suddenly turn to screams of terror as he is thrown violently from his position above the heads of the people carrying him. He reaches out to to hands that reach out to him. He can see fear in the eyes of some of the once happy people as they grab hold of tattered rope and broken wood. He tumbles and the world spins and he doesn’t understand why the people are so sad. His world becomes a blur of blue sky, grey rock and orange blossom. The roaring sound drowns out the sounds of the screaming. It is in its own way, beautiful.

The roaring rushing blue, rushing spinning orange, roaring spinning rushing grey ROARING…

‘WILLIAM!’

Laughter again, but not the nice kind. It is the cruel, mocking kind that you never want to hear and you should never want to be part of.
‘Thank you for joining us Master William. I’m sorry that my lessons are a little boring for you’ The shrill voice of School Mistress Bottum cut like a steely blade through the boisterous hilarity of his classmates.
William looked around, still slightly dazed, at the jeering faces and pointing fingers that surrounded him and then back towards his thin, birdlike teacher.
‘Oh no Miss Bottum. You lessons are not always that boring.’ he replied with all honesty.
‘Well!’ Ms. Bottum gasped in astonishment ‘The sheer impudence!’. She brought her hand down hard and fast on her desk at the front of the room with the intention of creating a BANG that would silence the rip-roarious classroom. Sadly for Ms. Bottum she only managed to clip the end of the bamboo cane that she would use as a blackboard pointer during her classes. Skyward went all of the loose paperwork on her desk in such spectacular fashion that would be talked about for years to come, handed down from older pupil to younger pupil in an event that would come to be known as ‘Bottum’s Up’.
The last piece of free-falling paper had barely touched the floor before William, who in his defence was unlikely to respond to the name William at the best of times even less so during one of his ‘daydreams’, was lifted quite forcefully from his the seat at his desk by the back of his shirt-collar. He was at first impressed by the speed of the delicate school ma’am, and was quite taken aback by the wiry strength as he traversed the room at quite a rate, his feet barely making contact with the floorboards.
‘HEADMASTER’S OFFICE! NOW!’ She screeched as she dexterously opened the classroom door with one hand, and propelled the small boy out into the hallway with the other. Already some of the other teachers, distracted by the riotousness from Ms. Bottum’s classroom were poking their concerned faces from their own doorway to see what the commotion was all about. Ms. Bottom, now professionally embarrassed, decided it would serve her better to quieten the boisterous classroom. ‘NOW!’she said as she jabbed a bony finger in the general direction of the Headmasters office.
‘HAW-HAW! Billy you blockhead!! You’re really in for a rollicking now!’ brayed one child above the din of the other children, as the door swung shut behind the furious teacher. Freckled of face and podgy of belly, this would be the odious Dunton Eccles. If you made list of people who were most likely to make William’s, or as he is known informally to far too few friends and far too many enemies at St. Jude’s, Billy’s life a misery at this wretched place, he would appear very near the top.

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3 - One bad eye deserves another.

For reasons that will soon become clear, Billy knew the route to the Headmasters office very well indeed. It was not that he was a bad pupil who often found himself at the door of the principals office for reasons of unruliness. It was that he was more familiar with this decrepit building and its grounds than all of its pupils and staff combined.
The first floor, the main corridor of which he now found himself standing alone, listening to Ms. Bottum threatening all manner of terrible punishments on those who still found the whole incident mirth-some, was fully dedicated to the classrooms where the unwanted boys and girls of St Jude’s would spend their time learning what is ironically called ‘the three Rs’ - Reading, Writing and Reckoning. Here the unfortunates would spend half of the day trying to better their sorry lot in order to make themselves useful in life after leaving the Refuge.
The classrooms each held twenty desks each with its chair attached, with large windows that made the rooms unbearably hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. To make best use of natural light, the walls connecting the corridors were only paneled two thirds of the way to the ceiling, the final third being of frosted glass allowing weak daylight to enter the corridor on both sides. Classrooms lined each side of the corridor except for the middle section where it joined the once grand entrance hall, its original grandeur slightly faded and worm from years years of neglect and poor maintenance, connected the upper and lower floors of the educational area with a wide stairwell that divided at a landing.
Upon this landing, recessed into an archway stands a statue of St Jude, patron saint of lost causes, his head surrounded by a painted flame and a carved scroll of paper in his arms. If he was sure no one else was around Billy would often stop and look at this beautifully carved and painted statue. It was possibly the only thing of colour and beauty to be found in St. Jude’s, but like everything else there it was unloved. No one else seemed to take any notice of it but him and it made him a little sad to see dust and cobwebs gather upon it from year to year. He was not even sure who St.Jude was and why he was important, but he had a friendly face that looked down from the alcove where he stood, motionless as most wooden figures were good at doing.
There would be no stopping today however. Leaving the sounds of the schoolroom corridor behind him he skipped down the first flight of stairs and onto the St. Jude’s landing before joining the wider double staircase down to the ground floor and the entrance hall. He jumped the last few steps and used the ball shaped finial at the end of ornate but worn banister to spin him to the left in the direction of the school office wing.
‘STOP RIGHT THERE BOY!’ A reedy voice from behind him stopped Billy dead in his tracks. It echoed around the dark wooden panel work of the empty hallway. ‘What are you doing out of class?’ Billy turned slowly to face the voice, knowing very well who it belonged to.
‘Mr Grymes, sir! I did not see you there.’said Billy to the tall thin man, dressed in the long black cape as worn by the male members of the faculty. Even beneath the dark pleated cloth his wiry physique was obvious, elbows jutting out at angles and withered liver-spotted hands both resting on a silver topped cane.
‘That would be Housewarden Grymes to… Oh, its you. The odd fellow’ He said disparagingly, peering at Billy with his one good eye, the other clouded and milky. ‘Of course you did not see me boy, with all of of your running and jumping. But I see you.’ He stooped his bony frame to bring his gnarled and wrinkled old face closer to Billys and used a bony finger to draw down the bottom eyelid of his grizzly blind eye ‘Oh yes, I see all of you horrible runts, even if you can’t see me. You would do well to remember that.’
‘Yes sir, It will not be forgotten’ Billy replied. Out of all of the staff of St. Jude’s, Housewarden Grymes was the strangest of all. Billy was not sure if he even slept at night for the tap-tap-tap of his walking cane could be heard could be heard in even the smallest hours reverberating around the empty halls and corridors.
‘So what are you doing out of class? I’ll have you up at the Masters office if you be not quick!’said the old man.
‘I’m just on my way there now sir, sent by Ms. Bottum.’ replied Billy.
‘Oh, right. I see,’ Grymes seemed genuinely disappointed in not being able to frog-march the boy to the school office. ‘Well what are you doing standing here? Be off with you boy, no dilly-dandering!’
Billy took a few hurried steps backwards away from the old man. ‘Yes sir. Right away sir’ he said as he turned to walk the twenty or so footsteps to the brass handled, heavy wooden double doors to the school office corridor. Just as he was about to touch the handles he heard two sharp taps from the house-warden’s walking stick on the hard tiled floor of the entrance hall. He turned to see Grymes still standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on his dark cane. With the other wizened hand Grymes tapped his cheekbone just below his gruesome eye three times before turning the almost skeletal finger right at Billy.

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3 - The Saddest Girl in the World

Compared to the run down state of the rest of building, the school office was a small haven of warmth and light. After knocking and entering the room when called, Billy was greeted by Miss Hubbell, the school secretary. Behind her, running the entire length of the back wall, were a row of sturdy looking file cabinets each one topped a card index drawer. She sat behind a large wooden desk arranged with files and official looking paperwork in neat piles.
‘Yes, Billy,’ Miss Hubbell was one of the only members of staff to call him this, ‘What can I do for you?’. Her voice was bright and song-like. Billy enjoyed his meetings with Miss Hubbell. She was younger and more pleasant that any of the other adults he met from day to day. Like most of the staff at St’ Jude's, she would arrive by steam-bus early in the morning and go home the same way later in the day, leaving only a skeleton staff to care for the orphans overnight.
What he liked best about visiting the office was that on one corner of her tidy desk there always stood glass vase with a bunch of fresh flowers arranged delicately in it. Miss Hubbell had explained, on a previous office visit, that her husband would give her the blossoms every day to ‘add a bit of colour to that dreary place’, as he put it. Today they were fragrant blooms in of purple and blue, colours that were foreign to the windswept rise of land that St. Jude’s occupied.
‘Miss Bottum sent me to see the Headmaster’ replied Billy.
‘Mr Wells is with someone just now, but you can wait if you wish.’ and she nodded to a chair next opposite her desk. As Billy sat down he noticed that someone had left a suitcase beside the chair. It was of fine leather and had sturdy bindings and it looked brand new or at least very well cared for. In his time at St. Judes, Billy had seen suitcases come and go, but most he had seen were old, battered and beaten often held together with string or rope, sorry looking things containing sorry looking items belonging to sorry looking orphans arriving for there the first time. But this was the finest looking piece of luggage he had ever set his eyes on. Delicately inlaid into the top of the case, one either side of sturdy brass lock were the letters ‘A’ and ‘W’
Billy could hear the voice of Mr Wells through the thin partition wall and he could see only a blurred shape the behind frosted panels of the door into Mr Wells’ room, him walking around in the room as he talked to someone sitting on the chair positioned in front of his desk. The door was just slightly ajar, as if the latch of the door had just failed to catch, so the conversation was easily heard if a person cared enough to eavesdrop.
Billy eavesdropped.
‘… I fully understand your concerns Ms. Wormwood but I’m afraid as a minor you have very little say in the matter’ intoned Mr Wells gravely.
‘But I’m not even an orphan! My grandfather - ‘ It was a girls voice. Billy was quite surprised to hear someone speaking to an adult with that tone.
‘Your grandfather,’ Mr Wells interrupted ‘is a very busy man and his letter here tells me he is concerned that he cannot give you the attention you deserve following the unfortunate incident involving your parents. He is also a very generous patron and benefactor to St. Jude’s and it would be unthinkable of me to go against his - ‘
‘But my -’this time the girl interrupts.
‘Young lady! No more interruptions, please!’ The normally unflappable Mr Wells was now beginning to become annoyed ’Your grandfather has decided that it would be far better for your future development to spend time with children of your own age. You are of course aware that it was in this very place that your grandfather, himself an orphan, was raised. Within these walls he learnt for himself the values and moral virtues that made him the very successful man that he is today. What better place for you to learn these very things for yourself?’
‘I have the finest private tutors in the city. Why-’
‘That is quite enough. There is nothing further to discuss. You will abide by your grandfathers wishes and be enrolled here for the foreseeable future.’ As he spoke Mr Wells opened the door to the outer office. He saw Billy.
‘Young William, what can I do for you?’ he asked as he ushered his forlorn visitor from his room.
‘Miss Bottum sent me’ he said as he rose from his chair, as was the proper thing to do when speaking to the Headmaster.
‘Did she say why?’
‘No Sir. Just that I was to go to the Headmasters office’ Billy replied with all honesty.
‘How many times must I tell her. A note! Always send a note!’ exasperated the Headmaster. ‘No matter, no matter. Seeing as you are here perhaps you can show our new guest here to the girls dormitory. That’s a good lad.’
‘Yes sir, anything to help.’ Billy looked at his new charge. She was slightly taller than him but she would be taller still if her head was not hanging so low, her chin almost touching her collarbone. Her brown shoulder length hair hung like curtains at either side of her face making it difficult for him to see her face. Her fine clothes were neat and clean but plain and efficient. The slump of her shoulders and her posture of defeat only served to ruin the fine lines of some expensive city dressmaker.