It had all started so well this morning when he had decided to go through some of his things but everything was strewn around him in a mess. He didn’t have the energy left to clean it all up. Where had all the hours gone?

He had drifted back and forth between reality and his memories all day. He was now sitting on the rocking chair on the front porch gently drinking his first and last glass of wine for the evening still treasuring each item he found.

He had gathered up boxes of objects that only he could understand. He has kept them for all these long winters and only now has begun opening them up like tiny treasure chests that he had buried in the storage room. They are magical things. Medals from his youth. Photographs of his other selves that have all somehow disappeared along the way. Trinkets, like the poem his wife once wrote him years ago, sit ageing in the little box he has placed them in. He has kept it all. The journals, the diaries, and all of the little things that remind him of who he is and who he used to be. These are his things. These are his attempts at immortality, as they will pass from him only when he dies. He will not let go of them until then. They sustain him now. They are now ghostly reminders of how fragile and quick the journey’s been. Nostalgia is a powerful drug.

A black and white photograph of his great grandfather is surreal among the modern chalices. It is from the twilight zone full of strange possibilities. The white beard almost makes Old Jock, that’s what he was called, look somehow elegant and foreboding. The stern look of a hard man who’d lived through war and poverty. Those were difficult times.

He leans back in the chair gazing at another photograph that he’s kept for fifty years. Little Jocelyn. So full of life and energy but he couldn’t see it. Such beauty defiles his arrogance now as he looks back and wonders how he could have been so cruel to such a beautiful girl. She looks so young now! How many years ago had he gone to school? It somehow seems all twisted and unfair. The life that’s draining from him minute by minute as the clock ticks echo from the mantel.

The television collects dust in the living room inside. No time for that now, there are too many boxes. Too many wonderful memories to explore so he must not waste time sitting like a frozen zombie in front of the image-maker. Time is running out and he sees each sunrise as a blessing. It’s almost a shame he took it all for granted for so long.

The pipe his father left him smells like aged tobacco. He lifts it to his nose and closes his eyes. The magic carpet of his imagination winds him back to when he was just a boy. They were in Clonakilty for a summer holiday. The wind was strong and the smell of the ocean was all around them. His father was smoking a pipe and his brother was laughing hysterically like they always did. He sat and stared at his father for a long while. His father resembled the image of God with his grey whiskers and timely beard. The long slender legs that carried his father to the heavens looked like stone.

The kite they were flying suddenly slipped, streamed and snagged on the wind. It snapped around as his father tried to gain control. The kite then nose-dived and headed hard to the earth. It became one with the sand as it fell like molten lead unable to catch a draft. He had looked at his father that day and realised in a flash that even he couldn’t control everything. Even the man who had always been there would die and leave him. That day he had grown up and hadn’t known it. The aroma of the pipe along the sunny beach is what had brought him sailing back in time.

One day his own son would sit and pick through these treasures. Only the ones that were relevant would remain. Only the things that were important in such a subjective way would one day be relevant.

The swish of the leaves on the old oak out front caught his attention. He sat back letting the objects be for a moment. He stared at the oak that would outlive him wondering about the magic of the loose branches that bent to and fro. He wondered at the elegance of the dancing leaves all spinning and swirling to a thousand different invisible winds. Then he looked through the trees to the horizon and beyond.

"There really are no limits and no boundaries", he whispered.

His voice was full of gravel. Life had taught him this message he spoke out to the world. The universe, the big black star-studded universe, lay beyond the illusion of the cerulean afternoon sky. Immense unending space that travelled everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

He should have been an astronaut soaring to the moon. He should have walked on that far away rock to plant himself in the history books. That had not been his journey. He just sits unwavering. Unafraid. He is unable to bend to the magnificence of his own brittle thoughts. Bone tired. That’s what he is now. He can hardly make the stairs these days. He counts each tender step remembering the days when he could almost fly up them.

It’s time for a nap. Time to go to sleep and dream of the places he has never been. He waits an extra few minutes tidying up the box. He closes the lid realising that he may never see them again. Each minute, each passing second is a precious gift that he has been given. There are no more regrets. Only experiences that have led him to this very porch. Mistakes? He has made many but regrets he has none. This was his life. This was his dream. Maybe if he had been a little less afraid he could have made himself something bright and proud and beautiful. If he had won just one lottery he would have built a library, a school or some building for the poor. Something permanent. Something solid with his name written in bright letters on it.

"Oh well. Sometimes life is both fair and unfair all at the same time".

He picks up one of the cardboard boxes and heads slowly inside. The trees continue swaying in the breeze and the sun continues to move down toward the West horizon. All continues as it was as the old man goes up to rest his aching muscles with the stories of his life strewn in a heap on the front porch. A photograph of him as a boy blows onto the grass and then is picked up again by the wind as it floats effortlessly higher and higher toward the sky.

It had all started so well, I was young and thought only of when I would become a warrior. It was late spring and storehouses were filled up for the coming war.

I was fifteen and foolishly craving for battle. I had been taught from a young age to use the weapons of my trade and longed to try them out in war. Among the ranks I was called ‘boy’ as I was the youngest person and foolish enough to join so young.

I have no real family and therefore had no one to tell me not to join the tribe’s army. My birth name is Roderick. My adoptive family is the tribe’s druid Crabtree and my Uncle Lorcan.

As soon as everything was ready we set off under the banner of the Foxtail to wage war on the Outlanders. The Outlanders live in settlements to the West of our land. In recent raids they had killed ten of our men and made off with many of our animals.

I brought only my shield, spear and sword. Ox carts that were incredibly slow brought all our food and other supplies. As we marched I fell into step with a man called Hirac and we talked in a companionable way. After many days I became fond of Hirac and he told me many stories of the Outlanders. He explained about their Gods and how they were inferior to our Gods. Every night I prayed to the God of Life, Saol, and the God of War, Truid, trying to keep a balance between the two most powerful Gods.

We marched for days and days until we came to the end of our territory. We found our path blocked by a horrifying sight. The heads of our 10 warriors were stuck on spikes. Crabtree, the druid who accompanied us encouraged us to pass. He assured us that there was no curse. Some of the warriors remained unconvinced until he spoke blessings on the dead to eliminate any threat of a curse.

Having passed that gruesome sight we saw no sign of any inhabitants until we came upon the remnants of a camp. Our scouts suggested that the Outlander’s scouts might be watching us so we walked cautiously from then on. Later that afternoon we heard shouts from the back of the line. It became apparent that our ox carts were being attacked. We were ordered to go back and help the beleaguered troops. Hirac shouted advice to me as we ran. Soon two Outlander’s, fierce looking with their blue tattoos, came running towards us uttering blood-curdling screams. I grabbed my spear and aimed it at one of their stomachs and felt the sudden jolt as it plunged into his body. It took my full strength to pull it free as I hastened to ready myself for a further attack but no other attack came.

That day, I felt that I became a man. I had taken the life of a man. Straight afterwards I felt weak at that thought and wanted to cry out loud but I restrained myself. Afterwards Hirac told me that I had done well, better in fact than the other young recruits who were so scared that they ran around putting themselves in great risk of being attacked. Many of them were killed in the attack.

Throughout the following days I was quiet as we marched. I kept thinking about the incident. After a while, however, I realised that if I hadn’t killed my attacker, he would have killed me. All the while Hirac worked to cheer me up by telling me what a good fighter I was. Sometimes he sang war songs to lift my spirits.

We marched for days until we came to a huge open field. At the other end of the field a huge Outlander army was camped. Looking at the numbers of our enemies I could feel my stomach churning with fear.

We made our camp at the edge of the field, hiding half of our numbers in the trees, to conceal our true numbers from the enemy. Hirac told me that we would probably make our battle line the next day at around noon. He told me that there might not be a fight but we would show the enemy that we had as good an army as they had and were unafraid to fight. He also said that we could be camped for as much as a week waiting to see if the fight would take place. I tried to sleep that night but I couldn’t stop worrying about the potential battle.

The following day at noon it was exactly as Hirac had predicted. We lined-up along the field. Our line was three-men deep and one hundred and fifty men wide. Crabtree, Lorcan and our chief Malkin stood in front of our line. The Outlanders did the same only their line was wider than ours. A few men in our army grumbled over that fact. Crabtree walked towards the enemy line spitting and shouting curses. As soon as he started an enemy druid came to counter Crabtree’s curses and shout some of his own at our line.

Malkin ordered us forward and we all marched in line fifty paces towards the enemy. I learned from later experiences that it could take hours for an army to build up the courage to charge an opposing line. About an hour and half after we had lined up the screaming of war cries started. The Outlanders had charged.

I had no idea what to do, I was in a panic. Just as I thought this fight would be my last Hirac told me calmly to kneel down keep my shield in against my chest and point my spear out. I did exactly as I was told and watched in horror as hundreds of blue tattooed warriors were running towards our line desperate for blood. Then the dreaded moment came when the armies met. The clash of steel, wood and bone could be heard for miles. Then the screaming came, terrible shrieks of pain.

I sruck a charging Outlander in the throat with my spear. He tried to scream but the blow had taken his last breath. As he fell he looked at me and then the last of life left him. I drew my sword, gripped it tightly and started screaming as I slashed down another man.

An animal instinct takes over in battle, it cannot be described or got anywhere else. It is the feeling that your life is on the line, that every breath could be your last. This instinct took over me as I slashed, parried and stabbed. I called the enemy every name I could think of as I screamed my war cry.

After we broke the enemy line and chased the fleeing survivors I was still screaming, both with anger and terror. Suddenly someone grabbed my arm as I ran. I turned swinging my sword until I realised it was Hirac. His arms were covered with blood, some of which was his own.

He told me that our chief Malkin had been wounded and Crabtree was tending him. Hirac had only a small wound on his shoulder. I was so happy that the fight was over, that we won and that I was still alive. We camped beside the field for around a week and then headed home, victorious.

After the battle I decided to stay in the army. I loved every moment of fighting and the joy of victory. I fought by Hirac’s side in every fight after that because he taught me how to survive in warfare.

Now that I am old I realise how foolish I was at that age. I now know that I should not have taken so much joy out of war and killing.

It had all started so well. I walked into school the first day that year, in my oversized uniform and new squeaky shoes, and Tiffany came running up to me and started chatting - had I a good summer, did I go on holidays.... I just stared. Tiffany McKenna talking to me. Me. But why? I wondered did she want to copy my French or borrow some money. So I just obediently answered her questions and nodded. She noticed my dazed expression but chose to ignore it.

"Hey Liz, do you wanna sit next to me in English?"

I couldn’t take it anymore. This had to be a set-up. There was no way the most popular girl would suddenly want to be friends with me.

"Are you sure you don’t need anything, like homework, or something?" I ventured. "No!" she said sounding shocked. Then added "Sally does my homework for me".

"Oh"…

So we sat together. And the class after. And the one after that. I noticed her best friend from last year, Diane, was sitting at the opposite side of the room, and they avoided each other all day.

Then, at lunch, although I wanted to sit next to Marianne, Tiffany dragged me to her table. While I nibbled my sandwich, I listened, enthralled, to Tiffany telling stories of her yacht, her pony, and her villa in Greece.

The next day I went in feeling certain she’d return to ignoring me, but she seemed just as desperate for my attention as before.

Then at lunch, she sniggered and said, "Follow me!".

She walked up to Mandy, grinned at me, and snatched the money on the bench beside Mandy. Mandy protested in a quavering voice, "Hey, g-give that b-back!" "Give what back?" she asked innocently, and ran off giggling.

In that same lunchtime, she managed to sneer at Jodie’s hair scrunchie and to throw Diane’s sandwiches in the loo. I was unsure at first, but soon I became as confident in teasing the others as her. I loved the fact that I got away with taking their chocolate. I loved that everyone was willing to do my homework. I loved that people were so afraid of me, they all wanted to be my friend.

But one day, a few months later, as our "gang" (Tiffany, Tanya and I) were walking to the bus stop, Tiffany spotted Marianne and muttered, "An easy target", She and Tanya sidled up to Marianne and grabbed her schoolbag. Marianne yelled, but they took no notice, emptying her books onto the puddles everywhere.

Marianne flashed me a pleading glance and I sprung into action. I leapt forward and yanked Tiffany’s hair, screaming at her to stop. She spun round and smacked me in the face. Then we really started fighting, kicking, punching, pulling, shouting, with Tanya and Marianne bellowing advice in the background.

I pushed Tiffany off me, but she summoned her strength and shoved me with all her might. I landed in the road, but scrambled to my feet almost immediately. Then time itself stood still. I saw Tanya and Marianne staring, shell-shocked, eyes wide, mouths open. I saw Tiffany looking horrified, like a rabbit cowering in its burrow. Then I turned, and saw the bus.

Chapter 1

It had all started so well. When my parents told me that I was going to an all girl’s boarding school in the middle of nowhere, I was thrilled. OK, maybe it might sound bad to you, but it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I mean, well, my parents are always shouting. It’s either at me, or it’s at each other. "Katy! You left your bedroom untidy!". "Katy! Stop watching TV and do your homework!" or it’s "Dan! You’re late again!" or its "Sarah! You dyed my boxer shorts pink!" Or something along those lines. I’m just going to have a ball! I’m starting on Monday, so I’ll have to start packing.

Dear Diary,

Well, here I am at last. I’ve left Mum and Dad arguing as usual. Mum had wanted me to pack everything but the kitchen sink, and Dad had wanted me to be there half an hour early. I don’t know why they have to fuss all the time. I’m really looking forward to having some peace – mind you, this school looks really whacky! For a start, its name. Nowherestown School for Young Ladies! What kind of name is that! It really is in the middle of nowhere! It’s a huge old building, very spooky. It must once have been a convent, all those windows and a huge arch at the gateway.

When Mum and Dad drove up the avenue, an old weird looking lady came to greet us. She introduced herself as Thelma Burgerbite, the headmistress. She had a very bad smell, just like Dad’s socks, I can’t begin to tell you how bad that is. She wore her jet-black back in a tight bun, her pointy glasses perched on the end of her humungous nose. Her clothes were strange. She had a black top, snotty green skirt, and black lace boots, with red socks peeping over. Yuck! I really should report her to the fashion police. She put her arm around me, while we waved goodbye to Mum and Dad. She led me inside, where a girl, the same height as me was standing. Miss Burgerbite’s smile disappeared, and an evil smirk appeared. Then she said "Lucy dear, bring Katy up to Dorm 103, and tell her about the ways of our school".

The dorm was dark and miserable. Lucy pointed to a bed in between two beds on which two girls were lying. They both seemed to know each other because they were deep in conversation. I stood there. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever felt shy. I walked over to my bed, and threw my suitcase onto it. Then the two girls on the bed introduced themselves. "My name’s Jody and this is Isabelle. "Hi", I said quietly. I didn’t have anything to say, so I started unpacking.

Chapter 2

Our unpacking finished, Jody, Isabelle and I thought we might have a little peep around the school. There was a long corridor to our left. We tiptoed down in case any teachers heard us. There were lots and lots of doors, with numbers on them. We finally came to the end of the corridor. A large bookcase sat there. Isabelle let out a sigh, and said, "Oh, great exploring! Lets head back to the dorm guys".

As we turned around, we heard a commotion and a strange shuffling noise. Out came the hippy art teacher, Zelda Beatnik. She was crawling out of her bedroom, on her hands and knees, with a determined and mad look on her face. She held a hairbrush in her hand, she put a finger to her lip, to gesture to us to stay quiet. She looked quite a state, with her mop of red frizzy hair, untidy and wild. Her skirt was tucked into her knickers to help her to crawl better. She also had stripy socks on under her hippy sandals. Just in front of her was a little mouse, which didn’t seem in the least put out. Suddenly, Miss Beatnik lunged forward ferociously, attempting to hit the mouse with her hairbrush. We watched with our mouths open at this very weird scene. The mouse had got away and now was nowhere to be seen. She stood up, forgetting that her skirt was still tucked into her knickers. "Drat! That was my cat’s dinner! Ah well, I’ve got plenty more in the fridge! And with that, she turned around and walked back into her room.

Suddenly a loud piercing sound came from the walls. It was the school bell calling us for dinner. Isabelle and Jody were already headed down the hall, so I ran to catch up with them. When I did, we found our way back to the dorm. Lucy was inside instructing everyone to go downstairs and into the hall for dinner. Jody, Isabelle and I walked down the stairs together. After the revolting dinner, which consisted of overcooked liver, in a slimy sauce, and a "dessert" of glue thick, stale custard, we headed back to our dorm in single file, past a scowling Miss Burgerbite. "Good evening Miss Burgerbite", said Lucy smarmingly. What a suck up!

Chapter 3

On Tuesday morning, we started school off as normal. When we were just starting Irish, the fire alarm went off…

Everybody was rushed out into the yard. Miss Grungethrup was running around with the fire extinguisher. First let me tell you about Miss Grungethrup, our form teacher. She’s awful. Warts all over her face, and wrinkled hands. She also picks her hairy nose.

After half an hour standing in the freezing cold air, Miss Burgerbite came out. She told us the fire was in Miss Grungethrup’s room, and she would be investigating this matter. She walked back in with a grin on her face. For the rest of the day we got to play in the yard, while pupils from fifth and sixth year were questioned by Miss Grungethrup in her study.

Chapter 4

Dear Diary,

This morning we were all herded into class. Miss Grungethrup had an announcement. "Nobody claims to know anything about this fire. But I know you did it because you hate me. Don’t think you’re going to get away with this, because you’re not. You’ll all be doing chores, such as: Cleaning the toilets, washing all the dishes, walking my dog Precious, you also have to mind Precious while I’m in town getting my hair done and my manicure, sweeping the yard, and carrying my bags and my books everywhere.

She sounds as though she’s pleased that her room went on fire, because now she gets treated like royalty. It’s so unfair! We didn’t do it! Bet she did it with all the cigarettes she smokes! Maybe not. I wonder who really did start the fire. It would be so much fun to find out who did it.

Goodnight.

Chapter 5

Dear Diary,

I spoke to Jody and Isabelle today. They thought it was a brilliant idea to do some detective work, but Jody seemed a bit scared. Perhaps a ghost set fire to Miss Grungethrup’s room, and he might come after us, she said. Isabelle looked at her in disgust. "Oh, grow up, you’re such a baby". "I wonder if there is any secret passage for anyone to get in, to start the fire," I said. "I saw a fire escape map of the school downstairs".

So we headed downstairs. The map was hanging on the back of the front door. It was a small plan so we had to look closely at it. We looked for dorm 103, and I traced the corridor with my finger to the end of the landing, to the door of Miss Grungethrup’s room, which was beside Miss Beatnik’s room and the old bookcase. Something was not right about the corridor.

"There must be a door behind the bookcase, because there’s a room on the map behind where the bookcase sits." I said. We were shocked and excited at the same time at this discovery. We shot up to the bookcase as fast as lightening.

"We have to move it," said Isabelle. But as she spoke, Miss Grungethrup peered around the door. "Who’s making that awful noise? Go back to your dorm at once and get ready for bed"

We decided to get up early in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and everyone will have a sleep in. So we will be left to investigate in peace.

Dear Diary,

We got up at seven o’clock, dressed very quietly and tiptoed down to the bookcase. Isabelle and I heaved and pushed, and gradually the bookcase slid forward on the old floorboards. In the silence the sound of our noise seemed deafening. Finally, we were able to see the door behind the bookcase. We held our breath. What lay beyond?

We turned the handle and the door creaked open. To our horror a swarm of rats ran out. I opened my mouth to scream, but Isabelle put her hand over my mouth before I had a chance. Her eyes were wide and she was pointing at something. I looked in the direction of what she was pointing to.

It was dark, but a shaft of light shone from a high window on to a table in the middle of the room. On the table lay a bundle of the most glistening jewellery we had ever seen. The ceiling glowed with the reflection, pools of red and blue and twinkling white lights form the diamonds. We were dumbstruck.

Jodie crept up to the table trying not to disturb anything. She picked something up from the table and gazed at it for a minute. Then she held it out to us.

"It’s Miss Burgerbite. Look, she’s holding the jewels!". The picture was of Miss Burgerbite posing in a dramatic gesture, showing off the jewellery.

We looked around the room to see if there were any more clues to this mystery. As we looked around in the half darkness, I saw a cloak hanging on a hook on the back of the door. It looked like a nun’s uniform, which is in fact what it was. On the wall was an old and dusty photograph. I dusted it with my sleeve. I could now see it properly. It was a group of nuns standing outside our school. I looked at the faces. To my amazement, one of the nuns was Miss Burgerbite! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Miss Burgerbite used to be a nun!

Suddenly, Isabelle gasped. "I remember now where I saw these jewels. They were on Crimewatch. There was a break-in at old Mrs. William’s house. She was always very wealthy. We must take these to the police.

Stuffing our pockets with the photograph and the jewels, we quickly ran out of the room and pushed the bookcase back. We ran and ran until we reached the Garda Station. We presented the jewels to Garda Sergeant Murphy, who took a statement, and told us that Miss Williams had offered a reward of six hundred pounds. We couldn’t believe it. Then two gardai drove us back to the school, and, after a search, arrested Miss Burgerbite.

Dear Diary,

Guess what was in the paper today. The whole story. Sister Thelma Burgerbite visited lonely old Mrs Williams and saw the jewels there. Then the convent closed and Sister Thelma left. She set up the school with her "friend" Miss Betty Grungethrup. Times were hard at first, so she decided to steal the jewels. Miss Grundgethrup found out and started to blackmail her. Miss Burgerbite decided to burn down her room in an attempt to murder her. And to think we were being blamed!

We’ve just heard there’s a new headmistress coming. Her name is Miss Rosie, and they say she’s very nice. That will make a change. But one thing’s for sure. School will never be the same again!

"It had all started so well", said middle-aged Sergeant Giles, looking at the body, then taking another swig of brandy. He had taken a case of them along and had been putting them away, one after another, all the night.

"Are you talkin’ ‘bout Lee’s point of view, or your’s?……err, Sergeant?" the younger, Private Stevens said. He was worrying about the old man and his metabolism, and he thought a bit of conversation would take his mind off alcohol for a while.

"Naah, nobody’s point or opinion, and you know we don’t really know it was Lee. We don’t even know if he was at the scene of the crime!"

"But he was in past crimes, through cigarette robberies, safe blowing, even alcohol stealing," "That don’t mean he turned to assassination for money, if he did it for money, that is. Could a’ done it for his country, like old Booth did to Lincoln". "But Oswald’s from the U.S.A. too!!" Stevens protested, standing up for the first time.

This was the first time Lee’s last name had been mentioned. Lee Harvey Oswald, was the most suspected for the murder of John F. Kennedy. But, like Giles had said, they didn’t know it was him.

Giles paused. The new recruit, the new scum Stevens, was obviously dumber than he looked. A handsome blonde, who looked more suited to working in a toy store, with his friendly face, hadn’t fully figured out the ways of the authorities yet. He did his work quickly, ran out to the patrol car and put the siren on for a bunch of nine year olds nickin’ some candy bars, and all the rest of it, like in that old movie, about the little kid who turns into a 30-year old overnight. Big. Good film.

"You do realise I was just making a suggestion. He could have done it for something other than money, if he did it. We don’t know. We’re not him."

Stevens realised this immediately, grunted, and the two men went out of the morgue, and home for the night.

"Sergeant Giles!!! Sergeant Giles!!!" The young nineteen year old reporter hurried to catch up with the old man. Giles realised the girl wanted to talk to him. He had seen her, and had realized she’d make a good wife for one of the new recruits. Maybe Mulryan, with the snub nose. Perhaps McDonnell, with the multi-coloured eyes. Could be that young lad he’d got drunk with last night. Stevens.

"Sergeant!!!!!" Please!!!! I have a news story!!!" The young reporter started to get on whining tones with the old man, so he broke into a run.

Eventually, the reporter caught up with the old man, and he pretended to be angry with her, going on about a busy schedule and all this. The reporter stayed and accepted the insults with grace.

Giles realized she was just like Stevens, desperate to get her job right. He reckoned she had just become a reporter, as Stevens had recently become an authority.

"My name is Ms. Worthbeck, and I was wondering if I could have half an hour of your time, to do a report on the John F. Kennedy case".

"We don’t need half an hour, we’ve got five minutes right here, have we not? Here’s the story; he was shot, we don’t know who did it, they’re electing someone else, the end. Now can you leave me alone, to get on with my work?"

"Please Sir, stop being sarcastic. I asked the desk clerk and she said you had nothing to do, that you’d be willing to take an interview, so please?"

Giles thought to himself: "Damn Maud!!!" Then he answered. "All right, I’ll give you a quick interview, but it better be fast."

"Trust me sir, in and out," Worthbeck answered.

"Okay, now step into my office", he said. They walked a few minutes, then he held the door open for her. Then he muttered under his breath "And it better be worth it".

"Well what kind of material do you want?" Giles asked after taking a swig of whiskey from a half drunk can.

"Anything. Absolutely anything at all, as long as it has to do with the Kennedy case," replied the younger, Ms Worthbeck.

Giles paused, took another swig of whiskey, threw the can in the trashcan under his desk, and continued. "There’s not much I can tell you. Basically all I said outside. But we did notice some startling similarities between the Lincoln case and this one. Take a look at this, sweetie" handing her a small, computer-typed piece of paper:

"Very startling, I must agree", said the reporter. Giles replied with a nod, then said, "I suppose you want me to give you a big long speech, eh?" Worthbeck nodded back. So Giles put on his "doing my duty" voice, stood up and explained what he thought of the situation, how they were dealing with it and so on, while Ms. Worthbeck scribbled furiously.

"Well that’s about all the information I can give you, so just take a look at these files for the technical stuff," Sergeant Giles said, while standing up and turning around to get a folder from a shelf on the wall. When he turned around, Ms. Worthbeck was pointing a 32. calibre gun at him.

His hands automatically shot up in the air, dropping the folder. She quickly explained she was really Ms. Oswald, née Worthbeck, and had come to see what the police thought of the situation. Then she shot him and parachuted out the window.

It had all started so well. Everyone was going to do something, even Mary and she usually chickens out of everything. We had a meeting to decide what everyone was going to do. Michael, the oldest of the group and the group leader, told me to get some fireworks. "But we have fifty already!" I protested. "Angie, we need all we can get. I won’t be here next year, remember?" Micheal replied. I reluctantly agreed, but told him that, if I got caught I’d tell mum it was his idea. None of us were prepared for what was goint to happen, especially Micheal.

Later when we all spilt up to get supplies, instead of going my usual way home, the park, I took a right down an alley and then a left to get to the kids’ black market. No parents or any adults for that matter knew about the market. They do know now though. Anyway, it’s where you can buy all sorts of stuff that you can’t buy in ordinary markets and stuff you could only you’re too young. Handily enough, they specialize in fireworks. So I went along the stalls until I found one completely devoted to fireworks. It had squibs, Roman candles, Catherine wheels, rockets, crackers, Bengal lights, fire-balloons and much, much more. I must have spent a year’s, no two year’s pocket money that day. I couldn’t bring them back to the camp because I knew no-one would be there, and I couldn’t leave them there all night because if it rained, they’d get all wet and wouldn’t work, then I’d be for it! I knew I’d have to take them home. It was twelve O’clock when I got back and I had to sneak straight upstairs. Luckily, mum thought I was already in.

The next day I headed to the camp, before anyone in my family woke up. That night was Halloween night. I put my fireworks on the pile that had already been set up by Micheal. When everyone got there and Micheal called the meeting to order, no-one could have even with a wild guess have possible known what would happen in a few hours.

It was really dark that night because of all the clouds, but we all knew that behind the clouds was a full moon. We had always thought of a dark night as a good omen, but that Halloween it wasn’t. First we set off some squibs, then some crackers and fire-balloons. Then we started having races. We all chose a rocket, they were all set off at the same time and the one that went the highest or blew up first or something like that was the winner.

When at last all the fireworks had been set off and we all started to go home, Micheal said "look what I’ve got". We all looked and saw that he had the biggest rocket any of us had ever seen. He set up a new piece of earth and placed the rocket on the ground. He lit the fuse and ran over to us. We waited five minutes and the firework didn’t go off. Micheal took a step towards it, but Rachel grabbed his sleeve. "You’re not supposed to approach it for ten minutes Micheal", she said sternly. "Ten minutes my eye"! said Micheal angrily as he shook her off and started to walk towards the rocket. Little did he know how right he was.

What happened next was so unexpected, so unreal, that it was like a movie. Micheal leaned over the rocket and accidentally kicked it. It blew up and hit him in the face. We all screamed. From then on everything happened so quickly. Someone must have heard us, came to see what was the matter, saw Micheal and called an ambulance, because the next thing we knew was Micheal was being carted off the hospital and we’re all being told to go home.

Later on, all our parents got a phone call, it was from Micheal’s parents. They wanted to say that the doctors had to take out one eye and his face had got some serious burns but he would be fine. His parents also wanted to say goodbye from him, since he would not be able to in person. They said that because of the accident they were going to move as soon as possible.

The next day the club held a final meeting, without Micheal of course. At the end, Sammy the youngest, said, so innocently "I wonder if when he’s better Micheal will come back?" No-one said anything for a while afterward. Then we all started to drift home. In my head I answered Sammy’s question. After what had happened what reason could Micheal possibly have to come back.