“Your change, sir.”

The baker slid three coins across the counter, his eyes still locked on the stranger.

The other man nodded, and took the loaf in one hand. With the other, he slid the coins into his pouch. “Thank you," he muttered, and left the counter without another word. The baker pursed his lips, and watched as the stranger walked back out, into the cold evening air.

Outside, the man buttoned his coat, and tucked the bread beneath his cloak. He walked in the shadows, avoiding the gaslights where possible, and increasing his stride where not. As he walked, he held his belt, and felt the weight of his money pouch. It had lost half its burden since he had set out three weeks ago. Since he had escaped.

Soon, the man left the glow of Main Street, and turned onto a side road, where suddenly, he came to a halt. A poster sketch of his homely face was pasted to the wall like a theatre playbill. Below it, in large, bold letters: WANTED.

Beneath that, larger still: REWARD.

The man cursed and wrapped his cloak tightly around his body. He pulled his scarf up to shield his face, and glanced back down the street. Thankfully, the area was deserted.

He turned from the wall and continued walking, his heart now thumping hard in his chest. On every corner, another of the damned posters advertised for his capture. Eventually, he stopped, and with a final tug at his scarf to check it was secure, he began to run.

When he reached the forest, the sun had disappeared from the sky and only a sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds above. The cottage sat in darkness, shielded by the trees, and made ugly by the black scorch marks covering its bricks. The man climbed across the burnt timber and through the broken frame which had once held the front door.

Once inside, he removed his eye-patch and looked down the hallway. Vandals had long-since stripped it of anything that they could sell, leaving only the stone walls intact. Even the straw roof was gone.

The man exhaled, and saw his breath fogging in the night air. He shivered involuntarily.

At the end of the hallway, one room was more intact than the others. He stood in its doorway, and examined the scene. The charred remains of a wardrobe lay on the floor, but here at least, the roof was intact. Still, something was out of place.

Had the blanket been moved?

He shook his head, but could not dismiss the thought. After a moment, he bit his lip and walked inside. He placed the bread, and a lump of cheese onto the stone fireplace and looked around. The room was empty, but it was no longer safe.

Even if nobody had come, he thought, the posters in town ensured that he would soon be recognised. He would leave at first light then, and hope that if he ran far enough, he could leave the posters behind.

With that thought, the man lay down and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, and soon fell into a troubled sleep.

Several hours later, he awoke with a start, and sat upright on the floor. The room was still dark, and his clothes felt cold and clammy against his skin. He held his breath and listened. Was it just the rustle of leaves? No.

“Who’s there?” he called.

The man rose, shivering, to his feet, and glanced around the room. It was empty, but still, he felt a presence, as if somebody was watching him.

“Show yourself!” he roared, his voice quivering as he took a knife from his belt. It was her. It had to be. His heart began pounding in his chest once more.

Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice, close, laughing.

“My dear, you must know a knife would be useless against me.”

The man turned, and found himself staring at a squat figure, dressed in a lavender robe with an oversized purple ribbon clasp. He jumped back, waving the knife towards her.

“Ah-ah-ah!” the woman chided, and with a flick of her wrist, a thin silver wand appeared in her hand. He dropped the knife and turned towards the doorway, but as he did, a stream of starlight burst from the wand. It circled the fallen wardrobe, and threw it across his path.

He spun to face her once more.

“Please, no!”

The man’s back pressed hard against the wardrobe, his hands and fingers clasping against its rotten frame.

“Please! Don’t take me back!”

“Now, now. You’ve had your fun,” she said with a maternal scowl, “but it’s naughty to stay out when it’s time to come in.”

She crossed her arms resolutely and nodded, now standing less than a yard away. The man sank trembling to the ground, his eyes wide and filled with tears.

“No! You don't have to do this, please!”

The woman shook her head and smiled as she flicked her wand once more.

Starlight enveloped him, and as it did, the skin tightened across his face. A prickling sensation swept through his body, and he whimpered in pain. The woman said nothing, but watched as her spell began to take hold. He grew smaller and smaller, his skin harder and greener, and his eyes began to turn from light blue to dark gold.

The man writhed in agony until a final, pitiful word escaped his lips.

“Please.”

Within seconds, he had disappeared inside his clothes. He was soon smaller than a wriggling baby but still, the woman waited. Eventually, the movement stopped, and a lizard’s head peaked through the neck of his shirt.

She smiled, satisfied that she had completed her work, then turned away.

I really must be more careful with magic in future, the woman thought as she began to disappear. Two slippers and a footman failing to change back at midnight – what would the other Godmothers think?

Once upon a time, Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, of 23 Mousely Way, had a baby who they called Peter. "We shall name him after my father," said Mr. Mouse, as he gazed into the crib, and Mrs. Mouse agreed because her husband's father had been brave and bold.

Mr. and Mrs. Mouse were very proud of their son, and soon realised that he was the cleverest mouse in all the land. "He can count to twelve, and knows all the colours of the rainbow!" said Mrs. Mouse.

After a great many years, Peter grew big and strong. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse gave their son a great big hug, and sent him off to nearby Mouse University. Peter studied day and night, night and day, and soon he knew everything there was to know. The head of the professors was very impressed.

"Come work for me, Peter," said the head of the professors. "You are the cleverest mouse I have ever seen." So Peter started to work at Mouse University, teaching the students all he knew.

"A cat has nine lives," he said to his class one day, "But mice only have one. That is why a mouse must always be careful as he goes about his day."

Eventually, the head of the professors decided that Peter should be his assistant head. “You are the brightest and bravest mouse in all the land," said the head of the professors, “I can think of no-one better to take this job.”

And so he did.

One day, Peter was sitting in his office when a knock came on the door. "Come in," said Peter, who would never stand on ceremony. Behind the door stood Mrs. Hamster, looking very worried. "Oh, Professor Mouse," she said, "You have an invitation! Professor Tabby would like you to lecture at Cat University!"

Mrs. Hamster was afraid, but Peter was not. "Fear not, Mrs. Hamster," he laughed, "I shall go to see the Professor this very day!"

After a very filling lunch, Peter set off down the road. "But the cats will eat you!" cried his students, following along, "They have nine lives, and you have but one!" Peter was very proud. "You have remembered what I taught you," he said, "But my grandfather was brave and bold, and so am I," and on he marched.

"I can outwit any cat I see," he said.

After a long walk, Peter arrived at the gates of Cat University. "Let me in, for I am the bravest mouse in all the land," he said, "And I am here to see Professor Tabby!" The gates opened, and through he walked, swinging his arms from side to side.

Inside the great hall, Peter met a small black and white cat. "Professor Tabby, I presume. I am Peter Mouse," he said, and bowed. But the cat did not do the same. Instead, it licked its lips and looked him up and down. "You have been tricked, Professor Mouse," said the cat, as it removed its monocle. All of a sudden, Peter did not feel very brave at all.

"While you were here, the other cats have been to Mouse Town. They have eaten all your friends, as I am going to eat you!"

Peter jumped, and quick as a wink, he disappeared into the darkness.

"Where have you gone?" called the cat as he crawled across the hall. "I will catch you, Peter Mouse!" But Peter had vanished. In fact, he was already running back along the road.

"What good luck I remembered that open window!" he thought.

At last, Peter got back to Mouse Town, but nobody else was there. "Hello?" called Peter, "Is there anyone there?" But there was not. "Oh no," he thought, "I have let the cats trick me, and all my friends have been eaten!" Peter was so sad that he cried all the way back to Mouse University. “Mother, and father, even poor Mrs. Hamster," he sobbed, "All gone."

But then, he heard a noise over his head. Above the way in to his office, there hung a string attached to the attic door. He reached up, and with a mighty tug, pulled the door open.

"Mother!" he cried.

"Ouch!"

"Father!"

"Oof!"

"Mrs. Hamster!"

"Squeak!"

All at once, two dozen mice fell down on top of Peter, knocking him to the floor. His friends from the town, and even his students were there.

"I thought you had been eaten!" he cried, "How did you escape the cats?"

"A mouse must always be careful as he goes about his day," laughed the head of the professors, "And so your students helped us hide when we saw the cats arrive."

"They found the town empty, and so went home hungry," said Peter's father, and Peter was glad.

“I have learned a lesson today,” said Peter as he helped his mother off the floor. “It is important to be brave, but far more important to be clever.”

And all the mice cheered.

It felt damn good to drive this car, Bill thought as he turned off the slip road and sped out onto the motorway. He eased down on the accelerator with his right foot and felt the Porsche rumble beneath him, purring like a contented cat. The whole experience made him feel like a man, powerful and in control. Of course, that was how the Bill Kettle saw himself, and that was how he wanted the world to see him too.

He flicked his thumb over the smooth black button at the side of the wheel, and above him, the canvas roof began to retract into the car’s sleek frame. He laughed as the wind whipped through his dark, curly hair. ‘This is it, Bill’ he thought, ‘You’ve finally hit the big time.’ After everything he had put up with, his life was finally coming together. He let a whoop of delight.

Bill was forty-four years old, and for the past three of those years, he had worn an engraved wedding band on his left ring finger. The ring now sat hidden, deep in the shadows of his glove compartment.

As he sped down the smooth, open road, he pressed ‘5’ on his phone’s speed-dial. There was a moment’s pause, and the speakers in the leather dash told him it was connecting. He reached across the passenger seat and popped the glove compartment open with a gentle clunk.

The car-phone clicked, and a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Sandy, babe. It’s Bill. How’s every little thing?”

“Bill!” his wife cried, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s so good to hear you, honey. Are you coming home? Tell me you’re coming home!”

The grin which hadn’t left his face all morning, widened further. She wanted him, and nothing in the world could compare to that feeling.

“I sure am, sweetie,” he replied, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling its contents onto the passenger seat. “We finished up this morning. Everything’s signed and sealed.”

His wife let an audible squeal of excitement.

“Oh my God, that’s great, Bill! How many did you sell?”

He let her wait a few seconds as he rooted through the clutter on the passenger seat: his wedding ring, some sales papers, and most memorably, a pair of red silk panties. He slipped the ring onto his finger, and wrapped the delicates around his wrist.

“Bill, are you there, honey?”

He flicked his eyes back to the road. “Sorry babe. I’m on the motorway and traffic’s a bitch.”

It was just one of the little lies Bill Kettle allowed himself. Sandy hated lies, even white ones, but they kept his marriage from getting dull. In the end, he thought, what was good for him was good for her.

“So?” she prodded, “How many?”

“Twenty”

She gasped. “All... all twenty? Bill, are you serious?” She sounded incredulous, and as she spoke, he caught a glimpse of himself grinning in the rear view mirror. For ten years, he had slaved as a junior manager in her father’s textile plant. Now, after one trip for his new employers, he had earned what would once have been his salary for a year.

“Every last one of them, babe,” he replied. “Twenty potential clients on the list, twenty new companies using OmniMax.”

“Oh Bill, honey that’s great news. I’ll have to prepare something special for you when you get home. I’m just so happy. All twenty!”

He raised an eyebrow, “How about that lacy black number you got at Christmas – the one with the frills?” She laughed, “Maybe, but only if you’re very lucky, honey bear.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

And that was the truth. He liked to think of Sandy as a ‘stone-cold fox’ - one of those women every man wanted, and every woman secretly wanted to be.

“So what time can I expect you home?”

He checked the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. 15:30. “Shouldn’t be too long, babe. I’ll be in before dinner if the traffic eases off.”

Ahead of him, the motorway was clear to the horizon, but selling even a small lie takes some embellishment.

“Okay, honey. Keep your eyes on the road and come home safe. I’ll have that surprise ready and waiting.” “

He laughed. “I’ll look forward to it, babe. Say hi to Boo for me.”

“I will. Ciao, honey.”

“Ciao for now.”

The car phone’s speaker clicked, and the red light above its “Call Status” button blinked off. Bill checked his speed gauge, and pressed down on the accelerator once more. Beneath him, the Porsche gathered speed like a sprinting cheetah. 100, 125, 160.

He lifted his right hand from the wheel, and unwrapped the panties from around his wrist. They were as soft as the sultry brunette who had worn them getting into the car last night.

It felt good to be king.

A sign to the right of the road read “Dunshank: 100km,” but Bill Kettle sped past without reading it. He raised his right hand into the air, and let the wind catch the panties like a kite before a gale. With a flourish, he let the delicates go – and the last evidence of his infidelity flew into anonymity.

2/14

Dunshank passed in a blur, drawing not even a glance from the salesman. He grinned as the Porsche blasted AC/DC along the road, the only way in or out of town, and for the thirty seconds he was there, he kept his eyes on the asphalt. He thought about the uneducated farmers who lived here, who would for their entire lives remain within an hour’s drive of the motorway slip. It was a poor excuse for life.

Beyond Dunshank lay kilometres of open fields, most of them filled with cows and sheep, but ahead, just below the horizon, he saw something at the side of the road that sent an icy shiver down his spine.

He turned off the music and applied his brakes gradually, dropping down to sixty so he could get a good look. At first, it had seemed little more than a collection of rags, abandoned by some careless villager. However, as he grew closer, he realised with dread that he had made a mistake. The day was warm and the air still. As the Porsche slowed, even the illusion of wind vanished, and yet the bundle of rags continued to move.

After a few seconds, Bill passed the bundle, and looking closer, saw the dirty face of a pale, red headed boy.

“Jesus Christ!”

He slammed on the breaks, and threw his door open. Leaping out, he circled the car and ran onto road’s dusty verge. Already, he could hear a muffled whimpering from the ragged bundle, and he threw himself onto the ground beside it.

“Hey! Hello?” he said as he rested his hand on the top of the bundle. The cloths wrapped around the kid were dirty but well-kept, and their purple and yellow pattern struck him as distantly familiar. He had more important concerns now, though. The little boy was shivering, and in obvious distress.

“Hey there, sport,” he said, lowering his face to the cocooned child. The kid looked maybe six or seven – the same age as Boo – and had fresh tears running down his face. Bill shook his head at the picture, and hunkered down, the knuckle of his right hand brushing against the dirt. “Hey little man, are you all right?”

The boy peeked up at him, a look of terror in his wide, blue eyes.

Bill pulled the rags back a few inches, and placed his palm on the boy’s shoulder, “What happened to you, kid? Where are your parents?”

The boy stared back at him, and tears began to run down his cheeks once more.

He didn’t answer. Bill looked the kid over, and bit his lip. He wondered what horror could have landed the kid here, and if that same nightmare could have made him mute.

“My mum’s dead,” the kid eventually replied, rubbing his right eye with the back of his palm.

“I’m sorry to hear that, bucko,” Bill said, squeezing the child’s shoulder. “Is your dad nearby?”

The boy’s eyes dropped to the ground, and he resumed his silence. Bill let a minute pass in silence, and realised his opportunity was lost. He nodded, and stood to his full six feet, “Alright then,” he said, “I’ll call an ambulance.” He reached inside the lining of his thin, Italian business jacket, and extracted his mobile phone. It was a touch screen model, and he had already dialled ‘9-9-‘ when the boy cried and reached out a spindly arm.

“Mister, don’t!”

Bill paused, his finger hovering over the final button. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at the kid. “Are you going to tell me who you are?” The boy nodded, and Bill lowered his phone, and slipped it back into his pocket.

He put his hands on his hips and hunkered back down.

“So what’s your name, kid?”

“B... Billy Stanton,” he stuttered, and then: “43 Hebron Terrace, Kildera, Co. Meath.” The words tumbled from his mouth like an avalanche.

Bill nodded. He could work with that. He knelt down, and used his best reassuring voice – the one he normally tried when a customer was trying to slip the line.

“Well," he said. "‘Billy’ is my name too. Well, my boss calls me Mr. Kettle, and my friends call me Bill.” He paused. “You can call me Bill, if you’d like.” He smiled that old familiar grin, the one he had rehearsed for days in front of the mirror, but the kid didn’t bite. He looked away.

Bill was about to take out his phone once more, when his young namesake looked up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bill”, the boy said. “He’s making...”

As he spoke, Bill suddenly heard a noise behind him – a clatter of footsteps racing across the gravel. He spun, just in time to see a thin, bearded man in jeans and a blue sweatshirt lunge at him from across the verge.

Bill raised his hands in front of his face, but he it was too late. His assailant slammed into him, sending them both spinning to the ground, the attacker on top. The bearded man held a cloth in one hand, and slammed it into Bills face before he had a chance to react. It was wet, and stank of rotten eggs. Bill struggled, trying to force the man off him, but suddenly felt woozy. His hearing went faint and everything began to spin. The man stood up, and Bill struggled to do the same, but tripped on the rags behind him and collapsed again.

He hit the ground with a dull thud, and suddenly, everything went black.

3/15

“He’s awake... dad,” a young voice spoke in the darkness. A series of images flashed through Bill's mind; a bundle of multi-coloured rags, the road, the bearded man. He let an involuntary moan and coughed.

“The chloroform’s wearing off,” a deeper voice replied, “Don’t worry.”

Bill’s throat was raw and sore. His entire body was numb, and it took him few seconds to force his eyes open. He was sitting on a wooden chair.

At first, there was nothing but blinding light, and he threw his head backwards to protect his eyes. “Wh... where am I?” he stammered. He turned his head from left to right, but the light, which he now realised was in front of him, made it impossible to see anything nearby.”Who are you?”

Somebody else was in the room. He could hear them breathing, but no response was forthcoming. “Billy, sport, is that you? Who’s there?”

The numbness almost gone now, he struggled to move his arms, and found that they were tied to the chair with rope, his legs the same. He fought against the bindings for a moment, and realised they were too tight to escape. It was like a scene from a bad movie.

To his right, he heard a series of heavy footsteps crossing the floor. “Billy, come over here please,” the man said, somewhere behind him. He had a deep voice, a spoke in a halting, but serious tone.

Several seconds passed in silence, and then he spoke again. “Billy, please, this is for your own good.”

Bill didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice. It sounded desperate, unstable.

“Here, take this.”

“This isn’t fair,” Billy replied.

“Just go get yourself something in the shop. Please.”

“I hate you.”

The words lingered in the air like a foul stench, until Bill heard the slow creak of a door opening, and a bang as it slammed shut. As soon as they were alone, the man sighed and twisted the shade of the lamp so its light hit only the roof. Bill blinked and waited for the flying flashes of coloured blobs to clear from his vision. As his captive sat, dazed, the man walked around the chair, and sat down opposite him.

“That’s your fault, you know,” he said. “We weren’t close, but you turned him against me.”

Bill leaned forward to get a better view of the man, and as he did so, felt a slight give in the rope around his right wrist. He moved his thumb back and through the loop, and slowly began to pry at the knot. The man seemed too distracted to notice.

“He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what I have to do.”

As his vision finally cleared, Bill glanced around the room. It looked like a motel room, its blinds closed and the lamp tilted on a short table in front of him. His kidnapper sat on the bed a few feet away, his pale, clammy skin made sickly in the dim light. His eyes were a wide mixture of fear and anger, and he was shaking, even worse than the boy had.

“You’re not gonna take him again, Mr. Kettle,” the man said after a minute. He leaned forward as he spoke, and Bill noticed the bed was missing its duvet, but the pillow cases were the same pattern as the boy’s rags.

He shook his head. “Listen pal, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man jerked his head from side to side in a series of quick spasms. “I don’t think so, Mr. Kettle. You’re the right man and this is the right time. I got you here now, and I’m gonna keep you here”. He stood up and balanced on the balls of his feet, waving a finger towards Bill. “You’re not going to take my boy from me again.”

Bill’s heart raced as he watched the man, and his eyes darted around the room for any weapon the nut might have with him. Unless there was something behind the bed, it seemed bare.

"Listen, pal. You let me go now and we'll forget this whole thing. I’d never seen your boy before I pulled over on the road. How he got there is none of my concern."

“Never seen him?” the man cried, leaping onto the bed like an enraged chimpanzee. He jabbed his finger down at Bill, casting a long shadow across the roof. “You weren’t paying attention, were you? Playing your music! Talking to your wife on the phone!” He leapt from the bed and landed inches from Bill’s face, shaking with rage. “You killed him, you bastard! You killed him, and killed him again!”

He curled his hand into a fist swung wildly at Bill’s face, sending his head flying onto his right shoulder and shaking the chair beneath him. Dazed, Bill lifted his head and looked at the old man. His head was ringing and he could taste acid rising in the back of his throat. The kid could have told his father his name, but how did he know about the conversation with Sandy?

“I didn’t do anything, you crazy bastard!” Bill yelled, giving up any hope the man would listen to reason. He prided himself on being able to talk his way out of – or into – anywhere, but that seemed unlikely now.

The man looked at his still clenched fist, turned his bony arm and looked at his faded wristwatch. He shook his head. “Nope, you didn’t – not yet. But you will, and you did," he said. "You did, and you will, if I don’t stop you.”

He took a step back, turned, and began to pace the room, moving just beyond Bill's line of sight at the end of each crossing. His hands moved as he spoke, their gestures growing wilder, more violent with every pass.

“I... I thought it was a nightmare,” he rambled, slamming a fist into his open palm, “The first time, I mean, when I woke up. You know? Yes, it was a nightmare. Of course it was. You killed my boy, Kettle. What else could it be? I’d just got him back and he was dead. You killed him!"

He turned, and slammed his hands down on Bill’s arms, across the loose binding on his right wrist. Again, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Is it you, Kettle? Is it you doing all this? You knock him down in the middle of the road, and then come back for more? Why? Why?”

He shook Bill’s wrists so violently the chair rocked, creaking on its hinges. Bill opened his mouth to reply, but could think of no answer that would sate his kidnapper. The man was clearly insane, and Bill, King of the World just hours ago, was unlikely to see his wife and child ever again. He wondered if Sandy would call the police when he didn’t arrive home. He hoped they would find the car, wherever it was.

“Never mind. Never mind,” the man said, letting go of Bill’s wrists at last. He stood to his full height and brushed his hands across each other, as if dusting them off. “It doesn’t matter now.”

He turned, and walked towards the motel room door. Bill heard the metallic catch of the lock twisting, and the man turned back to face him. He reached beneath his sweatshirt and waistband, and removed a small, silver pistol.

“The name’s Stanley Tanner, by the way," he said. "Dr. Stanley Tanner. You should know that before I kill you."

4/16

Bill's heart leapt into his throat. For a moment, he felt like was going to throw up, the taste of acid now filling his mouth. He tried to push away from Tanner with his feet, but the chair wouldn't budge. “I swear to God,” he cried, “I’ve never seen either of you in my life. I’m just a...”

Tanner took a step forward. “A computer salesman, I know!” he roared, lifting the gun above his head. “I know everything about you, you son of a bitch! I know you have a daughter named Boo. I know you just closed some deal in Cork. I know you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but yourself and now I’m suffering for it! First Sarah and now this! Now always this!”

Bill was speechless. There was no way Tanner could know any of those things. The thought that it was all some elaborate TV stunt flashed across his mind, but he had to discount it. There was real terror in Stanley Tanner’s eyes, real rage across his face.

“Oh yes, that's the look,” Tanner said, watching Bill’s frozen expression of fear and confusion. “You thought I was just a kook last time, mad because you killed my boy. But you told me things, Mr. Kettle. I figure it was your dumb-fuck way of easing your conscience."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Conscience? You'd never have stopped if I didn't grab a hold of your car, would you?” He shook his head and licked his lips, “But this time, I was ready, Kettle. This time the lambs got one over on the fox.”

Tanner lifted his trembling hand and put his pistol to Bill’s temple.

"Goodbye, Mr. Kettle.”

Before he could fire, Bill’s right hand shot up and knocked the weapon from his hand and onto the bed. The rope, loosened enough to let his arm free, remained wrapped around the chair. Tanner looked at him in shock, and went to punch him again, but Bill was too fast.

He dodged to the left, and realised that his knees had regained some movement. With his right arm free, there was even some slack on the rest of the rope. He stood, taking the chair with him, and spun on the ball of his left foot. The back of the chair slammed into Tanner, splintering across his back and leaving Bill with only to the base and front legs.

Tanner growled, and lunged across the bed for the gun. Before he could reach it, Bill was on top of him. He had spun around, and thrown himself onto the bed ass first. He landed with a crash, sending a crooked nail from the base slicing into Tanner's right arm.

Tanner roared and rolled off the bed, leaving a trail of blood behind him. As he fell, Bill shook his legs. Free from the last of the ropes, he stepped onto the bed. Tanner had collapsed on the floor, cradling his injured arm in his good hand, blood seeping between his fingers.

Bill reached down and picked the pistol from the bed. He had never held a gun before, and it felt heavy and uncomfortable. Once he was sure Tanner was no longer a threat, he stepped down onto the ground and walked towards the door. He had no idea where he was, or where his car was, but he could figure those things out once he had made his escape.

He kept his eyes on Tanner as he moved, and as he put his hand on the doorknob, the other man shifted towards him. “Please,” he cried, hugging his arm, which was now soaked in blood. “Please don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.” His eyes were obscured by tears now, and Bill was surprised to find himself pitying the old kook.

“Why the hell would I want to kill your boy, you crazy bastard?” he demanded, holding the gun at his side. He had no intention of using it, but couldn’t risk putting the thing down. “And how did you know all those things about me?”

Tanner’s cries had quietened to a whimper, and he was breathing in short, shallow breaths.

“Because you did it before,” he replied, his voice cracking with emotion. “You knocked him clear off the road, and when I fell asleep in the hospital, I... I woke up in my car again this morning.” He shook his head and placed the palm of his hand over his right eye. His sweatshirt and the carpet beneath him were now stained a deep burgundy.

“I saw you kill him, and then twelve hours later, he was sitting in the car beside me as if nothing had happened. He didn’t remember a thing.”

Tanner let a desperate wail and threw his eyes to the ceiling. “But I remembered, Mr. Kettle. I remembered. I thought it was a dream, or a premonition, the way everything went just like it had the first time, but when I stopped you from getting away, I thought it was over. I thought it was one of those ‘putting right the wrong” things you hear about in Church... but...”

He looked up, and their eyes met, and Bill realised the other man was no longer shaking. His eyes no longer darted around the room. He was speaking only as a desperate and loving parent.

“All right, said Bill, placing the gun on the far corner of the mattress. “We’ll wait here until whatever you think will happen is passed.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Tanner, and rested his hands on his knees. “How long?”

Tanner lifted his arm to check. “Half an hour,” he replied, grimacing in pain as he moved. The bleeding had stopped, but his wound was still fresh, and Tanner looked pale. “Think you can wait that long?” Bill asked. Tanner nodded, but said nothing.

Suddenly, a noise echoed through the room from the street outside. It was a sound with which Bill was very familiar; the deep, rumbling purr of a contented cat, and the squeal of tires.

He jumped to his feet.

“That’s my car!”

5/17

Bill leapt over the fallen man, and stretched to open the door. His hands, coated in sweat, slipped on the handle. “Billy! Billy!” Tanner cried, stumbling to his feet and clasping his wounded arm. "Open the door! My son! My son is out there!”

Bill twisted the key in the lock and yanked the door open, sending it crashing against the wall as he ran from the motel room. He sprinted into the car park and only then realised how late it must be. The night sky was cloud free, and a blanket of stars twinkled overhead. He scanned the car park, but it sole occupant was a forlorn blue station wagon.

Down the road, he could just hear the rumbling of his car’s engine, as it faded into the distance.

He turned to see Tanner staggering from the motel room, craning his neck to the horizon for any sign of his boy. “He’s gone, Tanner,” Bill said, placing his hands on his hips. He turned and walked out to the road. “Was this all part of your plan?”

No reply came, and after a few seconds, he turned and saw Tanner hobbling towards the station wagon. He was holding his wounded arm close to his body, and fumbling for car keys with his free hand.

Bill watched in silence for a moment.

Part of him wanted to run, to cut his losses and make for the nearest town, but something about Tanner made him stop. The strange man might well be crazy, but he had known too much, and when he spoke about his son, Bill couldn't help imagining how far he would go to keep Boo from danger.

That, and the kid had stolen his car.

He jogged back through the lot and towards the station wagon. “Tanner,” he said, holding out his hand. Tanner turned and looked back in surprise. “I’ll drive.”

He threw Bill the keys and staggered round to the station wagon’s passenger door. Bill slid behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition as Tanner took the other seat. Both doors slammed shut, the wheels spun, and slowly, the station wagon made its way onto the motorway.

Bill slapped the wheel and glared at the dashboard as he drove. The speedometer, sitting in darkness before him, claimed they were doing 50, but Bill thought he could probably run faster. "We'll never catch him like this," he said, drumming his fingers on the wheel, but as he spoke, Tanner leant forward.

“I see him! I see your car!" he shouted, jumping up in his seat. "Its going to end, I've saved him!" He slapped his knee hard with the hand of his good arm.

Bill remained silent. He could just make out the two red dots of the Porsche’s tail lamps on the road ahead, growing larger with every passing second. The kid had probably left it in first gear since taking off, he thought.

As he watched the car grow nearer, he took a deep breath to calm himself. The chloroform, or whatever Tanner had knocked him out with, had worn off, and except for a few cuts and bruises he was in good shape. He would soon have his car back, and be on his way home.

Up ahead, the boy had realised they were following him. His pale face turned and looked back through the rear window, and the Porsche began to drift across the road. Suddenly, Bill realised it was not alone. From the other direction, an enormous truck was bearing down on the tiny sports car.

"No!" Tanner cried, leaping from his seat and crashing into the roof of the station wagon.

“Billy!" he roared, pressing himself against the dashboard, "Billy, stop!”

Suddenly, he reached across and slammed his fist into the horn. Bill clasped the wheel to keep them on the road, but the distraction kept Billy's eyes on his back window. As Bill watched in horror, Tanner made a grab for his door handle. It was already half open when Bill reached across and grabbed him by the collar.

“My son!” Tanner screamed, “My son! No, not again!”

The truck continued sounding its horn, but Billy seemed oblivious. At last, the driver tried swerving from the car's path, but it was too late. One long, final blast escaped the truck, and then time itself slowed to a crawl.

The Porsche hit the truck. Its bonnet collapsed like a tin can. The truck skidded for twenty meters and tumbled off the side of the road. The Porsche’s gas tank ignited in a blinding fire ball and the car spun through the air. It catapulted, finally crashing upside down on the hard shoulder.

6/18

The station wagon screeched to a halt opposite the burning wreck, and Bill threw his door open. As soon as his feet had hit the ground, Tanner was out and racing across the grass verge. His face was a mask of terror as he cried his son’s name. Before him, orange flames leapt from frame of the Porsche and licked the sky.

Bill followed a few metres behind his one-time kidnapper, his eyes scanning the wreckage for any sign of life. As his feet reached the grass, however, he saw that it was too late. The fire had engulfed the sports car. There was no chance the boy had survived.

Tanner stopped a few metres past the edge of the road, his eyes fixed on the burning hulk. His face was dark, stained black by the billowing smoke, and two clear bands ran down his cheeks.

Bill stopped running.

He stood for a moment, unsure what he should do, then began slowly walking towards the other man. “I’m... so sorry, Stanley,” he said when he was close enough for the other man to hear. As they watched in silence, the flames found another pocket of diesel, and smaller fireball erupted from beneath the car’s hood, sending it flying into the air.

There was no response. Blood was once again seeping from Tanner's wound, but he paid it no attention. His arms hung loose by his side, his mouth open like a trapdoor.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye, and smudging streaks of ash across his face. “Three times I’ve watched him die. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it happening again.”

Bill turned and looked back across the road. The truck was just visible on the other verge, and smoke was now pouring from beneath the bonnet. It had struck a tree as it skidded off, but the driver seemed fine. The fat, long-haired man stood on the far side of the road, a lit cigarette in his hand, his face had drained of colour.

Bill rested his hands on the roof of the station wagon and bit down hard on his lip. Behind him, the remains of Billy Tanner were turning to ash, but Bill could only think of Boo, of how he would feel if she were in Billy’s place, her slight frame engulfed in flames.

He felt a stupid well of tears build behind his eyes, but shook his head and blinked back them back. He cleared his throat and looked back at Tanner.

"Do you have a phone?" he asked. "We should call an ambulance, the fire brigade."

Tanner didn’t reply, but eventually shook his head. He stood for several minutes, watching his son's burning tomb, sobbing. Bill waited in silence, unsure what to say or do. What's the right course of action when your kidnapper's son dies, in line with the kidnapper’s own prophecy?

Eventually Tanner coughed, and wiped the tears from his face. He shook his head again, but kept his eyes on the car... on his son.

"No," he said, "No phone. My ...ex-wife just died. I'd have no-one else to ring.” He shook his head. “This was my first day with him.”

Bill nodded and glanced over to the trucker. He felt at once guilty and relieved to take his eyes from the burning wreck. He banged his fist on the roof of the station wagon.

"So what happens now, Stanley? Is it over?"

He could never have imagined it, but they both knew what the question meant. Tanner knew too much for all this to be a hoax. Bill couldn't tell if he was crazy, psychic or telling the truth, but it was clear the man had been through a lot, and not just tonight.

He turned from the trucker and looked back to Tanner, who was now sitting on the ground. The other man shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Kettle,” he said, and looked down at his hand, “It could follow any number of paths.” Bill followed the gaze and his heart jumped to the back of his throat.

Tanner was once again holding the gun.

He took a step backwards, not wanting to startle him. “What’s with the gun, Stanley? I thought we were past all that.”

Tanner lifted his eyes the sky. The tears had stopped. “It isn’t for you, Mr. Kettle,” he said. “You’ll walk away from this without a scratch. Maybe you’ll walk back all the way into town, and phone the police. Maybe you’ll go home to your wife and daughter tomorrow, and live out the rest of your life.”

He sighed, and for the first time, turned his neck to look at Bill.

“But I won’t. Billy’s dead. I’m here, and you’re here, and a few hours after I fall asleep, I’ll wake up again, and I’ll be sitting in that station wagon beside my beautiful six-year-old boy.”

He leaned down, and pushed himself to his feet with his good hand. His right arm now dangled loose by his side. “Again. And again and again.” He lifted the gun, and rested the barrel between his lips.

“Stanley, don’t!” Bill cried, and ran forward, but Tanner removed the gun from his mouth. He pointed it at Bill and shook his head. “Don’t try to stop me, Mr. Kettle,” he said.

“I can’t go through this another time. If I’m right, this will stop it. “

Bill stood, helpless and watched as Tanner turned the gun once more. “And what if you’re wrong?” he asked, “What if you killing yourself does nothing to change what’s happened?”

Tanner smiled then, the first genuine smile Bill had seen him make, though it was a sad one. “If I’m wrong, Mr. Kettle? If I’m wrong, then I’ll see you in the morning.”

He returned the gun barrel to its place between his lips, and gave a subtle nod.

And pulled the trigger.

When Danny met the saucer men,
You laughed and said he'd lost his mind.
Of course you didn't listen then,
You joked and jeered and were unkind.
"Their heads are like balloons", said Dan,
"Their eyes like coal and that's a fact!
They're coming soon, they have a plan,
And we're all doomed when they attack!"

And when Dan saw the Vampire plague,
You rolled your eyes and shook your head.
Of course you knew his claims were vague,
And likely made up in his shed.
"They hunt by night, they fear no man!"
He took some garlic from a stack,
"They're coming soon, they have a plan,
And we're all doomed when they attack!"

The day Dan said the CIA
Were following his every move,
You told him just to go away,
That he had nothing he could prove.
"I'll show you everything I can",
He cried and ran off with his sack,
"They're coming soon, they have a plan,
And we're all doomed when they attack!"

So when the saucers landed there,
And all those brave soldiers were fried,
You looked around but found nowhere
To run from what was hid inside:
Spacemen in shades, ray guns in hand,
Pointed teeth and dressed in black.
They came too soon, they had a plan,
And we were doomed once they attacked.

“So, um, where did you get the name Tayto?”

It was the question they always asked. Not right after you met them, but after a while. Eventually there’d be a gap in the conversation, the club's music would be between songs, and they’d throw it out there. It had taken this girl about five minutes.
“I don’t know, that’s just what people call me”

One of the lads turns around behind me and leans his drunken head over my shoulder.

“It’s because he can’t stop munching those cheese and onion!”

Ha-ha. That’s very fucking original, isn’t it?

He goes back to the slapper he’s trying it on with and leaves me and the girl alone.

“So you don’t know where you got your own name?”

“It’s not my name, it’s just what people call me”

She looks at me like I’m the biggest eejit in Dublin, and does that little half smile and head-bob women do when they’re not impressed. The music starts up again and we can’t talk for another two or three minutes.

While we’re incommunicado, she starts looking around at the other people in the club, clearly bored out of her tree. I’ve totally blown any chance I had.

Not that it’s my fault, really. I just wish they wouldn’t ask about the name.

When I was a kid, I used to like it. It made me stand out from my mates and not for something bad like having a lisp or a gammy eye. In school there was a Beano, a Dimser and so on, but most of them were just surnames shortened or changed a bit. I had my own line of quality Irish crisps.

Even the teachers called me Tayto. One morning, I was in early and snuck a look at the roll book before anyone else showed up. I was listed there as “Murphy, Brian K.”, but every morning it was:

“Tayto Murphy”

“Anseo”

Of course, I didn’t complain. It got people talking to me, and when you’re a kid all you want is to make friends, so that’s all right. I’m not the most curious bloke on the planet, so I never really wondered where it all started. One day in class, someone down the back shouted out that it was because I liked the crisps, and everyone laughed, and it stuck. Whenever anyone asked from then on, I trotted out the same answer. After a few years, I almost started believing it myself. A few after that, I forgot that it wasn’t true.

That’s how everything started to fall apart, I think; with me forgetting that I didn’t really know where the name came from.

I’m twenty-two years old, and chatting to this skinny blonde who looks fairly rough even with the flashing lights overhead. We’re in the downstairs bar in Bruxelles, and it’s six months since I found out. I still haven’t told anyone. Probably never will.

Christ, I hope Uncle Barry and that wanker Simon take it to their graves.

My mates still wonder why I started asking them to call me Bryan. You can imagine how that went. Everyone else has managed to drop their nicknames since leaving school and starting work, but not me. If I’d never asked they’d probably have stopped in a few months anyway.

Fuck it.

So Barry, my da’s brother. He’s a bit of an arse, sometimes. Especially when he’s had a few, and he comes in, arms waving all over the place telling everyone how much he loves them. He was totally toxic the night he told me about my name.

It was at a party, one of those awful family things where you get a load of relations you hardly know and you’re stuck talking to some cousin you don’t ever remember seeing before about their ma who’s someone else’s sister that you’re supposed to remember.

So I’m talking to Simon, who is Maeve’s son, who is who-the-fuck-knows, making like I give a donkey’s about what he’s doing with his life and wishing I was out on the piss with my mates. I’m listening for about five minutes before it comes up, as expected.

“Tayto’s an unusual name. Where’d you pick that one up, the shops? Ha ha ha”

I didn’t like the fucker before. Now I hate him. Him and his D4 jumper with the shirt collar and cuffs sticking out. I’m not changing that, by the way. He actually said “ha ha ha” like it was three words.

Anyway.

“I used to like the crisps when I was a kid”, I say, not remembering at this stage Anto Dunne (“Dunner”) down the back, shouting that out in class.

He looks unimpressed and does the half head-bob. I think maybe he’s gay.

“Oh, that’s mad isn’t it?”

I think “No, it’s not”, but I say nothing.

So we’re standing there, and I hear a bit of a commotion behind me.

“Excuse me Matthew”, then a pause and nearer: “Excuse me, Pat, Fidelma”.

We’re standing next to the table that has all the bottles of booze on it, and Barry’s slithering his way up to it like a worm coming onto the wet pavement.

“How you’s doing, lads?”, he asks, pretending he was coming over to talk to us and not for the full bottle of Jameson sitting on the table. Two ice cubes are still melting in his glass from the last round, spinning around the bottom while he tries to keep himself standing straight.

“We we’re just chatting about Tayto’s name”

His eyes light up at this and a manic grin spreads across his face.

“Oh were ye now?”, he asks, nodding his head like a pigeon while he looks at me.

“I know that story, don’t I, Tayto?”

I’m surprised he’s even asking me. Everyone knows the crisp story, and it’s only funny the first time you hear it. I’m fed up with simple Simon though, so I humour him.

“Do you, Barry?”

“Oh indeed. Sure wasn’t it me that gave it to you?”

Wham. My mind’s sent reeling. I’m trying to remember what the fuck he’s talking about, but getting nowhere. It’s funny the way it works sometimes. All of a sudden I’m seven years old again, and deciding that it would be funny to go along with the crisp story. Then I remember before that, to when I would just say I didn’t know.

Then I realise that I still don’t know.

“It was? Where did you get it?”, I ask him, curious and worried at the same time.

His eyes are still wide, glazed because he hasn’t blinked in about twenty seconds. His mouth hangs open like a trapdoor.

“You don’t know! I can’t believe you don’t know”

He looks from Simon to myself and starts to laugh. It begins almost as a nervous giggle, but pretty quickly he’s bent double, slapping his thighs.

“He hasn’t a clue. Janey Mac, what a world. He doesn’t know!”

Its pretty clear that something big is on the way, so Simon moves and lets Barry sit down on the chair behind him. Eventually Barry calms down a bit and wipes the tears from his eyes.

I'm in shock, but Simon is looking on agog. Then, piss head smirk on full beam, Barry puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me down so I’m level with him on his chair.

“It was the Johnnie”, he whispers at full volume, whiskey on his breath.

I shake my head, not understanding what he’s on about, thinking maybe I didn’t hear him because of the music.

“You’re old dad didn’t have a Johnnie on him, so he emptied a packet of Tayto onto the floor and used the bag instead. It ripped, Tayto, and that was you”

He starts cackling again, and this time Simon, who had been listening in, joins him. Everyone’s looking at the two of them now, laughing like a couple of hyenas but, thank god, no-one asks what’s so funny, and I’m spared any more mortification.

I turn around, and leave the two of them to split their sides, and I wade out through the room of people I hardly know. I go home and straight to bed, knowing that Barry wouldn’t have been laughing half as hard if it was all bullshit.

Under the blankets, I think about my ma and da, about Barry and all the bullshit I've had with the name. My mate Stevie Reilly gave a fake name when the guards arrested him a few weeks ago. Swore the same name on the bible in court. You can change your real name just like that. Nobody gives a shag.

A few hours later, there's a knock on my bedroom door, and its my ma.

“Y'all right love? Ye went home very early”

She's standing in the doorway, curlers in her hair with the light streaming from behind her.

“I'm grand, ma. Thanks”

“All right then. Night love”

“Night ma”

She closes the door over with a bang and I'm left alone.

Jesus. A crisp bag.

“Nobody gives a shag about your real name”, I think, and its true. It’s what other people call you that sticks. That's where the stories are.

My birth cert is still in the kitchen drawer, in at the back behind the electric bills and spare keys. The name on that is Brian Keith Murphy. That's the name, five years after I’ve moved out, my ma still screams when I’ve done something wrong. But that’s not what I’m called, and it’s not the name that I’ll be stuck with forever.

In my school, in my group of mates, and even in my family, they call me Tayto.

Tayto Murphy.

And I wish to god I didn’t know why