Patient Blue

By the time Blenheim House comes into view it’s almost seven thirty and natural daylight is just starting to break. The temperature has dropped and it’s beginning to feel like an ordinary, though mild, January morning. Cars are on the roads and people are in the street. Many of the passers by stare at me in my wet sandy clothes and seem positively freaked when they catch the haunted look in my eyes. I can see them thinking weirdo, care in the community, avoid at all costs, could be dangerous. A passenger in a white Transit van displaying, what I have to admit is a clever sticker. A Turkey is just for Christmas not for life, stares at me in an insolent oafish fashion, nudges his mate points at me and mouths the word twat.

At the beach I had declined the offer from one of the paramedics to be taken to St Richard’s hospital for a checkup or at least given a lift home, I lied and said I was fine, just a bit cold and the walk would clear my head. They didn’t argue as they were going to be busy, but told me to attend A&E if I started to feel unwell and maybe find out about some post trauma stress counselling..

When the Major Incident support team had found me sitting in the sea cradling the head of the corpse in my lap, they had interpreted this as an act of human compassion rather than the rigid terror that it actually was. Obviously if it wasn’t the head of a corpse, and the guy had been alive, they would have interpreted it as me sitting in the sea getting an inventive mixed race gay blow job. It takes all sorts. Other bodies also began appearing on the horizon drifting towards me and I would have given anything to just stand up and run screaming from the sea, but a kind of living rigor mortis had me in its grip, and the dead man’s head was somehow wedged tightly between my knees, positioned at a ninety degree angle as it turned in the incoming tide. I was informed by a grim faced police officer that there had been a plane crash, just off-shore and all passengers and crew of the TANZAN-AIR jet had perished.

Just as I reach home a car bibs me and I flinch, expecting another insult from a dolt with nothing better to do. Looking up I see that it’s Alice in her red Mini Cooper. She slows down and mouths are you OK? through the closed window. I shake my head but she only waves, mouths I’m late, imitates the action of making a phone call and drives on. I watch her car recede into the distance, indicate left and disappear. Actually I was desperate to talk to Alice or at least someone and tell them what’s happened, what I’d seen and felt. I know I can’t face work today. With Alice gone I can’t think of anyone I can talk to or confide in. God, at times like this I miss Davey so much.

I did briefly consider calling my mother, but that would be a last resort, she would panic and flap and then somehow manage to blame me and then switch the conversation around to her. No, the old lady wasn’t someone to turn to in a crisis. I can’t help thinking that as my age increases, thirty five in a few days, it sounds ancient, but perhaps a bonus as I didn’t expect to make thirty, the number of close friends I have, people to call on in a crisis is decreasing. This I know is mainly down to me, neglect and laziness. One thing is for sure at least when it comes to friends, absence rarely does make the heart grow fonder. Most of my friends, not the new ones me and Alice have made as a couple, but the close mates I had, me and Davey had when we were younger and in my case alive, have moved on. Caught up in their own personal dramas. I feel more alone and isolated now than at any other time I can remember, certainly since Davey’s death anyway.

Once back home and settled I put on the telly. According to the special disaster broadcast on Sky News which is now working, though rather intermittently, the phenomenon is being called the Solar Event. I persevere with watching the channel despite the fact that it keeps fading to static and then a plain blue screen advises: satellite signal lost, before resuming once again. I could change channels but as the remote control is on the fritz I can’t be assed. A suitably sombre Adam Boulton, calls the strange false dawn which had occurred at exactly 3.03 am GMT and ceased at 5.22 I know I was there with the head of a corpse in my lap at the time, a catastrophe on a global scale. Reports have been received from around the world of a steadily escalating death toll. In the UK alone fourteen passenger jets and numerous light aircraft and helicopters have crashed, including the TANZAN-AIR flight that came down in the sea off Bognor Regis. All two hundred and fourteen passengers and crew on that flight had been killed. Worldwide in air crashes alone it was estimated in the region of fifty eight thousand people have died. No one is completely sure how this has happened. Jet aircraft seem particularly vulnerable, but a strong theory is building that all on board navigation and electrical systems suffered catastrophic failures. Fuel flows ceased and navigational and steering controls became inoperative with the inevitable result that planes began dropping from the sky. Many people also died on the ground as the stricken aircraft landed on houses towns and cities.

Far worse than the carnage caused by falling aircraft, was the heat surge which in parts of the Southern Hemisphere reached more than 150 degrees. There had been major fires throughout Asia, Africa, South America and Australia which had killed many. Though far more, mainly the elderly and very young, perished overcome by heat stroke. Overall the death toll worldwide was expected to be in the hundreds of thousands. It has also been reported that in Chile a group of European students possibly one of them British, have been trapped in the San Jose Mine, though this time the outcome was likely to be far less happy than when the thirty three miners had been saved. There had been reports of an earthquake at the mine and with resources stretched dealing with raging fires in the vicinity a rescue attempt in the near future seemed unlikely.

I am still bloody traumatized by my earlier watery encounter with the floating corpse, and I view the unfolding drama with a growing sense of disbelief. Although shocked and rather terrified I am, perversely in the circumstances, slightly excited by all this. I have always believed that the Chinese curse; May you live in interesting times” is a curse I can live with. It appeals to the repressed nihilistic part of my soul. If I lived in the USA I’d be a storm chaser, tearing around the back roads of Kansas looking for tornadoes to outrun, or down in Florida heading into the hurricanes rather than running from them. I really love big snow, big waves, dark broiling skies that look like the end of the world as we know it and all in short supply in my corner of West Sussex.

The Prime Minister is due to hold a live press conference at eleven am. If Theresa is making an appearance it must be serious and to be honest judging by the lurid reports and speculation, it seems that it really is.

For some reason Professor Brian Cox, the man who according to Alice, makes physics sexy, no mean feat that, is now in the Sky news studio. He manages to somehow look chirpy yet concerned. I’m not quite sure what to make of him. You can’t really take him too seriously and he definitely doesn’t seem the type the authorities would use to announce that the Four Horsemen have arrived and Armageddon is finally here. They used to use that old actor, Patrick Allen I think, for the big doom laden announcements, ‘In the event of nuclear attack whitewash the windows and hide under the table.’ He even made it onto a Franky goes to Hollywood track, “Two tribes.” But that’s going back a bit and he’s probably snuffed it by now, or really ancient and senile living in a retirement home for bewildered luvvies in somewhere like Hastings.

Brian always seems a bit too awe struck by his own rhetoric. I know he used to be in some old rock band and I’m wondering whether he might have lived the rock and roll lifestyle and everything it brings rather too liberally. Brian says that the Solar Event appears to have been caused by massively raised levels of sun spot activity and a coronal mass ejection from the sun of gargantuan proportions.

I’m informed that the strange false dawn of this morning was apparently a giant aurora, a phenomenon normally known as either the Northern or Southern lights, da, yeah I already know that brainiac, Joanna Lumley told me; but instead of appearing in either extreme northerly or southerly latitudes, it lit up the whole planet. Brian thought it all looked rather beautiful and it was obvious that he could hardly contain his excitement. He further revealed that there was also an underlying phenomenon that had been speculated about for some time but had manifested itself spectacularly during the solar event. It was called the “Wang Pulse”, named after the late Po Wang, the head of Extra Terrestrial Physics at the Peoples Space Exploitation Institute in Beijing. Fucking Wang Pulse, he’s taking the piss, it sounds like the title of some sort of seventies existentialist porn movie.

Anyway, according to Brian, this Wang pulse has had a devastating effect on power lines and fibre optic systems often frying the cables and connections inside their sheathings. Satellite communications, the internet, especially Broadband and mobile phone transmitters are most affected, but there were also a growing number of landlines becoming inoperable as well. It also catastrophically affects all Microwave devices including domestic ovens. Scientists are at a loss to explain how all this happens, and are all frantically searching for a way to investigate the phenomenon further and try to rectify the disastrous situation. Brian also said that if he were a shareholder in a satellite TV company such as Sky for instance, he would sell those shares in case the Wang Pulse strengthened further and satellite broadcasts became more difficult if not impossible. He also said that he had been considering replacing his old microwave oven, but thought he might wait a bit just in case. ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said Adam. ‘I was microwaving a meat pie this morning for breakfast. I put it on for one minute and twenty seconds the light went on the glass plate turned and it pinged, but do you know? That pie came out stone cold, far less enjoyable.’

‘I’m afraid’, said Brian, ‘that although the sun seems to have settled down, the Wang Pulse remains and appears to be strengthening, so at present at least until a remedy is found, it means we may have some difficulties in accessing the internet and mobiles, maybe telephone land lines as well and of course satellite TV. This of course could mean that unless rectified all future communication will be by semaphore, Morse code or letter and of course Adam, a return to conventional ovens and the BBC analogue services. It’s all going to be like the nineteenth century with nature acting as the ultimate Luddite.’

The picture was replaced by a blue screen saying, loss of satellite signal. The broadcast resumed. Adam goes on to explain that the heat generated by the sun during the event was phenomenal and although it had lasted for just three hours worldwide devastation has occurred. The increased solar eruptions, sun spots and cosmic radiation had temporarily blacked out all satellite communications and electricity supplies across the whole globe, whilst the intense heat has caused huge uncontrollable fire storms. Adam asks if it can happen again, and the answer given is hardly reassuring. Brian says, ‘there was no known reason why it should happen again, but as the cause is unknown, a similar more deadly and more prolonged event could also not be ruled out.’

Adam asks, ’do you think all this has anything to do with the Mayan calendar and the end of the world theory that according to them might happen anytime about now?

‘Put it this way, if you have received a Christmas card from me which I won’t have sent until after the predicted Mayan doomsday of December twenty first, then you know they got it wrong and it was just a rumour put about by some Peyote addled Shaman touting for business.’

‘Seriously, do you think the Mayan’s got it wrong?’

‘I hope so I really love Christmas.’

I leave the TV and just have to try the microwave oven. A Ginsters pastie goes in cold. I set the time for one minute thirty seconds, the light goes on the plate spins, it pings I pull out the pastie take a huge bite, scream as it burns my tongue, spit out a mouthful of meat potato and pastry, down a glass of water to ease my poor burned tongue, call Boulton and Cox a pair of wankers and go into the bathroom.

I need to prepare myself to call Patrick Drage, my boss at Real Money, pronounced Rail money as in Real Madrid, an offshoot of a large Spanish bank selling ISA’s, bonds, investments and whole of life insurance policies for inheritance tax planning purposes, over the internet and phone to semi sophisticated small investors. Patrick Drage, or Poison Dwarf as I and the rest of the team prefer to call him, is a difficult man to deal with and is especially impatient with anyone calling in sick, insisting that however ill anyone is supposed to be they must phone him personally to prove it and give an estimate of when they will be returning.

I splash cold water in my face dry myself on a towel and look in the mirror above the basin. My dark hair though still full is already lightly flecked with grey. Dad’s hair had been almost pure white by the age of forty and I worry that mine is going same way. I’m just over six feet tall, but at fifteen stone I’m carrying at least twenty pounds too much weight. I used to be slim and toned and, why bother with false modesty, handsome. But now hmm, not sure what Alice still sees in me I’ve started going to seed, too much booze, no exercise and a love of fast food and late night curries. Alice is slim and fit a real head turner as she jogs by, which she is doing a lot lately. That and spending hours on facebook and twitter.

I’m a TV man myself, can take or leave all this technology, just give me a Breaking Bad box set and I’m happy, though this makes me a bit out of step with my peers. I feel left out sometimes but if I was that concerned I’d make the effort. Alice always asks me to join her when she goes running, get a bit fit, lose some flab, but I always say maybe tomorrow. She then always says manyana, manyana, working for a Spanish bank is doing you no favours chubby. As I look rougher by the day and she looks hotter I’m starting to feel less secure about the health of our relationship.

I leave the bathroom and steel myself to make the call. I have rehearsed what I’m going to say, the shock of finding the body, the chill from the sea, my shattered emotions, it all sounds plausible and for once it’s all true, so why am I feeling guilty about throwing a sicky? The number connects and is answered after two rings. ‘Hello, this is Patrick Drage-’

‘Hello Patrick I—’

‘Sorry I am unable to take your call, but please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can.’

Taken aback that it’s an answer phone I get caught in two minds as to whether to leave a message or call later and speak directly to Patrick. Of course I take the cowards route and opt for the former. I blurt into the phone; ‘Hello Patrick it’s Michael Johnson, I won’t be in the office today, er, um, I saw the light and went down to the sea. A dead man’s body bumped into me. I’m still in shock, not in today. Back in tomorrow, that’s Tuesday. What I mean is;’ there was a beep.′ Oh shit, I must have sounded like a nutter. God, the message sounded like a fucking bad poem, he’ll think I’m taking the piss, using the Solar event as an excuse not to come in.

With the blessed numbness now wearing off and the true horror of the last few hours kicking in, I am feeling increasingly desperate and stressed and the voicemail message cock-up feels like the last straw. I resort to alcohol, my one true and constant friend. I pour myself a ludicrously large Scotch drain the glass in one go, shudder convulsively, pour myself an even larger one and settle down to watch the Prime Ministerial broadcast. I almost leap out of my skin as the phone rings dreading it will be Patrick, who will probably be able to tell I was half pissed already. I pick up the receiver and say ‘hello’ in a reedy voice that sounds though it is barely still alive, at once both stoic and pathetic, a voice that contrives to convey human tragedy mixed with some sort of throat infection.

‘Hello Michael, is that you are you alright, you sound terrible?’

It’s Alice thank Christ for that. ‘No I’m not feeling my best I say in my more normal, though still suffering voice; I thought you might be work phoning’.

‘I did phone your office they said you weren’t in, they seemed surprised that I didn’t know.’

‘Oh great now they’re really gonna think that I’m trying it on, who did you speak to?’

‘Not sure some woman or other, had a bit of a lisp, she didn’t sound very sympathetic. So why didn’t you go in?’

‘The Solar event, the light woke me I walked to the beach.’

‘I knew you got up and went for a walk when I woke up this morning you were still not back and I was worried I was driving out to find you before I went to work. All these disasters, the plane crash, did you see anything at the beach?’

‘I found a body’

‘You found a body!’

‘A black Man’

‘A black Man, Jesus.’

‘No I don’t think it was him, can’t see a resurrection happening there any time soon . There were other bodies floating in on the tide, some children and this one man, body, well it wasn’t just that I touched it, sort of ended up holding it accidentally in my lap, sitting in the sea and then I couldn’t seem to let go.’

‘I don’t understand, why were you sitting in the sea with a dead man’s head in your lap, are you sure you’re alright, really?’

‘I wanted to talk to you but you didn’t stop.’

‘Sorry I was late for work I saw you looked OK and just continued on I said I would phone and here I am.’

‘What time are you home this evening?’

‘I’m going to be late I’m afraid, planning meeting; I won’t be in till after nine.’

‘Can’t you get out of it I’m in a bit of a state?’

‘Wish I could, but it’s the finalisation of next tax year’s budget. Michael, the body what sort of condition was it, you know, in?’

‘Intact, floating face down and naked, well, almost, just wearing one sock and a trainer.’

‘A trainer?’

‘Nike, actually.’

After I put down the phone, I revisit a thought I’ve been having for some time, that Alice is having an affair. Something is different about her, she’s happier, spending more time at work, evening appointments, away more on residential courses, weekend work at the office. It would explain the rather cool indifference she has been showing me lately. She no longer talks about our future anymore, just her own plans and dreams. Once upon a time Alice would have left work to be with me if I really needed her, whatever important tasks it would mean leaving unfinished. But that was then and this is now. I take a large gulp of my cheap Scotch, shudder and almost gag as the harsh heat crosses my burned tongue and descends down my throat to my empty stomach. I slump on the sofa, turn up the volume of the TV and await the entrance of the Prime Minister.

The Prime Minister, soberly dressed in a dark blue business suit looking, as always, vaguely lopsided and flanked by a serious looking Sajid Javid the Home Secretary, Smarmy grin and look at me I'm a hardass and not a corner shop owner, strides purposefully to the podium. There is a strobe of camera flashes and the murmuring of the assembled hacks fades to silence punctuated by only the occasional cough.

’Good morning everybody I wish to make a short statement about the Solar event and the devastating effects this unprecedented phenomenon has caused in the UK and also even more disastrously in other parts of the world. After the statement both I and the Home Secretary will take your questions, but it should be borne in mind that there are still many things we are unsure of and so I can only inform you of what is actually known rather than comment on any speculation or rumour. Between 3.03 and 5.22 AM GMT this morning vastly raised levels of sun spot activity led to a dramatic increase in the amounts of heat, light and radiation emitted by the sun. In Britain this led to what is called a false dawn effect, with daylight, or actually an aurora occurring when at this time of year it would normally be dark for at least another four hours. Also the temperature that was minus two celsius at 3.02 am rose rapidly to eighty three degrees fahrenheit in a matter of minutes. However, the biggest and most tragic effects of this flare up was that all satellite, radar and electricity throughout the UK and the world was affected. In Britain this led to fourteen passenger aircraft and numerous cargo and military aircraft crashing and I have to tell you that the loss of life is likely to be in the thousands. Also many patients in ITU wards have died as their life saving equipment failed. Other reports of casualties are still being collated and it is likely to be some days before the full death toll is known.

In Britain although the aftermath has been devastating in other parts of the world the disasters have been far worse, with Southern Hemisphere countries being most affected, where in some places temperatures rose to a staggering one hundred and fifty plus degrees. This has caused massive fires and deaths from heatstroke as well as the plane crashes and other equipment failures as experienced in the UK. The overall world wide death toll will I’m afraid run into the many hundreds of thousands. This is by far the worst natural disaster to befall humanity in recent recorded history. Now I’m sure you will have questions.′ The PM pointed to one of his favourite journalists.

‘Geoff Randall, Sky news. Prime Minister, Is this disaster man made and linked to global warming?’

‘At this point in time there is no evidence for that and this seems linked purely to sunspot activity, rather than any greenhouse gas emissions.’

‘But has that made it worse, hotter than it would have been?’

‘Again Geoff there is no evidence for that, but undoubtedly it will be one of the areas scientists will be examining thoroughly.’

Theresa pointed to the audience.

‘Nick Robinson; BBC News’

‘Good Morning Nick.’

‘Prime Minister, do we have any idea of what caused this and could it happen again and a supplementary question for the Home Secretary, what plans do you have in place to control any panic or breakdown in law and order?’

‘Well Nick, other than the increased levels of sun spot activity we do not know what caused it and we are hopeful that it is a one off and will not happen again, but I can assure you that the best scientific brains throughout the world are looking at this right now.’

‘But you can’t categorically say that it won’t happen again and in fact be even worse if it does.’

‘At this point in time nothing can be ruled in or out, but I have no reason to believe it will happen again.’

‘Not very reassuring if I may say so Prime Minister’

Sajid Javid stepped forward. ‘Good morning Nick, I wanted to make some comments on plans for controlling any panic that may occur following last nights events and God forbid any future events that may follow. I believe that the British people are not prone to panic and a low key approach will be taken by all of the emergency services in controlling public order. However they will be prepared to act quickly and effectively should any outbreaks of lawlessness occur.’

Thersa pointed to the audience.

’Owen Van Bowen, boomed a voice from the audience; ‘End of days’

The PM looked puzzled

‘It’s a monthly publication, dedicated to the Lord.’ Do you believe as I do, that God is punishing us for our sins and this is the first proof that the Rapture is coming?

There was murmuring in the audience and a few barely suppressed giggles. The camera swung to where the question had originated and there stood a tall man, dressed in a black suit opened neck white shirt and with a startling mane of long grey hair tied back in a pony tail. The camera moved back to the PM, who looking bemused said; ‘this phenomenon has been caused by sun spot activity and nothing else that I am aware of.’

‘I believe,’ boomed Van Bowen ‘and so do my worldwide congregation, that this time of sin and sinners is coming to an end and all true believers in the lord God Almighty and his Son Jesus Christ will depart this world and live in the kingdom of Heaven. Hail oh lord hail.’ This final comment Hail oh Lord Hail, was apparently incanted at the end of every prayer said by members of the Church Of The End Of Days.

I can see the movement of several dark suited security men in the general direction of Van Bowen, but he sits down with a self satisfied smile on his face. The oriental looking woman next to him, probably a hack from the far east, looks warily in his direction and tries to edge further away from him, her chair making a distinct scraping sound as she tries to make some more space..

The press conference ends with few facts and much rhetoric, leaving the overall impression that there is a crisis but the Coalition Government is more than capable of coping with it. Don’t panic Mister Mainwaring, thought Michael.

Feeling decidedly far more mellow now that I have drained several tumblers full of Scotch, and am already halfway through another, things do indeed feel not quite so bad. The undoubted high point of the proceedings had been the bizarre spectacle of Owen Van Bowen. A Canadian by birth, he is the spiritual leader and main beneficiary of one of the fastest growing evangelical churches in the country. Based in South London, the church of the End Of days attracts an enthusiastic and ethnically diverse congregation. All of them believers in the imminent coming of the Rapture and happily gifting all wordly goods and chattels including houses, jewellery and the contents of bank accounts to the church and its representative on earth the Reverend Van Bowen. I muse that this Solar event must seem like manna from Heaven to him, his cause and in particular, bank account.

It is now late morning and I’m feeling drowsy, the Scotch and the events of the day have really caught up with me, and sitting on the sofa with Sky news in the background I feel my head nodding and my eyes close. The first nightmare comes, along with something else, something other .

I’m walking hand in hand with Rosslynne along a beach. It’s breezy and her long blonde hair sweeps out behind her. Waves crash onto the beach and we occasionally have to dodge some of the larger ones stepping backwards to avoid getting wet. We are both younger than now, perhaps early or mid twenties but our age is not really definable. I profess my deep love for her, but Rosslynne only half smiles and makes no comment. I know in that gesture that my love is not reciprocated and feel crushed. Bodies begin appearing in the sea, mostly children, but also dogs and cats. The light is fading and the scene on the beach seems unremarkable and not worth comment. Then I am alone, Rosslynne is gone I feel bereft a tragic sense of loss overcomes me. Now I am in a seedy part of a city, it feel like London, there is a door at the top of a flight of metal steps attached to a tall run down house, I knock on the door which is opened by Rosslynne, but she refuses to let me in and I get the impression that someone else is present, a male inside the room.

Suddenly the stairs collapsed and I’m in the sea surrounded by the seemingly lifeless bodies of dogs, though not all of them are dead, some still move and whimper but look cadaverous and diseased with bare patches of fur and horrible growths. They begin snapping at me. Under my feet in the deep dark turbulent water I begin to feel stirring and movements, something brushes against my feet and legs. Under the surface I see a submerged white face with empty eye sockets, it’s Davey, his mouth opens in a leering grin but no sound emerges. I wake but can’t move I think I might be having a stroke. With a supreme effort I am eventually able to wake, sweating and with a pounding headache a thin line of drool running from the corner of my mouth and down my chin. Almost out of reflex I grab the glass of Scotch drain the dregs and immediately regret it.

Becoming fully awake, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of tap water and drain the glass. I thickly butter a piece of white bread add a slab of Cheddar and devour the snack in four large bites. I’m now hideously stressed and can’t get the scene at the beach or the dream out of my mind, I badly need a distraction. I have recorded, Sky plus is a wonderful thing, the final show of season four of Madmen and decide that now might be the perfect time to watch it. I actually wouldn’t mind being Don Draper, the character not the actor John Hamm, who looks pretty ordinary until that is he becomes Don Draper. The style of the man, and the women he has. None of them ever complain that he’s crap in bed or has dog breath in the morning. So cool that he even looks good in a Trilby hat with a feather in the brim.

I have a Trilby, borrowed from my dad for a fancy dress party many years ago. Me and Davey went as the Blues Brothers. Davey looked great I think I probably did too. On a whim I freeze the episode of Madmen and go to my wardrobe find the hat right at the back crushed under an old sleeping bag, God that sleeping bag, straighten it out and put it on. Jesus, I realize I didn’t look great, just a prick in an old mans hat. No wonder, unlike Davey I lucked out at the party. I remembered I almost pulled a plain girl who had been dressed as some sort of pink fairy, when I first arrived I had noticed her for all the wrong reasons. She was wearing a short pink tutu, pink tights and halter top, though on the plus side she did have huge jugs. She was unattractive and plump and the garish outfit only seemed to enhance her natural disadvantages. But as the evening wore on and all the more pretty girls got snapped up and I became increasingly desperate and drunk, she started to look a lot better. But in the end it was not to be, she got off with the guy who came dressed as the Frankenstein monster and as on so many previous occasions I went home alone. In hindsight I’m only glad the Trilby hat didn’t have a feather.

Davey of course, as always, pulled the best looking girl in the place. She was tall and dark, dressed as Wonder woman. They left together, even went out for a few weeks then he blew her out, moved onto another girl left her heartbroken apparently. Davey was always popular with women and although we were identical twins I never was. Strange that and depressing I’m still in his shadow even all these years after his death. But I loved him, he was a great brother. I never thought I could ever get over it. Thinking now of Davey and everything else that has happened in the last twenty four hours I feel tears brimming in my eyes. For the first time since his death I can feel his presence, strongly, watching me in this room. I begin to cry and now that I’ve started I don’t think I'll ever be able to stop.