They’d known each other for years, on and off, through a mutual friend in Oxford. Something happened that night they met, at Declan’s party, but that was nearly 10 years ago now and nothing has happened since…

Ruth was going out with Declan’s best mate, Bill, in those days. Even then you could tell she was bored of Bill by the way she snubbed his little advances. All their friends were bored of their incessant bickering until eventually, Bill got bored too. A relationship drowned in a sea of mutual boredom.

Jamie only went to the party for a piss up and a chance to get out of town. Unusually, he took no notice of the women at the party, but then he met Ruth. He wondered what she’d be like. He thought of himself as a regular guy. He imagined what almost any woman would be like with no clothes on. In the right mood, he’d fuck most of them, so long as they were between size 8 and 16. He was happy to face the inevitable put-downs and rejections caused by his lewd behaviour and bad reputation, because he was rich. He played the percentages game, he knew that enough women with enough alcohol who were suitably desperate would fuck him, and that was good enough. What he didn’t know was that apart from being rich, Ruth was pretty much the same. She made up for her poverty with her good looks, lithe figure and intimate knowledge of men’s weaknesses.

Ruth was one of five sisters, between them they had four different fathers. Her own father was now a woman following her sex change operation. Ruth was training to be a blacksmith at the one remaining forgery in Oxford, apprenticed to a swarthy immigrant from the remote outpost island of St Helena. He claimed he was related to Napoleon. When she wasn’t making copies of Victorian wrought iron gates and fire grates, she made little iron ornaments to sell at music festivals and flea markets.

Ruth and Jamie both hit 30 earlier in the year. They both thought about whether they wanted to settle down, maybe have kids before they were 40.
“I want two more years of fun, then I’ll have kids,” she said, as though nothing could stop her.
“Who’ll be the dad?”
“Dunno, not the issue really, he’ll probably piss off before they’re born anyway. Probably ‘cause I tell them to”

She laughed, tilting her head upwards and spluttering smoke on to the ceiling.
“D’you want kids?”
“Not yet, maybe later, if I find the right person…”
“When yer condom bursts you mean, or are you one of those who won’t use one?” She laughed again, this time bent up double.

Jamie couldn’t match this banter yet, not enough Stella. He was thrown by the mismatch between her physical attractiveness, coarse speaking and behaviour. He was used to giggly upper class debs, he associated this rough stuff with fat, ugly working class girls. It never occurred to him that she might have the same attitude, but be a different class.

They went their separate ways, caught up in the whirl of the party as the hoards arrived from the freshly closed pubs in Cowley Road. They forgot each other until it started to thin out again about three in the morning. Being among the diehards made it impossible for them to ignore each other. By now, he’d had too much Stella and coke so he went up to crash in the spare room. As he shuffled off, he instinctively stole a look at her breasts as she picked up empty beer cans from the floor.

Jamie undressed slowly and crawled wearily into the narrow single bed under the damp, shapeless, coverless duvet. Bill’s place had always been squalid. He switched off the 100 watt lamp by the bed, breathed a deep sigh and closed his burning eyes. Ruth quietly entered the room.
“Mind if I sleep in here Jamie? I can’t be fagged to go home now”.
“No, go ahead” he mumbled, not able to feel his lips.
She slipped out again, he could hear her saying goodnight to the party remnants. He remembered that she was still going out with Bill and wondered if they’d fallen out, again.

Ruth improvised a little bed out of cushions and blankets on the other side of the room. Jamie wondered if his throat was too dry to speak.
“Where’s Bill?” he croaked.
“In bed, upstairs. He’s not talking to me. He knows I'm here, we're history it’s not good”.
He felt a tiny tingling sensation, despite his loyalty to Bill. He turned over, tried to think of football, tried to sleep. The feeling got stronger.

“Mind if I get in with you for a cuddle?” she said.
He turned towards her “What about Bill?”
“I said a cuddle! Anyway, he won’t mind!”
“OK, it’s cold tonight isn’t it?"

She slipped silently across the room, he could make out her skimpy t-shirt barely covering her knickers. He felt stupid in his sporty tracksuit and turned to face the wall. She lifted the miserable cover and slid expertly alongside him, instantly moulding her body to his shape. His breathing became shallow and noisy.
“Want to kiss, just to see what it’s like?” she teased.
“We shouldn’t”.
“Just once, that won’t hurt anyone will it?”

His erection subsided, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He turned to face her in the thin light from the shop window that penetrated the cheap red curtains. They embraced, clumsily, their noses preventing good mouth contact. After a long 10 seconds, their lips finally merged and they relaxed into some kind of intimacy.
She pulled away, he sensed she was laughing at him inside.
“See, that was alright, wasn’t it”.
“Yeh”

The door flew open and crashed against the wall. A shadowy figure fumbled for the light switch on the wall. They sat up trembling, hearts pounding.
“You’ll be needing these!” Bill hurled a packet of condoms at the two figures on the bed. The light went out, the door slammed shut. They didn’t move or talk for a while.
“He doesn’t seem to think it’s over!” he said.
She laughed.
“Do you use condoms?”

A thin, pink cotton veil hangs precariously from the plasma television in the corner by the window. Bleached yellow curtains of a slightly thicker cotton move restlessly round the window frame in the cool, erratic breeze. On the other side of the window frame, there’s a black metal shelving unit brimful of CDs, with a cheap music system buried amongst them.

Swirling flowery patterns of gold leaf and sky blue paint adorn the mottled cream relief wallpaper. There’s a brown stained corner of the ceiling above the television, radiating from the corner into a quadrant about a metre square.

Incense and candleholders are displayed in various places around the room, mainly by the closed fireplace, covered by a deep red cloth. A sweet, slightly sickly, sticky smell permeates the room and follows you around the house.

A dark blue, thick pile carpet swallows your toes as you pick your way across it. In bare feet, small fragments of tobacco and cat hair stick to your heels. On top of the carefully rolled-up futon stands a mound of pillows, duvets and sheets. In among it all, a large grey cat extends one paw to reveal ivory claws, then yawns.

Bright evening sun blazes in through the open window, easily penetrating the thin grey film on the glass, cleaned barely two weeks earlier. Silhouetted images of objects in the room dance crazily on the walls.

A large wooden desk pushed against the back wall leaves just enough space for a large person to enter the room by the door into the hallway. Beyond, orange glowing light flickers on glass door panels from the open fire in the kitchen hearth.

The desk is strewn with white papers and reports, mostly on medical and health subjects. A couple of dictionaries and chunky novels are mixed up among it all.
In the middle of this sea of paper sits an island of dark grey lap top computer with cables snaking out behind. Portable radio and recording equipment has been pushed to the rear of the desk. Small rimless spectacles rest snugly in their felt lined case.

An open diary lies on the desk, crammed full of social engagements and work shifts. Every day that has passed has a different doodle scrawled over or around its number.
A wall planner on the wall above is empty except for struck out holiday periods.

Under the desk, boxes of papers rest against the wall. One box is full of photos, I have never seen them all. Three wicker baskets are so full that their lids will not close. Fragments of candle, sewing equipment and stationery protrude. Assorted ethnic musical instruments are on the wall, on shelves and on the floor. They are all wooden.

In the centre of the large, oblong room opposite the fireplace there’s a huge purple umbrella suspended from the ceiling. Sitting underneath in a small wicker chair feels like being in an open sided den, with hundreds of tiny metal discs trailing from the umbrella edge. They reflect little spots of sunlight all over the room as they gyrate in the breeeze.

Various shoes, not always in pairs, are visible. High heels on the window ledge, leopard skin slippers among the CDs and walking boots, one either side of the futon.

A red habitat settee is the largest object in the room. It’s strewn with different coloured and sized cushions and a couple of bulky woolly cardigans. A large bright purple lampshade nearby looks slightly incongruous on its plain wooden lamp stand. Two ceiling lights hang and sway in their paper globes.

Outside the window, opposite, stands a row of respectable Victorian terraced houses with their tiny front gardens. In the distance, modern terraces and semi-detached houses go up the hill until a green patch of the downs is visible at the top.

A single, small ashtray is turned upside down on the window ledge, next to a chunky ingot shaped candleholder. It is clean and shallow, with a glazed abstract design inside and out. A thin trail of incense dust runs alongside the ashtray.

Below the window ledge, several small blue bottles are neatly arranged in a square wooden box. A hairbrush casually rests on top. Two large beach towels hang to dry, haphazardly clinging to coat hangers on the doorframe. They turn occasionally in a gust of wind. A smaller towel is neatly arranged over the radiator, with a hairdryer below.

There are no plants in the room but all the wooden objects somehow gave it a natural, living feel. That with the comfortable settee and luxurious carpet.

Two wooden notice boards hang inside an alcove by the desk, half hidden by shadow.
One contains various bills, tickets and receipts - several of them out of date. The other is full of postcards from various European and Australian holiday destinations.

Two small wooden chairs are tucked underneath the desk. Each one has items of clothing folded neatly over their backs. It is a medley of order and chaos, some things in their natural place, others strewn randomly or carelessly about. It is a warm, lived-in room with a feeling that people socialis here and got ready to go out.

A mysterious dark wooden box looks old and heavy and gives no real clues to its intended purpose or identity. If you look inside (it is locked) you will find one half filled with bundles of personal letters, cards and assorted nick-nacks, collected over a period of 20 years. It transmits a sense of containing deep insights into her life and is obviously not a box to be examined too closely without prior permission.

Introducing Jack Hawkins

I left the door open, despite the stranger in the house. Or was it because she was there? I’d seen her arrive on her bicycle, watched her chain it to the silver Victorian lamppost and walk up the drive. From my birds’ eye view at the bedroom window I saw a whirr of red hair, short red dress and pink toe nails, matching. Shiny, strappy shoes blurred in motion before the front door closed behind her.

My brown, steel-capped caterpillars were stacked neatly under the small wooden chair. By the bed, incense smoke wafted up, drifting lazily around the room. It failed to mask the rank odour of my socks. I buried my underwear deeper into the white wicker laundry basket in the corner.
What is her name? Sandra? Or is it Sandy?

Someone went into the bathroom, the sound of running water stopped. A clacking noise of wood on porcelain made me think it was her, Simon wouldn’t bother. Unless he was having a crap… I shuddered at the thought of lying in the bath with his smell. I pictured her open, oval –shaped face.

I leaned forward on the king sized bed, my thighs looked swollen and lumpy. I moved them further apart but the lilting flesh collapsed to join again in the middle. Lifting my head higher, I peered over my soft, rounded belly to catch a rare sight of wiry pubic hair. I wondered whether she had red pubic hair.

The toilet finally flushed, door hinges creaked open then quickly shut again. I struggled to pull my XXL t-shirt over my waxy shoulders, ripping the stitching in the neck. I could smell menthol on the pale yellow beach towel that I wrapped around my waist. Silence. Then I heard the kettle boil downstairs, the rattle of mugs being taken from the cupboard. Her thighs would not meet in the middle when she sat down, unless she sat with her knees touching.

Thick steam billowed from the bath, I could hardly breathe. I opened the small window and closed the bathroom door. Hard running cold water drove the steam out of window as I removed the towel. In the full-length mirror I saw a misty apparition of a body I hardly knew. Not do long ago, I athletic and really quite slim. I had olive coloured skin and a muscular body tone. In those days, I played football, tennis and climbed mountains two at a time. I worked outdoors for the Forestry Commission. My mother, then my wife, fed me wholesome meals. In those days, I also had a sex life.

Now, I was living with Simon, an even worse cook than him. I no longer played sports and I drove to the local shop to buy papers and milk. There was nowhere to walk near my work, a building society head office on the edge of town. My rounded body shape and pale, blotchy skin made me look dumpy and ill. As I slid into the bath, I felt sorry for myself, wondering where it all went wrong.

In the bath I always feel my balls, anxious I might find a lump. I wondered if she felt her breasts in the bath. My ‘breasts’ had grown alarmingly large recently, I could feel them bouncing around on the rare occasions that I ran. I still felt turned off by women with saggy breasts, but had recently started to feel a deep empathy with them.

I’d always liked full, rounded buttocks in a woman – it was a significant factor in choosing my wife, Doreen. But somehow I couldn’t help feeling depressed about my own ballooning behind. I doubt whether women like them, not even Doreen. She left me for a really skinny bloke but said it was nothing to do with his size. Just that he was better company and more ambitious. That’s when I left the Forestry Commission to work for Nationwide, but I’ve not had a lover since. Even my favourite grey corduroy trousers no longer fit, they used to slip down on to my hips when I bought them, only last year.

The bath water was too hot, I felt sweat oozing from every pore. Palpitations made faint ripples on my hairless chest as my heart struggled to regulate the heat. It reminded me of when he saw a middle-aged man in a suit have a heart attack on the bus. He was a big bloke too. I levered out the plug with a fork prong and topped up with cold.

She was laughing in the kitchen, sounding friendly and familiar, although she had only met Simon once before. Surely they wouldn’t make out? She was beautiful, intelligent and solvent. Simon was a lazy slob who’d never had a proper job. He signed on and sometimes did cash-in-hand work in bars and cafes. But he was infuriatingly good looking. And slim. He looked fit (but he wasn’t) and was always an attractive light brown colour, even though he hardly went outdoors and had never been near a sun lamp. Not fair.

As the water ran away, I stepped out of the bath, clinging to the sink to keep my balance. I weighed myself on the scales. Over 16 stone, more than 100 kilos. It was a new record. I consoled myself with the thought that the extra weight was evenly distributed. In the mirror, I saw that the condensation had cleared. A crystal clear image of my body confronted me. My weight would crush her, I thought. There’s no way she will go out with me, if I was her, I wouldn’t go out with him. She knocked on the door.

“Hurry up Jack, I’m desperate for a piss!” I smelt the stench of Simon’s crap. The largest towel was transferred from the airing cupboard. It was the only one that could cover my body. In the shaving mirror, I saw beads of perspiration cover my forehead. I slipped the lock and stepped into the hallway. There she was, slim, elegant and grinning. She kissed me on the lips, slightly longer than she needed to. “I love a man fresh from the bath, hot and damp all over”. I blushed. I wanted to say, “Come and see me upstairs then” but she was gone, locking the door behind her.

In my bedroom, I threw my towel onto the bed and laid myself out on top of it. The door was wide open. The toilet flushed, the lock slipped. I strained to hear her movements. Silence. I dozed a little. Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I fumbled for the towel beneath me, quickly covering my legs, stomach and breasts. Simon grinned, “Fancy a quick one down the pub? Sandy’s just got time for one before she meets her boyfriend”

I went to the beach, a face forms in the surf, then prints in the sand.
A trace of life that hides as the tide runs free to blank these lines of fate.
A face with nose, ears and eyes.
The face of a friend from a long gone time.
He died young, but his face is old, as if he still puts on years, but his heart is still.
I was with him that day.
I held his arm in a vain bid to hold him back.
I fought him on that cliff top, tooth and nail.
She was there too, in her car.
She knew he would do this, or else it would be her.
They were both wrong.
She drove the car fast, I took his arm to jump away.
But he let go and went with her, down there.
The car is still rust red on the beach.
It flew from the cliff, it froze one second in mid air.
Then falls like a toy to the foam below.
I close my eyes, then raise the lids quite slow.
When my eyes open, I see him, his face in the sand, fresh with each wave.

well at last i managed to get the sperm sample to the research institute, hand delivered, but they made me give it to an orderly to take up in the lift.

then i found out he passed out before he got to the lab and he can't be sure if he delivered the right sample!

apparently he thinks someone else may have been hiding in the lift and then overpowered him with chloroform. he was wearing a white coat with motorcycle glasses and latex gloves and may have had a syringe.

well when i hear this from julie,the receptionist, i ran past the security guards, geoff and bruno, and went to the lab myself. but before i got in the door, i was grabbed by a porter and bundled into a cleaning supplies cupboard with no lights and a really strong smell of harpic.

i must have fallen through a trapdoor or something because next thing i knew i was falling really fast but luckily i landed on some sheets and blankets at the bottom.

it was still dark and i could't feel a door handle or anything so i had to barge my way through the plasterboard into the corridor. i was then escorted from the premises and told to wait until thay contacted me.

since then i heard of a rumour going around that the lab director is swapping all the sperm samples for his own as part of trying to get a new patent for his GM sperm fission process. someone else told me (julie) that he just has an ego problem.

either way i am really upset about it all and don't know what to do. i tried the ombudsman but apparently thay don't deal with pilot projects.

i think i'll have to get a new identity and go back to the lab myself to find out....