David Moody - Straight to You

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Straight to You

by David Moody

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations in this story are imaginary. No resemblance

is intended between these characters and any real persons, either living or dead.

Condition of Use

This book is made available subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be

lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or

cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published electronically by David Moody in 2002

www.djmoody.co.uk

INFECTED BOOKS

Prologue

At a quarter past one on the morning of Tuesday, October the 2nd, our sun began to die. Like the inside

of a body being slowly weakened and devoured by a cancer, and unseen by anyone and anything

watching, the star began to writhe and to react within itself producing lethal levels of energy and radiation

which it spewed out into the space surrounding. All around the rest of the universe, nothing seemed to

have changed - the brilliant yellow mass continued to burn brightly and to warm the planets in orbit

around it where life continued unabated and oblivious to the star's inaudible dying screams.

Eventually, within fifty hours of the sun's first internal reaction, a change worked its way steadily

through the vacuum which was noticed and which was, surprisingly, welcomed by the population of the

earth - it began to get warmer. As the people on the planet's surface talked of mild winters and of Indian

summers, the temperature of the air that they breathed rose steadily until, by Monday the 15th, most

areas were a good five degrees warmer than their record books and experts said that they should be.

It was not the first time that such things had happened there and, for once, rather than complain, most

people in England chose to relax and to make the most of their mini-heatwave. Steven Johnson.

however, was far from impressed.

At only twenty-six years of age, he had done well to get to where he sat today. It had taken him eight

years to work his way up through the ranks of the company which employed him from a mere clerk to

the heady heights of an office manager. Now, as he sat alone and uncomfortable in the stilling heat of his

oak-panelled office and rested in his expensive leather swivel chair, he wondered if it had been worth all

the effort it had taken.

Steven looked out of the wide window next to his desk and down onto the busy high street below.

With jealous eyes he watched people chatting, laughing, shopping and enjoying themselves and he cursed

the concrete prison cell into which he locked himself for a minimum of seven hours every working day.

Sometimes he wondered if he would have been better off without the burden of responsibility which had

been hung on his shoulders at a relatively young age. Although not a lonely man by any stretch of the

imagination, he would often listen to the laughter and jokes which drifted through the air from the main

office and into his room, and curse the professional distance that his superiors insisted he maintain from

the people who worked for him.

He also found it difficult to relax and to cast aside the stresses that his job involved, and the heat of

the last two weeks had only made matters worse. As a single man, Steven went home each night to an

empty house where the only listening ear belonged to the cat and, while the animal did its best and

listened to his problems, it was useless when it came to offering support and encouragement. Although he

never made any admissions to his friends or family, he was desperately in need of someone to share his

time, his money, his problems and his life with.

Perhaps he was being naive, but he made no effort to go out and find such a person. He had been the

victim of too many broken hearts and missed opportunities to spend his nights trudging around lonely

bars and crowded clubs anymore. Brought up on a diet of other peoples sickly sweet love stories,

Steven was sure that all he needed to do was wait patiently and then, one day, the girl of his dreams

would come waltzing into his life.

Even with the large window open, the heat in the office was sticky and close. He loosened the tie

around his neck and undid the top button on his formal, pressed white shirt. He glanced up at the clock

on the wall in front of him and sighed heavily as its hands quickly worked their way around towards two

o'clock. Two o'clock on the afternoon of Monday the 15th had been a time and a date that he had not

been looking forward to. It had been decided by those in the higher echelons of power that one of the

junior members of the office staff had not been performing to the fullest of his abilities and, unfortunately,

this was the time and date when it had fallen to Steven to deliver the company's ultimatum to their

struggling employee. As the second hand on the clock ticked mercilessly past the hour, he took a deep

breath and picked up the phone.

With the receiver held tightly in his hand, Steven swallowed hard and dialled out to his secretary at her

desk. If he was honest, he didn't believe that Ian Stanton (the member of staff that he was about to

reprimand) had done anything to merit such action being taken but what troubled him more than being the

hired mouthpiece of a man in a grey suit in an office on the other side of the country, was the fact that he

was about to admonish one of the most popular members of staff. He felt sure that it would only serve to

alienate him further from the rest of the people in the branch. Still, he thought, there was no avoiding it, it

was what he was being paid to do.

The thought of money depressed Steven and, as the phone rang in the outside office without answer,

he could not help but think and be saddened by how much he had become a willing slave to cash. He

was about to do something that he did not believe in and the only reason that he did it was to keep those

few extra pounds flowing into his pockets at the end of each month. To stop them soiling their own

hands, his superiors paid him a little more than the staff beneath him and expected that to be sufficient.

The company that Steven worked for was part of the financial industry and he could see better than

most just how the possession of money seemed to command more respect that it ever deserved. He

would often spend the best part of a day running around on behalf of those people who either had cash

or connections while the people who really needed his help had to wait in a poverty-stricken line at the

bottom of a stinking heap. Even when he was able to assist such people, it was never without heavy cost

to those least able to pay while the rich were never asked to put their hands in their pockets. It was a

difficult fact to accept but it was an unavoidable part of his working life. It was also a huge bone of

contention which lodged itself painfully in Steven's neck. He knew that he had to find a new career before

this one drove him to insanity.

Someone finally picked up the telephone.

'Hello,' a chirpy, high-pitched voice answered. It was Carol, the office secretary.

'Would you ask Ian to come inside please?' Steven said abruptly.

'Will do,' Carol replied before quickly replacing the receiver.

Steven put his phone down and took several deep, calming breaths. In the moments before Ian

entered, he tried desperately to remember the standard lines from countless courses and numerous

memos that his bosses had force-fed him with to deal with a situation such as this. He hoped that he

would be able to keep up the act and deliver their ultimatum with the minimum of effort and resistance.

The silhouette of a man appeared in the frosted glass of the window in the door to Steven's office.

The shadow paused for a moment (Ian was obviously as nervous and unsure about the interview as his

manager was) before knocking on the door and coming inside.

There was a loud confident knock at the door and I stood up to let Ian into the office. He walked quietly

past me, keeping his eyes directed firmly away from mine, and stood in front of my desk.

'Sit down, Ian,' I said and he pulled a chair across the room to sit opposite my chair.

I watched him as he sat down and noticed that he looked considerably calmer and more composed

than I felt. He had already been told the purpose of my calling him into the office today and I expected

him to have prepared his responses to the company's threats beforehand. A young man, only a couple of

years my junior; he folded his arms, sat back on the hard, wooden chair and waited for me to sit down

opposite him.

I cleared my throat. It was difficult for me to hide my dislike at the situation and, although I didn't look

directly into his face, I could feel Ian staring across the table at me. I was sure that he saw me almost as

the enemy and definitely as someone who could not be trusted. Although I knew that what I was about to

say were the words of other people, I felt that he would hold every last syllable against me personally.

'How are things?' I asked, struggling to find a way of ending the stagnant silence and getting down to

the matter at hand.

'Fine,' Ian replied abruptly. It was obvious from the tone of his voice and from the brevity of his reply

that he had no intention of making this an easy caution for me to administer.

'Look,' I began, 'I don't like having to do this, and I'm sure that you don't want to be sat here listening

to me. . .'

I stopped mid-sentence. I remembered my teachers trying much the same line on me at school and I

could not believe that I had just used it. I looked up to see Ian still staring at me. He turned away and

began to fidget nervously and chew his fingers. I took another deep breath.

'I'll come straight to the point, Ian. Your work has failed to meet the standards that the company

expects from someone of your grade and experience. Unless you buck up your ideas and start pulling

your weight, you could well find yourself out of a job.'

I felt myself relax and was sure that my relief was obvious to Ian. I had delivered the required

ultimatum and he appeared to have taken it reasonably well. I had been worried that he might not be so

calm and was surprised when the expression on his face slowly changed to one of genuine concern.

'I understand what you're saying,' he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. 'I really don't want to

lose my job.'

'I've got to be honest, Ian,' I said, quickly slipping back into company mode, 'you're not giving me that

impression at the moment.'

He was quiet again for a second and I could see that there was something that he wanted to say. He

shuffled in his seat and looked away from me and out through the window before beginning to speak

slowly and with some trepidation.

'It's just that…' he began before stopping mid-sentence with uncertainty.

'Just what?' I asked, keen to find out what was on his mind.

'It's just that I can't see any point in doing any more than I need to.' Ian struggled to find the right

words to express how he felt without, I presumed, sounding anti-company (which most, if not all of the

staff in the office were).

He fell silent again and I was about to speak when he interrupted.

'You've told me before now that if I apply myself and work hard, then I could be sitting where you

are and…'

'…and?'

'…and I'm not sure if I want to be.'

Ian relaxed when he had finished speaking and looked anxiously towards me for a response. He had

caught me off guard and I struggled to find anything to say in reply.

'As long as I get my money at the end of the month, I don't care what happens,' he added,

emphasising his point.

It was my turn to fidget in my seat as I tried to force myself to act as a responsible company

employee and to do the job that I had been paid to do. I could not help agreeing with and admiring Ian's

views but I had to make the company's position known.

'I've been told to give you a month - after that we'll review the situation,' I said, hiding my doubts idly

behind the threats of others.

'That's fair enough,' Ian replied, seemingly relieved that I had not taken his words badly. 'Believe me,'

he continued, 'I really don't want to lose my job I just think that there's a lot more to life than slogging

your guts out all day and getting home in such a state that you're too tired to do anything else.'

Once more he looked cautiously towards me for a reaction before adding,

'You can see what I mean, can't you?'

Unfortunately, I could see all too well what Ian meant. I nodded and stood to let him out of the room.

It was difficult to stop myself from telling him just to what extent I had agreed with his comments and so,

to prevent any embarrassment, I decided to finish the meeting and avoid any further conversation. I could

not help feeling deflated and somewhat depressed - I had let down the company and, much more

importantly, I had let my own morals and ideals slip.

'Please, Ian. Please just try and make a little more effort,' I said as I led him across the room. 'I'm not

asking for one hundred percent dedication, just a little co-operation.'

Ian managed a relieved smile and left the office. I shut the door behind him and leant against the wall,

glad that our meeting had passed without any real incident.

Although I made no conscious attempt to eavesdrop on the conversations out in the main office, I

stood quietly next to the door for a short while and could not help but listen to what the staff were saying

to their reprimanded friend. Through the frosted glass I could see them gathering around Ian for shreds of

gossip and information like gannets after the tiniest scraps of food. I hated being cast as the enemy and

strained to try and hear what was being said above the noise of the office. Although most of the words

were nothing more than garbled mumbles, I distinctly heard Ian's voice telling the others that I had been a

pushover.

I walked back from the door and sat down at my desk again. I swivelled the chair around so that I

could look outside, leant back and stared lazily into the deep and clear blue sky. Ian had been right, of

course, I had been a pushover. But how could I be possibly be expected to argue against something that

I knew was right and to criticise others when I agreed with their morals and actions? I decided there and

then (as I did nearly every day at the same time) that a change of career was the only sensible solution to

my problems.

Five o'clock seemed to take an eternity to arrive. I spent three long hours alone in my office, ploughing

through mundane paperwork and occasionally speaking to customers on the telephone. The heat made

the time drag even more and I noticed from my records that it was on this date last year that we had fired

up the boilers and switched on the office heating. Today I sat next to an open window with my tie

hanging loosely around my neck and my shirtsleeves rolled up.

A knock at the door disturbed the quiet and Robert, my assistant manager, poked his bald, sweaty

head into the room.

'All right if we all shoot off?' he asked. 'Everything's finished.'

I nodded.

'I'm just about to pack up myself,' I said and I was about to ask him a question when his head

disappeared again. The heavy clunking of feet followed as the staff collected their bags, newspapers and

redundant overcoats and climbed down the stairs to leave the building.

I gathered up my papers from the desk and shoved them into my briefcase, determined to catch up

with more work at home later. As I leant across and closed the window, I looked down onto the busy

street below and watched as people strolled through the early-evening gloom of October with their

jackets hung casually over their shoulders and their shirt collars open.

I slammed the window down and locked it shut. Keen to leave the branch quickly and be on my way

home, I picked up my jacket and case and went out into the main office. Robert had just let the last of

the rest of the staff out of the building and I waited for him to return. It was company regulations that

no-one was ever left on the premises on their own to lock up at night and a strict, almost regimental

check of the building needed to be made before we could leave.

A discarded newspaper lay on a nearby desk and I picked it up. The paper was one of the national

tabloids and, as I expected, carried little in the way of any real news. As is the norm for such papers, the

first hint of unexpected sunshine meant full, front-page pictures of crowded beaches and of children in

park paddling pools. The predictable headline yelled. 'What a Scorcher!' in inimitable Fleet Street style

and another footnote at the bottom of the page continued the theme, saying, '…and there's more to

come!' Try as I might, I could find nothing inside the paper to explain the heat or to even give the slightest

idea of how long the conditions might last or how hot it could get.

Robert returned from the front door with his round face glowing red and covered with a layer of

sticky sweat. 'This is too much for me,' he wheezed.

'I know what you mean,' I said. 'I don't know what we'll do if it gets any warmer.'

As I spoke and tried to make polite conversation, Robert walked past me and collected his briefcase.

Although I was sure that he was not trying to be deliberately rude or obstinate, I could tell that he had no

interest in anything I had to say and that he just wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I hoped that it

was the branch he was so eager to escape from and not me - the constant whispers and glances from my

staff were beginning to make me paranoid.

I followed Robert as he made the required checks around the building and switched off the

computers. As we left the building I breathed a cool and relaxing sigh of relief and looked forward to a

quiet evening at home. With a little luck, I thought, I would wake up in the morning and find that the office

had burnt down and that it was a typically grey, cold and miserable October day outside.

Somehow, I didn't think thatwould be the case.

With the arrival of night, the autumn light had faded away as normal but there had been no noticeable

respite in the suffocating heat. Although past their bright best, I was determined to take advantage of

what remained of the conditions and so settled down on the patio in a deckchair to relax and to listen to

the radio for a while. I had brought home plenty of work from the office which needed to be done but, as

the pressures of the day had now reduced to an almost bearable level, I decided to leave it all locked

safely away in my briefcase until morning. The company got more than enough out of me between nine

and five o'clock each day - this was my time and my time alone.

The patio was dark and quiet with the gloom only broken by the soft yellow electric light which spilled

out of the house from the kitchen window. Although not brilliant by any means, the light provided just

enough illumination to help me locate the cans of beer on the ground at the side of the chair.

The metal frame and thin cloth covering of the deckchair proved to be deceptively comfortable and it

did not take long for me to begin to slide away into a light sleep. The heat and drink combined to deadly

effect to help me lose consciousness with the minimum of fuss. Occasionally a soft breeze drifted across

the garden, but it was never strong enough to wake me for more than a couple of seconds.

At around nine-thirty, an unexpected crackle of static from the radio woke me with a start. It had

been playing quiet, tinny music all evening without interruption but had now begun to scream and hiss with

distortion. Still half asleep, I struggled in the gloom to find the set with one outstretched arm. With fingers

flailing, I grabbed the wire aerial and swung it around to try and relocate the station's elusive signal. When

the music was replaced totally by static and white noise, I sat up and picked the radio angrily off the

ground. As I toyed with the controls, a heavy and hot wind blew across my face. The wind was gentle

and somehow directionless and it seemed to fall onto me rather than be blown. I looked up into the night

sky to try and find the source of the breeze and was amazed when the whole panorama of darkness

above me began to change colour.

At first deep black and punctuated only by the brilliance of individual, isolated stars, the sky changed

initially to a ruddy brown before lightening and working its way from a deep red to a dull orange, almost

as bright as the last glowing embers in a dying fire. I watched and rubbed my tired eyes, unsure if what I

was seeing was really there or if it was just a trick of the night. Slowly, the colours reversed and the sky

worked its way back to its original dull blackness. The radio in my hands crackled back into life and, as

the warm wind subsided, the music began to blast out of the speakers once again.

I put the machine back on the ground and relaxed again in the deckchair. I looked up at the heavens

above and wondered about what I had just seen. Half of my mind seemed intent on finding a link

between the hot conditions and the light and wind I had just experienced whilst the other half of me

wanted nothing more than to ignore it and go back to sleep. The latter part of my brain was starting to

win its battle with the other until, just as I was beginning to lose consciousness again, the telephone rang

inside the house. Angry, tired and irritated. I jumped up out of my chair and knocked a half-finished can

of beer over onto the patio. For a moment I watched as the liquid fizzed and frothed away in the pale

light, before going into the house to answer the call.

Still not quite awake, I picked up the telephone receiver and held it to my ear.

'All right, Steve! Did you see that?' asked an annoyingly cheerful voice at the other end of the line. I

recognised its owner immediately as Mark Evans, an old close friend.

'If you've just phoned me up to ask that, Mark, then our friendship could well be on its last legs,' I

said as I tried to stifle a tired yawn. He ignored my idle threats.

'Did you see it?' he asked again. 'Wasn't it incredible?'

'Mark,' I said abruptly, becoming more and more irritated with each passing moment, 'yes, I did see

the sky change and yes, to be honest, it was very unusual and very impressive. If you don't mind though,

I was just about to go to sleep.'

'Boring bastard!' he snapped. 'Anyway, I didn't just call to ask about that, I wanted to know if you're

still going out for a drink on Monday.'

At the mention of drinking and of going out, my tone changed and I actually managed to feign interest

in the conversation.

'Fine, mate. Shall I pick you up about eight?'

'Okay,' Mark replied. 'But only if you're in a better mood. You've got to lighten up if you're going out

with me.'

'I will,' I promised. 'I've just had a bad day, that's all.' I was keen not to talk about work and swiftly

switched the conversation to another topic. 'Is Stuart still coming with us?' I asked.

Stuart was another close friend of Mark's and of mine. We had known each other since our school

days together and our Monday-night outings to the pub had become something of a tradition.

'He can't come,' Mark said. 'Says he's too busy at work, but I doubt if that's the real reason.'

Stuart's attendance at our evenings out had become more erratic and irregular recently. Although we

never dared say anything to him, we both presumed that it had more to do with his wife than with

pressure of work.

'It's Susan,' I commented. 'Our Stuart's becoming a bit hen-pecked these days.'

Mark agreed. For a moment I pictured Stuart trapped at home and could not help but feel jealous of

the fact that he at least had someone to be trapped at home with. All that I had was a fat old tabby cat

who, almost on cue, bounded heavily down the stairs and ran past me.

'How are things at work?' Mark asked, disturbing my train of thought.

'Shit,' I replied, bluntly and honestly. I knew my friend well enough not to waste any time in beating

around the bush with him.

'No change there then,' he offered. Mark had heard me complain about the office on many occasions

in the past. In fact, he had probably listened to me moan about the place every time that we'd spoken

since I had started there. 'You need to get yourself a real job!' he joked.

'What, like the one you've got?' I replied, sarcastically. Mark was a lecturer at the city's university and

my sarcasm was really nothing more than thinly veiled jealousy. As well as earning a much better salary

than me, he lectured in sports science and seemed to spend most of his time playing games and generally

enjoying himself.

'I have to work for my money,' I added with a semi-intended bitterness in my voice.

'I know you do,' he replied. 'But who's having the best time?'

'All right, all right' I wailed, admitting defeat. 'How are things at your place, anyway?'

'Not too bad. There's quite a buzz around the campus about the weather at the moment. The

meteorological department are having a field day.'

'I bet they are. Has anybody got any idea what's going on though?' I asked.

'Not really. They managed to predict that what happened tonight was going to happen. Some of them

are saying that something similar will happen again before long.'

'All well and good but what exactly was it?'

'I don't know All that I've heard is that it could have something to do with the sun.' He paused for a

moment. 'And if you think about it that's bloody obvious.'

I laughed.

'It's typical though,' I said, 'the rest of us are slogging our guts out to earn a living and you lot are just

sitting around and talking about how hot it is outside.'

'Steve, you really have got to lighten up a little You're getting far too bitter in your old age.' Mark

knew that I was joking and ignored my jealous jibes. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'I bet that everything will

be back to normal in a couple of days. You wait, we'll go out next Monday and it'll be wet, miserable

and…'

'…you'll be complaining about how cold it is, I know you. Anyway, I'll see you next week.'

'Yes, I've got to go I've got a lot to get ready for tomorrow.'

'I'm sure you have, mate,' I said laughing. 'Got to blow up your balls and clean your boots. Christ, it

must be tough.'

Mark sighed loudly.

'There's just no point talking to you when you're in this kind of mood. I'll see you on Monday.'

'Okay. Pick you up about eight. Have a good week.'

I listened as Mark put the phone down. I yawned, stretched and then replaced the receiver of my

own set. The idea of heading back out onto the warm patio to the deckchair and to my remaining cans of

beer was appealing and I walked towards the back door, tired and thirsty. No sooner than I had taken a

couple of steps away from the phone, it began to ring again. Annoyed, I picked it up.

'Hello,' I snapped.

'Steven, it's your mother here.'

My heart sank as Mom began to speak. Although I enjoyed talking to her I knew that my beer would

be flat by the time that she had finished gossiping.

'How are you, Mom?' I asked.

'Oh, not too bad, love. I can't get over this weather though.'

'I know what you mean, it's a bit much, isn't it?'

'Are you all right dear?' she enquired in her gentle, high-pitched tone. 'I tried calling a little earlier.'

'I was probably asleep. I had a bad day today.'

Although we had only been speaking for a matter of minutes and had done little but exchange

pleasantries, I could already sense that all was not well with Mom. She habitually telephoned me with an

irritating regularity to make sure that I was all right (she seemed to find it difficult to comprehend the fact

that I was twenty-six and perfectly able to look after myself) and her calls usually took a familiar pattern.

Mom would ask how I was, I would tell her and then ask the same question back. Nine times out of ten,

she would reply by telling me exactly where she had been recently, who she had seen and what they'd

been doing when she'd seen them. This vital information could take Mom anything up to half an hour to

impart and, on the rare occasion when it was not forthcoming, I knew that something was wrong and that

she had called me for another reason.

'Is everything all right, Mom?'

She paused for a moment before speaking again.

'It's your father, Steven. He's not too well.'

'What's wrong?' I asked, concerned. Dad was a strong old man and was rarely ill. If he complained

you knew that there was something seriously wrong with him.

'I think it must be the heat,' Mom replied. 'He just can't seem to settle.'

Although he was in his early sixties, it was difficult to accept that Dad was growing old. In the same

way that they both thought of me as their little boy, my parents still seemed the same to me today as they

had done when I was younger. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'I don't know. Would you come over one night soon? We'd both love to see you.'

'Of course I will. Mom. It'll probably have to be next week, but I'll definitely come across.'

My parents lived on the other side of town and it took a while for me to get over to see them. I knew

that I would be busy for the rest of the coming week and for the weekend after that. I hoped that Mom

wouldn't mind if I left it that long to visit.

'That's fine, love. Your dad'll be pleased to see you.'

Unusually, she did not seem in the mood to chat and I felt sure that she would have been happier had

I made arrangements to visit them a little sooner. I apologised for not being able to and then said

goodbye. I wished with all my heart that I could just abandon the office and go and see them first thing in

the morning, but I knew that was impossible. Disappointed with myself and worried about my father, 1

walked away from the phone in the hall and into the living-room.

I flicked on the television set just in time to catch the beginning of a news bulletin. There was nothing

of any real interest in the main headlines, but it was becoming noticeable that the weather conditions had

begun to work their way gradually up the programme's running order. A few days ago they had been little

more than a tacked-on postscript but now that it looked as if the heat would last for a while longer yet,

they were fast becoming headline news. I switched off the set again and walked out through the open

French windows into the garden. The air had become perfectly still again and the heat was dry, close and

heavy.

As the seconds ticked away towards ten-thirty, I drifted off and away into a sound, undisturbed

sleep. Undisturbed, that was, until four o'clock the next morning when I woke in my deckchair and

stumbled back into the house.

I was late getting into the office next morning. Once I had woken up on the patio and had gone back

inside to bed I had found it difficult to get back to sleep. I had eventually managed to drift off again at

around six and had then slept through my seven o'clock alarm. I could only have been ten or fifteen

minutes later than usual but it did not matter - ten minutes or ten hours; once my daily routine had been

disrupted it always seemed to take the best part of the whole working day to get it back into some

semblance of order. Fortunately, the office was quiet all morning and it seemed that all of the people who

were lucky enough to have the choice had stayed at home to make the most of the relatively tropical

conditions outside.

There had been no overnight respite in the weather and by midday the brilliant sun stood high and

proud in the deep blue sky, burning everything that it touched with its powerful and undiminished rays. I

spent the morning trapped in my sweat-box of an office catching up with the paperwork which I had

taken home last night with the intention of completing there. A telephone call from a friend was a

welcome interruption from monotonous sheets covered in endless lists of repetitive figures.

'Sorry to bother you, Steve,' Carol said as she poked her head around the door and into my room.

'I've got a Rebecca Marsh on the phone for you, she says it's a personal call.'

'Thanks, Carol,' I said. 'That's fine. Could you shut the door on your way out please?'

My secretary obliged by slamming the door and almost pulling it from its hinges. I picked up the

phone quickly to speak to Rebecca.

'Hi Becky How are you?'

I had known Rebecca for the last four or five years I couldn't remember how or where we had

originally met, I just knew that she was the best friend I had ever - or would ever - have. One of the

biggest regrets of my life was the fact that I had met her shortly after she had married. I knew that if she

had still been single I would have found the perfect partner to share the rest of my time with.

'I'm all right, Steve,' she replied 'How are things going with you today?'

I sighed.

'They're going, that's all I can say.'

Rebecca laughed and I relaxed. It was good to hear her voice again as she had been out of town for a

couple of weeks. One of the few advantages of the location of the branch which I managed was that it

was only a couple of minutes' walk from Rebecca's office a little way down the high street.

'Are you very busy?' she asked.

'Not particularly Do you fancy meeting for lunch?'

'I was just about to suggest that. Shall I meet you here at about one?'

'That's fine,' I replied, cheerfully. The thought of spending some time with Becky made the prospect of

the rest of the day seem a little more palatable.

'Great,' she said 'I've got to go now, I've got an appointment in a couple of minutes. I'll see you later.'

'Okay, I'll see you in a while.'

I put the down the phone.

It was a source of continual amazement to me just how much better I always felt after speaking to

Rebecca. I only needed to hear her voice for a moment and I was suddenly torn away from my

depressing, humdrum career and thrust into a calmer, safer world.

I got up from my seat and walked across to the open window. Looking down, I saw that the street

below was momentarily quiet and I watched as crowds of children suddenly spilled out of the gates of a

nearby school, heading en masse towards the nearest shops. Dressed in shorts and T-shirts, the children

ran out into the sunlight as they would on any other summer's day. I had to remind myself that it was the

middle of October.

The hour between Rebecca's call and one o'clock dragged incredibly. A combination of the heat, the

continual stream of work which arrived on my desk and the prospect of finally seeing my best friend

again made the seconds feel like minutes and the minutes feel like hours. One o'clock eventually arrived

and I quickly left the office.

I met Rebecca outside the building where she worked as we had planned, and we discussed where to

go.

'It's too hot to go for a drink,' she said, 'and anyway, I can't really afford it.'

I knew exactly what she meant. It always seemed to be the same at the middle of the month -

pay-day was still a couple of weeks away and my bank account was already beginning to slip heavily into

the red.

'We could go to the park,' I suggested, searching for cheap alternatives for something to do. Rebecca

nodded.

'Good idea. You can hear yourself talk there.'

'And it's free,' I added quickly.

We crossed the main road and followed the twisting path of a narrow side street which led to the

park. As we walked, we caught up on the fortnight's worth of gossip and developments which we had

missed while Becky had been away. I could not stop myself from staring at my beautiful best friend and

thinking what an incredibly lucky man her husband was. Now that she was happily married, however, we

had come to share a close, symbiotic relationship whereby we both relied on each other for help and

support. Over the years we had grown to be as close as brother and sister and I valued her

companionship more than she ever could have imagined. I always meant to tell her just how much she

meant to me, but could never find the right moment.

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StraighttoYoubyDavidMoody Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Thecharactersandsituationsinthisstoryareimaginary.Noresemblanceisintendedbetweenthesecharactersandanyrealpersons,eitherlivingordead. ConditionofUseThisbookismadeavailablesubjecttotheconditionthatitshallnot,bywayoftradeorotherwise,belent,re-sold,hir...

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David Moody - Straight to You

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