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around the side of the building to the car park. She was struggling under the weight of a large plastic carrier bag she held. It was jammed full of ledgers. Reluctantly she had, as expected, been forced to take some work home with her.
        After dumping the carrier on the passenger seat she slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Mini. It spluttered a little then burst into life and she guided the car out into the street in the direction of home.
        The journey didn't take her long. Their house stood on a small private estate about ten minutes from the centre of town, in a street with only six houses on each side of the road. As she turned into the street she could see lights blazing from the living room windows of their house. She parked her Mini behind Lambert's Capri and walked around to the back door.
        The smell of cooking met her as she entered the kitchen, and she sniffed appreciatively. Lambert, dressed in a plastic apron with a bra and knickers drawn on it, was standing by the cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan.
        Debbie took one look at him and began laughing.
        'I bet this never happens to Robert Carrier,' he said, grinning.
        She crossed the kitchen and kissed him, peering into the saucepan.
        'What is it?' she asked.
        'What is it?' he mimicked her. 'It's stew, woman, what does it look like?'
        She nipped the end of his nose and retreated into the living room. There, she dumped her carrier bag full of ledgers on the coffee table and called to Lambert that she was going to change her clothes. He shouted something about slaving over a hot stove and she laughed as she bounded up the stairs.
        His mood had changed, she thought with relief. But that had been the problem since the accident. His temper and character seemed to fluctuate wildly. One minute he was happy, the next he was plunged back into the abyss of self-reproach and guilt. Debbie removed her clothes and left them in an untidy heap on the end of. the bed. She fumbled in the drawer for a t-shirt, stood before the mirror, unhooked her bra and threw it to one side before pulling on the t-shirt.
        Her nipples strained darkly against the white material. She slid into a pair of faded jeans, patched so many times she'd lost count, and padded, barefoot, downstairs.
        Lambert was ladling out the stew when she walked into the dining room.
        They ate slowly, at a leisurely pace, chatting about this and that, feeling the tensions of the day slowly drain away.
        He poured her another glass of wine and sat down again, gazing across the table at her as she drank.
        'I'm going back to work at the end of the week,' he said quietly.
        She paused, her glass midway to her lips and asked why.
        'Because I can't sit around like this any longer.'
        'You know what the doctor said.'
        'Oh, sod the doctor. He doesn't know what it's like. Sitting here every day and night thinking about that bloody accident. I need to go back. I need something to occupy my mind.'
        'You said yourself that there was nothing doing.'
        'I know,' he took a sip of his wine, 'but at least I wouldn't be shut up here in the house all the time.'
        'Just give it a little longer, Tom,' she asked.
        'It's been a fortnight now,' he said, his voice growing to a volume which he didn't intend. He looked down at the patterned table cloth and then across to her again. 'I don't think I'll ever be able to face it, so I might as well just keep running.' He drained his glass and poured himself another.
        'And what happens when you can't run anymore?' she wanted to know.
        He had no answer.
        
***
        
        Ray Mackenzie stood on the pavement outside his house as the van drove away and rubbed his eyes. Christ, the bloody headache was getting worse and now his eyes were starting to throb. He felt as if he hadn't