Dreams to Die For by Alan G Boyes

those extreme conditions told him that – though he wished he had been able to see more of her face and features when he was close to her in the carriage. Most of the time however, it had been pitch black and impossible to see anything at short-range and even when the emergency lights were in place he had not been able to see much as there was frenzied activity going on around them and the doctor was attending to Cindy. He had hoped to see her in hospital but the brief glimpse he managed from the doors of the hospital ward revealed only that she had light brown hair.
    Cindy had told him on the train she was married, but it was nonetheless a shock to see the man at her bedside. Gordon knew instantly by the body language and the concern etched into his face it was her husband, and that chance sighting was what had delayed Gordon from making the call. He needed to be absolutely certain that he was prepared to face the consequences and had spent the last few days on the losing side of an irrational debate with his conscience. He checked the time; four thirty in the afternoon. He took a deep breath, picked up the telephone and dialled her mobile.
    The call itself was brief lasting little more than two minutes, but that belied the volume of information and words exchanged. Both spoke with gathering enthusiasm and speed, often the two of them speaking simultaneously yet both perfectly understanding what the other said, though Cindy carefully avoided letting slip anything that might have revealed she had been gleaning information about Gordon on the internet. At her suggestion, they agreed to meet for lunch the following Tuesday at the Bunch of Grapes in the small Worcestershire village of Meckerton as it was far enough away from Stillwood for her not to be recognised. Gordon did not offer to pick her up, and Cindy did not suggest it to him. It suited them both not to ask.
    The next few days, Cindy could hardly contain her growing excitement and anticipation. She started doing things she hadn’t done for years, such as loudly singing along to a favourite CD, the volume level on the amplifier turned up high. She skipped around the house, flitting from room to room for no apparent reason whilst lightly muttering to herself. She was happy again.
    For the first time since the crash, Cindy felt like returning to the feature article she had been preparing prior to the bombing. Such articles were still something of a novelty for her, but she was enjoying undertaking the research and the discipline that imparting sufficient factual and interesting information within a relatively small number of words imposed. She had so far managed three articles, or rather two plus the one in preparation.
    Her first since she left mainstream journalism had concerned the Black Country and how it became the beating heart of Britain’s industrial revolution with great iron foundries that produced the massive engines and heavy engineering equipment that powered the nation to prosperity. Her second was a complete contrast, a walker’s guide to the canals of Worcestershire.
    Whilst researching that article, walking alongside a disused canal early one Sunday morning, the path widened until she came to an open space of common grassland dotted with some trees and large brambles. A small band of ten people stood facing each other in a large circle. Each had a dog sitting at their feet. The spectacle was so unexpected and surprising, Cindy stopped to look. After a brief moment, the dog owners started walking slowly clockwise around the circle having told their dogs to stay, which they all did for a few seconds. A young black Labrador was the first to break ranks and ran into the middle of the circle to loud shouts of “No” and “Get back”. The clearly embarrassed owner fearing that her dog would be the sole transgressor, need not have been concerned. Seeing the Labrador running free and clearly enjoying itself, two – and then