Chapter 1 - Throw In

Before the madness started I read a book by Stephen King, I have not read any book since, which is not normal for someone in my line of work; it has been that kind of year.

The book was called the Wolves of Calla and in the coming months I was to recall things in it that were coming disturbingly true around me. Two things in particular register with me: in the book the wolves are actually robots sent to harvest children who are then ruined by having their life essence extracted for the use of the robot’s masters. The other is the author tells of vampire victims giving off a kind of scent, or aura, that other vampires can detect and know that here is an available food source.

The second one is the most disturbing, because what happened here in Deepwell only really makes sense if you buy into that theory. All those women - and me - did not turn insane overnight, our own wolfs/vampire scented something in each of us and gathered us to him, and then he harvested us.

I was just eighteen when it started, I had lived in Deepwell all my life, in fact only rarely had I ever left it. Deepwell has nothing of interest about it; there is not even a deep well. It does have some history though, it is mentioned in the Domesday book, back then it was a small collection of farms and apparently a deep well, but it was utterly destroyed when the Normans stormed across Yorkshire and all the inhabitants of the little farming community were put to the sword.

A few centuries later Deepwell had grown again into an isolated hamlet, but the Black Death came and supposedly killed everyone. I doubt that could be the case, someone always survives, but the records are clear on the subject, the Abbot of the Priory of St Mary Magdalene wrote there was no one alive after the outbreak.

If I sound like a librarian it is because I am one, or a trainee anyway. Deepwell has a small library in the basement of the town hall, except the town hall is an old miller’s cottage converted into a half dozen untidy offices. The actual librarian is an ancient man who always gives me the impression of being dusty, to all he is known as Mister Tims, I rarely see him, he only appears when I re-organise things to the standards I am taught in Uni, which I attend part time. Tutting he will shamble about and restore the library to it’s boring Dickensian squalor, taking down my little reading room screens, removing posters and hiding the microfiche machine. I think if they ever bring in a computer and take away the rubber stamp to check books out with he will finally die of shock and let me get on with things.

Oh yes, and we have a College - sort of. Deepwell has no fire station, no bus station, no train station, but we have a large school that brings children from all the other Deepwell clones clinging to the slopes of the Pennines around us, they are shipped in and out in green coaches run by a firm in Batley called Green Goddess. The school includes a sixth form college which I attend two evenings a week learning RDA, Dewey, ISBD, AACR2 and the difference between extrinsic and intrinsic management, which is essential in running a village library. I don’t wear glasses but otherwise I am told I look like a librarian, stooped, intense staring eyes and a permanent serious expression.

It’s true I do tend to stand with my hands on my hips, leaning forward a little, my hair is black but looks bluish under artificial lights, I have a high forehead that shines no matter how much I powder it, my chest is unremarkable, my only really good asset is my legs, which years of keen sporting have tuned to a nice sculptured smooth skin without fat. I wear short skirts to show them off and I know all male eyes are on me when I climb the little ladder to store books on the top shelves. When I say all I mean the one or two nerds who ever visit the library, most of my clients are the old folks.

It was at the school that I saw the notice that drew us all to the carnivore. It was innocuous enough, hand written and with a child like drawing of a netball hoop, it was strange to see among all the other computer generated notices liberally splattered with Clip Art. It got my attention.

‘Ladies!’ It announced. ‘Keep fit the fun way, I am forming the Deepwell Ladies Netball team, try outs all next week, 6pm in the gym, all welcome, no experience necessary.’

I was intrigued, I had made a couple of journeys into Marsden to the sports centre with good intentions, but I found working out in the treadmills and rowing machines too embarrassing, I am a naturally clumsy person and I looked like a wombat trying to ride a bike. Also I had played Goal Attack at school and Captained the Deepwell Secondary School Netball Team during my final year. It was about the only thing of note on my CV.

Biting the top off my Bic and holding it in my teeth I opened my folder and jotted down the time and place of the try outs, yes I know it was easy enough to remember, but I just do things like that, maybe it’s a Librarian thing. I also made a note of the name at the bottom of the sheet, Raymond Armstrong, Deputy Head and Phys-ed Coach.

I grinned a little at that ‘Phys-ed Coach’, that was American surely? Did we not still have PE Teachers? So this was the new face in town, Ray Armstrong, come up from some private college in London to slum it with us lot. In a small village like Deepwell you cannot do that without a lot of speculation, what disgrace had chased him out of town? No one would willingly give up a plum position in London for the naff wages of a West Yorkshire hick school!

Closing my folder and tucking it under my arm I mouthed the top back onto the pen. A boy, Mark, one of the students in my class, looking for a quick credit toward his teacher’s qualification, whooped and called out ‘Go down on that shaft baby! Yum yum!’

I felt my face burning and struggled for a smart crack back at him, but as usual I had none.

Back at home I was about to tell Mom about the Netball, but the words died in the long silence that had long been our relationship. Mom had never attended one of my matches at school, why would I think she would show interest now? She was sitting in the living room, watching some American sitcom re-run and steadily drinking gin and orange cordial, every day it seemed she started earlier and added less cordial, one day soon she would start the day with gin and cornflakes.

As I climbed the stairs my father watched me from the landing, arms folded across his broad chest. It was the only photo of him left in the house, I thought it morbid, he was leaning against the grill of the artic he died in on the M1. As I reached the top step he stirred and leered at me and I heard his voice clear as day. ‘Go down on that shaft baby! Yum yum!’ I rushed into my room and slammed the door, not that my door had ever been a defence for me from him.

It took me until Thursday to run out of excuses not to go to the try outs. I had assumed we would just meet in the gym then head outside to the Netball court where I had brought glory to the school, but it was not to be. My first surprise was the turnout, twelve of us filtered into the gym and stood around awkwardly, if the same numbers turned up the other nights we would be sixty girls chasing seven spots on the team. I knew none of them by name, not that that was unusual, but I did recognise about half from seeing them around the school or village.

Mister Armstrong arrived like a sudden rain squall, brandishing a whistle and clipboard he roared like a drill sergeant and had us scrambling to form a line facing him. He was in tight shorts and a blue trimmed T shirt revealing a soft down all over his muscular arms and legs, the outfit was so white it practically hurt the eyes. I guessed him about the same age as my dad when he died but had even broader shoulders and a narrow, almost girl-like hips; muscles etched his limbs and a six pack showed plain as day through the tight T shirt. He was clean shaved with prematurely grey hair and a weather tanned broad face with heavy eyebrows, thin lips and a nose that had been broken at least once in his life. His eyes though hit you first, they were grey, like his hair, but sparkling clear and penetrating as a ray gun, when they hit you they seemed to have an inner ice that chilled you, but not in a bad way, like when someone opens the door in a sauna.

Instead of walking down the line he summoned each of us to him, and as the first girl sauntered out he yelled ‘Sprint!’ to her and she let out a squeak and dashed up to jump to attention in front of him. ‘Name?’ He snapped.

‘Gillian, sir!’ The girl called shrilly.

‘Age?’

‘Yes sir!’

Armstrong looked up from his clipboard on which he was jotting something. ‘Is that a joke?’ He demanded, no trace of humour in his tone.

The girl looked confused, I guessed she had no idea what she had said. Armstrong snarled at her. ‘I don’t like jokes on my time, what ... is ... your ... age?’ He spoke slowly, as if to an imbecile.

‘Nineteen,’ Gillian responded miserably, visibly wilting.

‘Get back in line,’ he snapped, adding the info to his clipboard with a flourish. ‘Run!’ He barked.

And so it went on, the man was a relentless bully, I figured the list of candidates was shrinking rapidly. When it was my turn I ran as if the devil was behind me and presented at attention as Gillian had done, but it was to no avail. He looked at me and my heart sort of jerked.

You know in the Christopher Reeves version of Superman he looks at Louise Lane and tells her what colour underwear she is wearing. It felt like that, he looked at me and I was suddenly certain he could see right through my tracksuit and worn old bra and panties to see me totally naked. It was a disturbing sensation, not unpleasant, but generated a deep soul shiver.

‘Name?’ He barked.

‘Louise Lane,’ I gabbled.

He started to write, then suddenly looked up, and it was terrifying, that ice had fire in it, and it burned. ‘Another funny girl!’ He growled, tucking the clipboard under his arm, my legs were rapidly dissolving, worse still I felt my bladder loosening, horror of all horrors, was I about to pee myself in front of eleven other girls and this man? The entire village would feast on that gossip for years, I would have to resign from the Library and join a nunnery, assuming they still have them.

‘I expect total commitment from my team!’ He roared, aiming his voice past me at the others, it was like having a machine gun firing over my shoulder. ‘I only want committed girls willing to give me their all, the rest can sod off, now!’ He turned his frightening gaze back on me and I knew I was about to be ordered out.

‘Adrienne!’ I bawled, trying to match his volume. ‘Adrienne Fowler, age eighteen and I am totally committed, sir!’

He glanced at his clipboard, wrote something. ‘Back in line,’ he snapped.

When all had suffered at his interrogation he surveyed his list and shook his head in disappointment at what he saw. ‘Alright, first thing, no trainers in the gym, take them off!’

I glanced down at his footwear, Plimsolls, the same arctic snow white as his shorts and T shirt. I bent to undo my trainers and kicked them back, despite the fact I knew there had been no such restriction when I went to school here, you do what the capo wants, specially one that shouts.

To my surprise others hesitated, one girl argued her trainer soles were gym safe, he ignored her but made impatient tapping gestures on his clipboard. One by one girls kicked off their trainers, two were wearing tights and he impatiently ordered them to the changing room to get rid of them, only one came back. It dawned on me then we were not going outside, I was disappointed, I had been looking forward to showing off on the familiar court. Instead we were called forward one at a time, tossed a netball and told to run around the gym bouncing it. I was confused, you do not dribble a ball in netball, when you win the ball you are rooted until you get rid of it, what was this exercise supposed to prove? I concentrated on down throwing and catching the ball rather than sprinting and made it around without loosing the ball once, pleased and proud as I was the only one to achieve that.

When we had all run around we next had to take a shot at the built in basketball hoops, I found the backboard on the hoop odd and distracting, but managed to pot three out of four before he dismissed me with a sharp blast of his whistle, I raced back into line, the soles of my bare feet squeaking on the polished parquet.

The next exercise was a joint one, we were told to spread apart and star jump, I was a bit startled at how out of shape I was, after just two I was panting and my heart was jumping, but I grimly kept at it, concentrating on making good jumps rather than quick half hearted ones as some other girls were doing. Just as I was sure I could do no more Armstrong had us lie down and perform back breaking reverse crabs, arching up to grab our ankles and hold there while stomach muscles and spine screamed in protest.

Armstrong punctuated his orders with sharp blasts on his silver whistle which hung on a blue lanyard, we were put through a gauntlet of exercises including sprinting from one end of the gym to the other again and again. When the whistle finally freed us of that torture I stood bent over, gasping and dripping sweat, as I slowly recovered I realised our number was down to just six, presumably the others had just given up and left. Still winded my eyes met those of another panting girl and she smiled at me and gave a thumbs up, I returned it and felt happier than I could recall in years.

Two short blasts had taught us to form a line, but as we did he swung his arm and ordered us to form a circle about him, arms length apart. Breathing heavily we complied and he turned around, surveying each of us. ‘Well done,’ he approved. ‘You have all shown heart and commitment, each of you, leave me a contact number if you still want to make the team, then go get a shower. Yes?’

One of the girls had raised her hand. ‘Sorry, sir, I did not bring shower gear.’

Neither had I, but I was not going to admit it.

Armstrong did not explode, he just shook his head a little. ‘Girls, I will always look after you, you will be my special girls, there are towels and soap in the changing room, off you go, and don’t forget your trainers!’

I collected mine and joined the queue, all six were signing up, I gave him my mobile and skipped to the shower room. Arranged on the benches were snow white towels and a little bag each of hotel style shampoo and shower gel, I counted eight, so he had anticipated some drop outs, but on the optimistic side. We stripped and got into the communal shower, chatting and cheerful, all of us smug we had stuck it out. Getting out I towelled dry and then realised I would have to put on my sweat soaked clothes again anyway. I sat wrapped in a towel and contemplated the stained clothes and the other girls fussed at their hair or sat like me, none of willing to put on sweaty clothes after a hot shower. At that point there was a loud knocking on the changing room door and Armstrong shouted ‘coming in, cover up!’

Startled we all grabbed at our towels though we were already as covered as they would allow, two of the girls bolted behind the shower partition. Armstrong walked in, making a show of covering his eyes and in the other balancing a pile of school branded tracksuits, all freshly laundered.

‘Told you I look after my special girls!’ He announced, placing the small pile on a bench and then retreating, still making a show of covering his eyes. There was a general scramble but there was enough for all, and they were of a reasonable size, loose on some, tight on others, loose on me of course. But dressed and dry we rolled up our sweaty clothes in the towels and headed home, I was on a buzz, and hoping I was going to make the short list.

In my room I sat on the bed in the strange tracksuit, wondering who else had worn it and what they were doing now. As I started to peel it off I paused, a thought striking me. It had taken forethought to have these ready, but that same forethought could have gone into adding a line to the notice to bring a towel and change of clothes, or putting the tracksuits out with the shower gear!

In the wardrobe mirror my eyes looked thoughtfully back at me, pale brown and boring eyes, not like his icy grey ones, I remember the way his gaze seemed to slice through me and the way he made a show of covering his eyes when he came into the changing room, a very obvious show.

I stood up and peeled off the top, my bare breasts were in the mirror, they were okay, just that so much training had tightened them with muscle and kept them - well - small, but they were not limp at least, the nipples were only slightly darker than the surrounding skin and formed small nubs that right now felt sensitive and hard. I took off the pants and trainers and unrolled the towel I had used to carry my stuff home with, I wrapped it about me as it had been in the changing room, tucked over at my breasts, surveyed myself in the mirror.

The towel was short, it barely covered my hips, showing more leg than the most daring of my skirts; at the top I could just see the swell of my breasts. I twisted and looked back, damn my legs looked good! I covered my eyes as Ray had done and found with my eyes open I could see still see me through gaps in my fingers.

‘Dirty old man,’ I giggled at my reflection, she looked rather disapproving at me, the Librarian eyes stern. ‘You can look if you want!’ I whispered, and slowly opened the towel to reveal my flat stomach, the clear outlines of my lower ribs, the tight triangle of my pubic hair, that still caught me by surprise, I had been a late comer to puberty

The towel was like a white wing behind me as I held my arms wide and high. I licked my lips. ‘Do you like what you see?’ I whispered. ‘Look at me!’

‘I like,’ a deep voice said behind me. I snatched the towel back, in the mirror I was alone, but the back of my neck crawled with the sense someone was there, I dared not turn to look, my legs trembled and for the second time that night I was on the urge of peeing myself. ‘Show me again!’ Strong hands rested on my shoulders and pushed away the towel, in the mirror I was naked and terrified, and alone, the towel a white pool at my feet.

‘Daddy?’ I whimpered.

‘I like very much,’ the voice husked in my ear, then the sensation of someone there, the hands on my shoulders, disappeared like a soap bubble. My knees gave up and I fell to them, my hands pressed against the mirror and my face looked back at me from close up, it looked flushed and the eyes were wide and the mouth part open. One hand detached itself from the mirror and reached down and back of it’s own volition, I moaned in protest and animal pleasure as it stroked my fur and danced over the furnace hot crease that invited me in so often at night. I bit my lip hard enough to hurt and forced my hand to stop.

‘I did not kill you, daddy,’ I whispered. ‘I did not mean what I said, I love you.’

Gradually the trembling eased and I crawled naked into bed, curling up into a ball.

---

The library was empty, but for some strange reason there was a large pile of books on my left. I took them one at a time, opened to the check out insert and firmly planted the date stamp onto it, Ker-THUNK! Close, add to the growing pile on my right and take the next one.

I never heard him come in, Mister Armstrong, Ray. But there he was in front of me. I paused. ‘Can I help you?’

Those cold eyes looked into me and my soul was bare. ‘Yes,’ he responded in his powerful, commanding voice. ‘I want a book on local ghosts.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ I put down the stamp and came around the bench, I felt his eyes on me as I walked. I trundled the ladder on it’s rail and climbed up all four steps to get to the top shelf and finger walked through the little browsed local section, found Ann Tupperfield’s Ghosts and Legends of the River Colne. I proffered it down to him, he stood at the base of the ladder, his eyes level with the bottom of my skirt. He ignored it.

‘I want local ghosts,’ he insisted.

‘The Deepwell Beck runs into the Colne,’ I explained. ‘Tupperfield has a whole chapter on it. The village has been wiped out twice, there are lots of local stories about hauntings.’

He took the book with one hand, with the other he pulled my skirt away from my legs and brazenly looked up it. ‘Do you always work without knickers?’ He asked, his breath hot on my knees. I felt myself blushing, but could do nothing, he was blocking my descent. He reached up and stroked my pussy, the ladder shook, his powerful hand was incredible gentle as he stroked me like a purring cat.

‘You had better stay up there,’ he warned me. ‘If you come down I will have you!’ He stopped stroking me and stepped back. Trembling, I carefully stepped down, my skirt hooked up on the wooden rail and rose as I descended, when I touched the tiled floor it was up above my waist and I was naked from my belt to the tops of my trainers with the little trainer socks in them. His eyes were on me and I felt impaled by them, utterly in his power.

‘Just remember you asked for this,’ his voice was like gravel in a river. His big hands took my upper arms in a painful grip and he turned me around to face the ladder. He put one hand in my hair and pushed my head forward and down, I gripped the railings for balance, he kicked at my trainers, physically pushing each leg to the side so that I stood with legs wide, bent over toward the ladder. His rough hands grabbed my hips and held me clamped, his breath was on the back of my neck, I felt an unyielding truncheon push up between my legs and instinctively clenched my pussy shut, but the thing did not care, it kept coming and lodged into the closed crease and still pushed up, my heels rose as I stood on tiptoe to evade it, but it followed and I had no more height to gain, my feet were lifted off the floor as the beast demanded entry.

Balanced on it, held immobile I could do nothing and my body surrendered, my pussy lips gave way, exhausted, and the weapon penetrated me as I fell onto it, impaling myself with a searing, tearing sensation and I screamed at the white pain that slashed through my lower belly.

I woke stifling the scream into my pillow and lay panting and covered in sweat again. The pain in my abdomen was very real, I reached down and probed for it, but it was all internal, when my hand came back the fingertips were bright with blood.

My period was early.

I should have recognised the omen.

Chapter 2 - Goal Attack

Deepwell huddles in a narrow Clough that funnels the Deepwell Beck down off the Moors toward Marsden and the mighty Colne River. The Manchester Road avoids the valley, following the old Roman Road over the glowering moors. A tributary of the road snakes down the north face of the Clough, known locally as the Cliff, crosses the Deepwell over the dam that forms the Old Mill Pond and skirts away up the slopes at the south end of the Clough to where the school now resides, but was once the estate of Baron Ablung, it heads off to Marsden on the other side of the ridge.

A handful of local roads have formed from this great metropolis of ours, where the road dips down into the Clough over the Cliff a road branches left and right, the right hand road goes to the head of the Clough and stops, it is attended by the oldest houses in the village. Halfway down it branches right and climbs back up the Clough, that is Folly Hill Road, named for the wild moorland at the top of the road where the Ablung family bankrupted itself trying to drain the marshy ground up there. At the top of the valley the Folly Hill Road splits left and right in two dead ends, that is the actual Folly Road. An unpaved farm road forms a crossroad, it carries on up to the Redbrook Reservoir, but it is more a sheep track than an actual road.

At the base of Folly Hill Road the original High Street runs alongside the Deepwell Beck, cut about half way along by the Folly Hill Road, it carries on to cross Mount Road close by the Dam Bridge and forms a stub where the old tied cottages stood, most now demolished and replaced with sheltered housing. It is still called Druid’s Way, but the only thing remotely resembling anything Druid is two dark towers of stone standing up out of the Old Mill Pond.

The Estate, it has no name, is served by the Estate Road which branches off the other side of the Bridge from Druid’s Way.

The last path is the Pennine Trail which Peels off the Manchester road on the other side of the Redbrook Reservoir and circles around to plunge down the Clough and becomes Druid’s Way, no traffic uses it other than foot, horse and off the road vehicles.

My Library lurks at the bottom of Folly Hill Road and from there it is a half mile walk over the Dam Bridge and up Mount Road to the school, I walked it easy, despite my painful cramps, my legs chopping off the yards and barely breathing harder as I climbed the hill the buses groan up.

I looked down at the village as I walked, it was Sunday and only the newsagent close to the library was open. There was some traffic to and from the new estate, probably heading for the big supermarkets over Huddersfield way. Some houses trailed smoke in defiance of the smokeless law, mostly from the Druid’s Way where the oldest buildings could be found. It was warm, unseasonably so, winter does not like to leave the Pennines, yet here we were in March and I was in a T shirt and tennis skirt, I clutched my battered sports bag which held the borrowed tracksuit and towel, meticulously washed by me. I also had shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and a small towel of my own. I had even put in a change of panties and bra, I had had to hunt to find a halfway decent set, Mom was not big on paying out for new clothes for me, most of what I had was left over from school.

I grinned a little at that thought, this morning, gloating over the terse message on my mobile that I was short listed for the team and to come to Mister Armstrong’s office for ten. I had found out my old Netball outfit and tried it on. It still fit as well as two years ago, but with older eyes I was shocked at what I saw in the full length mirror.

The white and green outfit was a sleeveless mini dress that tightly hugged my figure, particularly my breasts, the pleated skirt section rode over my curved bottom and lifted high at the back because of it, my panties were on show at the slightest bounce as it jigged up. Even the top was showing cleavage, heavy usage had worn the elastic of the round collar so that it sagged.

‘Good God I was pure jail bate!’ I announced in wonder, I thought back to the cheering crowds and how many were dads, no bloody wonder! Netball my curved bum, it was us teenage girls bouncing around half dressed they came to see!

Sadly I packed it away, I was sure the ‘Captain’ blazed on my back would make my place on the team a certainty, but on an adult the dress was just plain indecent.

I was not even sure if there would be some sort of second try out, the text stipulated office, but if there was I was going to be prepared this time, and hopefully score some points for returning the loaned gear.

I knew where the deputy head office was well enough, I had been sent often enough for cheeking the teachers, I had thought them all useless parrots who could only reel off memorised passages from text books, and thought and speech were never strangers to me. I expected to find a queue of wanna-be team members but I was on my own, my trainers squawking on the polished floor as I stepped up and tapped on the frosted glass.

‘Come in!’ The growl was so like my dream I shivered, hesitated, actually reached under my skirt to check I was wearing panties, then braved on in.

The office had changed a lot, gone were the threadbare carpet and dusty old paintings and piles of folders Mrs Paine surrounded herself with. Mister Armstrong sat at a heavy looking highly polished wooden desk, devoid of any clutter. The carpet had been replaced with a pale cream rug that felt deep and fluffy under my feet, not exactly local council provided school supply! The walls had been stripped and painted and some certificates gloated beneath shiny glass. The window with it’s view of the playground was shrouded with a white Roman blind that still let in plenty of light.

Armstrong lounged in a big swivel chair that matched the desk, he was still in PE gear but with a white zipped jacket over it, there was a badge on it I did not recognise but seemed to be surrounded with gold leaves. He ignored me as I walked in and came to attention in front of his desk, he was swinging the chair slightly from side to side as he studied the contents of a thin card file, and had a pen clenched in his teeth like a cigar.

I waited, my eyes drifted over the certificates, they were qualifications, including one as a Netball Coach and Referee which surprised me, I had sort of concluded he did not know Netball from Basketball.

Without looking up from his file he growled around the pen, ‘get up on the desk.’

I felt a little dizzy, sure that my dream had just slopped over into reality, I must have imagined it and missed what he really said. ‘I’m sorry? Sir?’ I stammered.

He sighed and lowered the file, looked over at me, his ice eyes tore into me. ‘I am sorry too, for the wasted time. That will be all.’ He twisted the chair around so that his back was to me.

‘I don’t understand,’ my voice cracked and tears pressed at the back of my eyes. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘You did not get on the desk,’ he replied, talking to the file. ‘I am going to put together a team that will compete at national level, for that I need agile girls who can jump up onto a desk without falling and who are prepared to take my orders without question.’

I teetered on the verge of retreating in tears, but then slapped my palms down hard on the shining desk top. Netball had not been the only sport I excelled at, I had made a fair gymnast too, or would have had I not been so clumsy. I vaulted up, swinging my legs up between my arms, getting the soles of my trainers down on his desk and flipping up and pushing hard with my hands got myself to an almost perfect mount, breathing hard, daring him to fail me now.

He did not even look up or turn around, just ignored me totally.

I felt like a complete idiot, standing there on the desk, again this was too close to my dream, if he turned he would see straight up my skirt. I touched my panties again, just to be sure.

‘I can take orders,’ I told him, trying to sound fierce too.

‘Then do a handstand,’ he retorted.

I only hesitated a second, after doing handstands on parallel bars and on vaulting horses this desk looked like a half acre of space, easy-peasey, but the hesitation was because of what kept me out of competing at gymnastics, getting up was one thing, dismounts were my Achilles heel, and if I came down hard here I was like to injure my back on the edge of the desk.

I knew two handstands, the quick one usually used on a vaulting horse where you sort of forward cartwheel, grab the top for a second, then let the momentum of your legs take you over the horse into what should be a graceful landing. The other was a power move and I hoped my muscles were still up for it.

I spread my legs and got my palms flat down in the centre of the desk, bent my elbows to take my weight and lifted my legs up behind me, my back and arms screamed but I gritted and put muscle into it, with my legs curled over my back I straightened my arms in the world’s hardest push up and as my head came down and my bum went up I straightened my legs, concentrating on keeping the all important balance, the legs only finally pointing straight up once my straining arms could hold my body vertical.

I hung there, arms shaking but holding, sweat dripping into my hair that hung down over my face, aware my skirt had fallen too and exposed all my legs and my tight blue sport panties. Through the curtain of my hair I smugly saw I had his attention now, he had turned back and was eyeing me from ear to toe, lingering longest on my legs. Go on look! I silently urged him. They were my best feature, I wanted him to look.

Cheekily I broke the straight legs together pose and widened my legs into a mid air split, straining them apart locked at the knee until my thighs screamed and I felt the gusset of my panties riding into me to form a thong. Slowly I closed them again and at the same time curled them down over my head, down as far as I could bare, a good gymnast would have got their feet down on the desk and elegantly stood up onto them, but I could not bend that far, I shoved hard with my hands and flipped up, my feet banging down as I came to a wobbly upright, trembling all over with the effort of the combined manoeuvres. I armed sweat off my brow and shoved my hair back.

My mouth as usual got the better of me. ‘Well Mister Armstrong! Still think I am not agile enough?’

His eyes were on mine. ‘Call me Coach,’ he growled. ‘All my Special girls call me Coach, and you are first on this team’

I glowed but saw the ice in his eyes was hard and freezing and it chilled me back down.

‘Jump down,’ he told me.

About to clamber down I checked and obeyed, jumped clean off and landed with a rare perfect dismount, arms up in triumph. I turned to face him, he had stood up and from a drawer in the desk withdrew an eighteen inch Perspex rule which he gripped in one big hand. The way he held it made my blood drop temperature plummet. He had to be kidding!

‘Your school record said you have a smart mouth,’ he said conversationally. ‘I won’t stand for that in my Special Girls. You have a choice now, get out and stay out, or take your punishment.’ He swung the rule. My eyes followed it like a hypnotized snake.

‘Decide NOW!’ He snapped.

I hovered on the cusp of a terrified bolt and wanting to belong again, to be part of something, I had nothing since I left school, no family to speak of, no team, no friends. My last match I was carried off the pitch with the crowd shouting my name, now no one even knew my name. He was offering it all to me once again, belonging. And besides, he was right, I had cheeked him, and that was wrong.

I stepped back to the desk, the short end, bent over it and put my cheek down on the wood, my face cheek that is, my hands reached and took a grip on either side of the desk. I was no stranger to what was about to happen, corporal punishment had been banned in schools before I was born, but there had been another man who never stood any nonsense from me.

I closed my eyes, felt my skirt flipped up again. I clenched my teeth and gripped the desk as hard as I could, waiting the unbearable weight for the first crash of pain.

But when it came it was no more than a sharp tap across my bottom, a quick sting that faded at once to a soft burning. ‘OH!’ I cried, more out of relief than shock or pain. Two more blows fell, each as mild as the first, I almost cried with relief.

‘Are you going to be my Special Girl?’ Coach asked me softly. A rough hand stroked where the rule had struck, soothing at the burning, then delivered a sharp hand slap that made my body jerk as it was so unexpected.

‘Anything, sir!’ I babbled.

‘Coach,’ he corrected, and slapped me again with his bare hand, lower this time, onto the bare flesh of my left thigh, the burning this time stayed and hurt and throbbed.

‘Are you going to be a good girl?’ He demanded.

‘Yes Coach!’ I cried, only just managing to say Coach and not ‘Daddy.’

My right thigh broadcast pain as he struck that also, I did cry then, but not at the pain, he patted my bottom and pulled my skirt down, fussing it into shape. He seemed concerned about me.

‘You were the School Team Captain,’ he noted, returning to his chair. I had not been told I could move so stayed bent over his desk, just turned my tear streaked face to him. ‘Well that was school, you are a woman now, and joining a grown up team, what happens in the team, stays in the team, do you understand?’

‘Yes Coach,’ I assured him, who would I tell anyway?

‘Good girl,’ he approved. ‘Now go get a shower, you are soaked through.’

I straightened up, my thighs gave a sort of tearing sensation and still burned. I reached for my bag on the floor but he coldly said. ‘Leave that!’

Confused, but eager to obey, I trotted on down to the changing room. Through the swing door there were wood slat benches with pegs and a wood shelf above for hanging up clothes and keeping shoes out of the wet from the shower. The floor was rough tiled to prevent slipping. I undressed carefully, my muscles were complaining, I would be stiff tomorrow, and my thighs still burned. The tiles were harsh under my feet as I stood naked. The shower was part closed off by a tiled wall, but was open both ends, a dozen shower heads lined the other walls of the shower, to the side of the shower area was a door that led to the little changing room the teachers used, it did not occur to me to use that, old habits.

Coach came in then, as I stood totally exposed and vulnerable, the door swung behind him as I covered my breasts and crotch with my hands, but he did not seem to notice me, just put my bag on the seat where my clothes were folded, then he entered the shower area and set one head off, keeping to one side so as not to get wet he tested the temperature then beckoned me in.

Still trying to cover myself I shuffled in, he retreated to one of the gaps and then stood, arms folded, watching me. I turned my back to him as I stepped under the hot stream but could feel his eyes on my bottom and legs, I massaged the water into my hair, my shampoo was still in the bag.

I made a show of showering then turned off the water, still keeping my back to him, but I jumped violently as soundlessly he came up to me and draped the towel about me. He then led me back to my bench, he sat down and I stood in front of him and he took off the towel, leaving me full frontal nude before him. Gently and beautifully he patted me dry, every inch of me, even the soles of my feet, then he stood and massaged at my hair and finger combed it out before wrapping the towel back around me, he kissed my cheek and whispered. ‘You are my Special Girl!’ Then he was gone, the door swinging back shut after him.

I sat down heavily, before I fainted. A sane part of me told me to get out, get out and forget the team, forget Coach. But another voice sneered at me. ‘Yeah sure, go, get back to your Library and your mother and your perfect life, go on, run you coward!’

I dressed slowly into my change of clothes, noting that the loaned clothes had been removed, that stirred outrage in me, he had been in my bag! Seen my tampons! But it would not coalesce into real anger, I could only think of him towelling me dry, his grey eyes on me, and the kiss and the thing he called me: Special Girl.

I left the bag and walked out the changing room, turning right this time and taking the short walk past the boys changing room to the double doors to the gym. The lights were off but daylight streamed in the one wall that was all windows. Beyond were the outside courts, the football fields, the tennis court, and the Netball Court, where I had run my heart out and jumped like a gazelle while girls screamed and men roared approval. ‘Give us another goal, Adrienne!’

And that last match, when we beat Holmfirth High, the other girls in the team hoisted me up on their shoulders and paraded me for the wildly cheering crowd, never had I felt so loved, so wanted.

So much belonging.

Opposite the window wall there was another double door, I wandered in, scenting the familiar leather and wood. This was the tackle room, a crown of piled up mats, a tall vaulting horse that could be halved in size. There were racks of cricket bats, rounders bats, baskets of balls and rubber rings. I launched myself up onto the horse and sat astride it, the sensation was one that warmed my innards.

How long I sat there I have no idea, my thoughts were not really thoughts at all, just a chaotic jumble. Had Dad still been alive I would not be here, he had always been so suspicious of my having anything to do with boys or other men, only the fact that when I was at school all the gym staff were then female did he ever allow me to compete.

Occasionally I had slipped his bonds. I had played with Tony Hobson at the Wreck, the playground on the new estate, where I was expressly forbidden to go. We had sat on the swings and talked nonsense, we went down the slide, he always went first and waited for me, I was naïve, but not stupid, I knew he was looking up my skirt.

When it started to get dark he told me about a game they played after dark, they being the kids on the Estate who were allowed to hang around at the Wreck. He said it was kiss chase and it was like It, which I did not know but gathered it was a sort of dodge ball without a ball. Tony told me how one night the girls chased the boys and the boy had to kiss any girl who touched him, other nights the boys would chase the girls.

‘And who will it be tonight?’ I had asked archly.

‘Boys!’ He shouted and lunged for me, I ran, laughing and shrieking across the field. Looking over my shoulder I realised he would never catch me, I pretended to stumble and fall on the grass, he was on me at once, pinning me down.

‘No fair!’ I pleaded. ‘I fell!’

‘All’s fair in kiss chase!’ He crowed, then to my utter amazement and delight he pressed his lips to mine.

My eyes went wide, the earth turned beneath me and there was ringing in my ears. We stayed locked like that for ages, my lips went numb, but I did not try to break away, his hands stroked my arms, and my hair, we were lost in each other.

Tony pulled free first, leaning on his side he looked at me, taking in my just budding breasts, my exposed legs. I reached up and touched his cheek. ‘What other games do you play at night?’ I whispered. He caught my hand and kissed my fingers.

‘If you really like someone, I mean really like them, we play show me yours.’

My heart beat hard. ‘Here?’ I asked in disbelief, a hundred houses looked out over the Wreck.

‘In the wood, silly,’ he chided.

I looked over at the dark shadows falling on the little wood that divided the Wreck from the Cliff. It looked like Mirkwood to my eyes, and if the Wreck was forbidden to me then the wood was a capital offence to venture into.

Tony got to his feet and held down a hand. ‘C’mon,’ he said softly. ‘I will look after you!’

I slid off the vaulting horse, the wood was not a bad place, but bad people went there, and bad things could happen to you there, but then, the same could be said of your bedroom.

I went back to the changing room to collect my bag, and next to it was another bag, but not an old battered thing like mine, this was a beautiful Lacoste bag with an exquisite squash racket tucked into a special made socket for it. On the coat hook above was a Stella McCartney sport dress I would have killed to own. There was a luggage tab on the bag from British Airways, I lifted it to read the name, Candy Marigold, it was a return label from Dubai, First Class. I resisted the powerful urge to look in the bag, that would have been two faced of me.

I was alone in the changing room so it was a bit odd there was this gear here, but Coach was presumably going through his short list in his own way, I somehow doubted all would be doing handstands on his desk to get into the team, I smirked a bit, I knew I had put on a good show.

A muffled giggle caused me to freeze, it had come from the staff changing room door. I crept up to it, there was no window and it locked from the inside with no keyhole, I pressed my ear to the door and it was like a radio tuning in.

‘It’s real silk, I have no intention of getting it wet just so you can ogle me, you lecherous old bastard!’ That had to be Candy, the accent though was at odds to her gear, it was broad Yorkshire at it’s peasant worst.

‘Then you had better take it off,’ that was Coach.

‘I don’t need a shower, I am not that sweaty.’

Coach again, sounding provoked. ‘You have a lot of attitude for a girl who did not get a single O level!’ He snapped.

‘Oh poof!’ Candy giggled again. ‘You are showing your age, it is GCSE’s these days.’

‘I prefer O levels,’ Coach growled.

‘Ow! What are you doing? Stop that!’ Candy sounded outraged, but she did not shout, her tone was rather muted. ‘Ouch, these tiles are hard on my knees! You are a brute!’

‘You talk too much,’ Coach told her. ‘But I have the cure for that.’

A small silence then a harsh gasp from Candy. ‘You would not dare! I’ll scream!’

I pressed my ear harder to the door, I hated Candy without even setting sight on her, I was going to enjoy hearing the Coach spank her.

‘Go ahead,’ Coach urged. ‘Scream!’

There was a weak squeak.

‘That it?’ Coach mocked. ‘Try harder!’ There was a meaty slap, a shriek and the sound of someone sprawling against the door. ‘Get back here!’ Coach growled, another shriek, genuine this time.

‘My hair! OWWWW!’

‘Louder,’ Coach hissed. ‘Scream louder or I will pull it out by the roots, like this... ‘

The scream was loud and genuine this time, but it only lasted a moment before it dissolved into a choking sound and frantic mewling.

‘There now!’ Coach sighed the words. ‘Now we have an understanding! Hold still, bitch, ah!’ The mewling was cut off and there was a muted sound like a plunger working a sink drain. ‘Oh god yes!’ Coach hissed. ‘Come on bitch, fight all you want, yeah, bite it, not too hard or... ‘ Another muffled shriek. ‘That is better, take it, take it all!’

I was glued to the door, trying to picture what was happening, it sounded odd for a spanking like I had been given.

Coach was crooning now. ‘You love it, don’t you? You got this O level haven’t you? Hold still, I am doing this, you just take it!’ There was an almost silence, punctuated by Coach’s heavy breathing and odd scrabbling sounds on tile and wood and gagging, coughing sounds. ‘You whore bitch, you are going to take it all, oh yes you are, you don’t get to call the shots on my team, here now, here!’

I heard a high pitched whine, a deep groan from Coach and then a fit of violent coughing. ‘No more,’ Candy begged. ‘Please, I cannot breath when you do that!’

‘I don’t give a shit what you want!’ Coach growled, there was another meaty whack and wild crying, then a frantic squeal. ‘Open it bitch, open it!’

A loud Ah! And a slurping noise and Coach panted out disjointed words. ‘Yah ... Yah ... Right in, right in, bitch, deeper, oh god yes! Cock sucking mouth cunt!’

I fell away from the door and crawled from the changing room, behind me the staff door was vibrating to rhythmic blows. I knew with a flash like a firework burst what was going on. As I ran out the school and down the road my chest burned with hatred for Candy. ‘Slut!’ I gasped aloud. ‘Bloody slut!’ In my mouth I imagined I could taste salt and a seaweed odour filled my nose, my lips ached as if they had been stretched and abused.

My mood was ugly, when I got to the bottom of the road I turned off it, vaulting one handed over the barbed wire fence they put up after Tony died and set off through the wood, a shortcut most kids took to the New Estate, despite the tragedy and the warning notices.

Rarely for our area it was a real wood, not a tree plantation, the trees were haphazardly spaced and varied in types, I had no interest in botany and knew only conker trees, and then only in Autumn.

The ground dropped sharply down and in places I grabbed branches or saplings to keep from sliding, about half way down I came to the Vats.

No one knew what the Vats were or when they were built. There were three of them, each the size of a swimming pool and made of rough concrete, the stone was old and crumbling, and it was thought that Tony stood too close to the edge of one and lost his footing, fell into a Vat and drowned. It was a long time before they found him, all the Vats were half full of water that was covered with lily pads and debris, they never got deeper, no matter how much it rained.

There were no associated buildings, no rusting machinery, no paths other than those made by kids who came to collect frogspawn or throw rocks into them, hoping to stir up the monster that was supposed to lurk in there, and whom the kids believed actually killed Tony.

I circled the Vats, careful not to get too close, it was the centre one they had found him in after three days of searching. Shortly afterwards they arrested his father, but let him go after a few hours. It was enough, a small place like Deepwell was not going to let that go, in the end he packed up and left town, abandoning his grieving wife. To this day if the news contained a story of a missing child many of the residents would nod and say to each other - ‘That is where the bugger is now then!’

Stray bubbles popped to the surface, that is what convinced the kids something lived in there years before Tony died in it. I watched them moodily, fantasizing Candy standing looking at them too, one sharp shove in the back and down she would go to drown as well.

I turned from the Vats and made my way down off the slope to the flat ground that followed a tiny, unnamed stream that would join the Deepwell after passing under the Estate via a concrete tunnel the boys liked to dare each other to venture up, no one went far and they always came out a lot faster than they went in. I skipped over the stream, then back again, playing an old game, in summer the banks would be sloppy with mud but now they had dried to a mix of hard clay and crumbly soil.

‘Mind ‘E don’t fall in and ruin tha pretty dress!’ A voice called out.

After the shower I had changed into the tennis dress I had taken with me. All my decent clothes were sports clothes, and most of them had been bought by Dad and were now too small, I had grown in height since then and what had been a modest dress then was now tight across my breasts and the hem hung halfway up from my knees.

‘Mister Wilkes!’ I greeted, spotting him sitting on the culvert where it jutted out of the man made hill where they had dumped the rubble from building the Estate. He was a familiar figure with his home made walking stick and his shaggy haired dog, some sort of cross between a Labrador and a Red Setter. Despite the warm sun he huddled in a cardigan and an old grey fleece. He lived in one of the surviving tied cottages alone, and was forever tramping about, even up on the moors. His dog came up and sniffed at me, then wandered away, if it had a name I had never heard it. I walked up to Wilkes and settled on the cool concrete next to him, the river rattled over stones and entered the culvert with an echoing gurgle.

Wilkes surveyed me sidelong, I tried to pull the hem of the dress down as it rode high up my thighs, but it would not budge, I guessed he disapproved as his gaze stayed on my exposed legs.

‘Tha looks riled,’ he noted. ‘That Armstrong chap give thee grief?’

I glanced at him in surprise and he cackled. ‘Aye, thought so, I see reet enough and I see girls a going up to the school on a Sunday and I thinks to myself, now what is that young man up to now? He were a terror e was, as a lad!’

I digested this. ‘Coach - I mean Mister Armstrong came from here? I thought he was from London.’

‘Oh ar! London, hi, yes, that is where they sent him, his mam and dad, they used to live in t’old Top House,’ he pointed his cane up the cliff. ‘Aye, they thought themselves something special they did, reckoned they were related to the Ablungs, daft that, they were killed to the last kit by the Roundheads, picked the wrong side in the war they did. Not like the Ashtons, now they... ‘

‘Went to America,’ I headed him off, anxious not to be treated to a long winded treaty on the feud between the Ablungs and the Ashtons. ‘So did he go to school here?’ I asked. Wilkes blinked in confusion. ‘Armstrong,’ I reminded him.

‘Oh aye, he did reet enough, proper tearaway, they had the cane in them days and he got it enough!’ He swished his walking stick in approval, my thighs twitched in sympathy. ‘Not much it did him though, naw! Law was watching ‘im, they reckoned he brock the church window, and wrote them things in paint on the gravestones, but his mam swore the constable blind he was home all night. Wrong un he were, and eventually even his mam had to see it, so they took him off to Scarborough, paid for him to go in that Navy college they had there. Hoo, they kept him in order!’ He chortled loudly. ‘He hated it, ran away twice I know of, hitch-hiked back here, but his dad packed him off back with a thick ear!’

He paused, hummed to himself, then patted my leg. ‘Aye lass, watch him, next time I ‘eard owt he were in war.’

‘The second world war?’ I gasped, ‘He is not that old!’

‘Nay, nay nay!’ He punctuated each nay with a squeeze of my thigh. ‘It were them Arabs, ‘e was in the marines, shot himself a prisoner, done it today they would have had him in that Euro court job, but back then, twas ‘ushed up, said t’were put the man out of his misery as he was wounded like. But the marines had enough of him and kicked him out. It were his mam told me ‘e was in London, teaching KP, but I ‘eard before that he went abroad first, New Zealand or Australia maybe, but come back a few years later, I can guess why!! He wheezed laughter. His hand had taken up residence on my thigh, his fingers giving it little squeezes.

‘Aye I can guess, he was a bugger for the lasses even as a lad, he ‘add some way about him, some witchery, kept them coming, but he ‘ad a cruel streak and it always ended in tears, why he were nowt but fourteen when they reckoned he bedded Mrs Ivory, and her old enough to be his mother! Hoo! Did her husband kick off about it! That was Donald Ivory that was, and is, he lives in ‘t’ same ‘ouse still, up by the Folly, not ‘er though, not Elaine, she disappeared she did, never been seen since, could not take the shame, they said.’ He nodded wisely and squeezed my thigh hard enough to hurt. I stood up and he reluctantly let go after a couple of hard pats.

‘Have to go, nice to talk to you!’ I went on my way, very aware that he watched me until I rounded the hill and jumped the wire onto the Wreck.

Stepping onto the New Estate is like crossing a border, from a village of old stone cottages and cobblestone roads you suddenly enter a world of black tarmac, red brick and cars. The houses all looked pretty much the same, some were coupled together, others stood apart. But they all had drives with clean urban compacts on them, small lawns at the front, some with silly mock stone ornaments or gnomes. At the back were fenced off gardens with sheds and greenhouse roofs peeping over them. Kids of all ages played in the curved streets, pedalling bikes and little cars, popping a ball about or just gathered in excited groups, arguing about whatever.

My house was a detached, there was no car on the drive, Mom did not drive, she rode the bus if she went anywhere, which was not often. The front lawn looked tired and was more moss and clover than grass, Mister Almond next door would flick his lawn mower over it, and make a point of it too, doing it only to make sure it did not detract from his. The back garden was overgrown and gone to the wild, I imagined him looking out of his back bedroom window and scowling at it, let him, I had no use for gardens, when I get a place it will be a flat, with a basement garage where I will keep my jeep. I like jeeps.

The front door was not locked, I collected the circulars that popped through the creaky letter box every Sunday and put my head into the living room. Mom was lounging in her dressing gown, watching the omnibus edition of some soap she also watched during the week, she had a big bag of crisps on her lap and fed them constantly into her munching mouth.

I felt sick, since dad died all she did was eat, drink and watch TV, she already looked like one of the fat slags, much more and she would not be able to get out the front door.

I got fresh orange juice out of the fridge and poured a big glass, she never touched my juice so long as I kept bottles of coke and cordial stocked up for her. Sitting at the little breakfast table I resisted the urge to gulp it down in one and carefully sipped it, my glance caught something on my thigh and I saw the mark of Wilkes hand, no doubt if I twisted in a mirror I would see Coach’s hand marks on the back. Sighing I flipped through the junk mail and binned it all, from a drawer I pulled out my ledger and cash tin and went through the week’s receipts, adding the figures to the ledger and checking the income column, my wages, paid fortnightly, and Mom’s disability allowance, paid monthly. She was not disabled, but the system had given up trying to get her back to work, it was just easier to pay her to go away.

I ticked the bills that were due next week, council tax, water, electricity, I added an estimate for groceries, most of it would go on Gin. We were managing, but only because the Insurance pay out for Dad had paid for the house with a few grand left over which I had squirrelled out of Mom’s account and into a saving account I kept hidden. She had no idea of money and left it too me, so I made sure there was none to tempt her, she was a mug and apt to give money to any charity mugger calling at the door, or blow it on some special offer on TV. The council tax was the stinger, by rights we should sell the house and get a two bedroom apartment, but Mom would quickly get hysterical if I tried to discus it. Daft, what did we need four bedrooms for? Even before Dad died it had been decided I would have no brothers or sisters.

I went back over the figures, checked them against what I knew was in our account, mostly mine, I would put a bit in Mom’s for those increasingly rare times she took it into her head to go shopping or to the Bingo. I tried to work a way to free up some money for some new clothes, but could not without digging into the savings account, which was unacceptable. I sighed again, I loved working at the Library, almost my own boss, but it paid peanuts, I was going to have to apply for a post at one of the big Libraries to get spending money, Huddersfield, Halifax, maybe even Sheffield or Leeds, though without a car I would become a bus and train slave, a commuter, God help me. In the meantime it was time to haunt the charity shops again in the hopes that someone had got fed up of their Jasper Conrad collection.

A sudden though occurred to me and I went back into the living room. ‘Mom, when you were at school did you know a boy called Ray Armstrong?’

Mom dragged her eyes of the TV and blinked at me, for a moment I am sure she had no idea who I was. ‘Oh? Raymond? Yes, we all knew him, Mister Ivory got the sack for beating him up, and I think he went to prison.’

‘Mister Ivory?’ I prompted, Wilkes had brought that name up to.

‘He was the deputy head, or was, they sacked him, why?’

‘He is the new deputy head is all,’ I replied.

‘No he can’t be, they said he would never work with children again.’

‘Armstrong, not Ivory!’ I snapped impatiently.

‘Not the same one,’ her eyes drifted back to the TV. ‘Ray was killed, he joined the Navy and his ship was bombed in the Falklands, it was very sad.’ She shovelled in crisps and I gave up.

Chapter 3 - Goal Keeper

Monday at work. I looked up to see a face that was both new and familiar. New because I had not seen her in the Library before and familiar because I had seen her at the Try Out, she was the girl who went to get out of her tights and came back, the other one had not.

She was in tight jeans and a sleeveless sweater that had a deep Vee neck, and if I had breasts like hers I would be wearing low collars too, she fairly bulged out the sweater, and her hips were nicely shown off by the jeans, her hair was blonde and straight and just touched her shoulder in a bob, by rights she should have had a face like a backside, but instead she had high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and a sensual mouth that was smiling so nicely you just wanted to smile back.

‘Hi!’ She greeted me, rummaging in her handbag. ‘I wanted to join, did not realise this was here, been going to Marsden for books!’

‘We are well hidden,’ I admitted. Mister Tims refused to have a sign put at the office entrance and forbade any advertising, I think he hated visitors disturbing his library.

The girl spread several bits of ID about on my desk, I quickly gathered she was Clarice Crowther and was nineteen and lived on the other side of the Estate from me. I made out a sleeve for her, solemnly handed her four tickets which she looked at blankly, Marsden went computerised years ago, visitors got a swipe card. ‘What kind of books do you like? Don’t let the smallness put you off, we order in from other libraries.’

She was glancing about, looking a bit doubtful. ‘Oh, anything gory,’ she chirped cheerfully, I noticed she was about two inches taller than me.

‘Silence of the Lambs?’ I suggested. ‘Hannibal?’

She laughed a little ruefully. ‘My parents did not name me after that, I don’t think they ever read anything except the bible,’ she practically spat the word ‘bible’ and a shadow of something unpleasant went across her perfect face, then the sun shone again. ‘I am named after Clarice Cliff, you have heard of her of course!’

‘Of course!’ I realised I was smiling as well, she just had that effect on you. We both burst out laughing.

‘Liar!’ She accused without malice. ‘She was a potter, my grandma collected her stuff, looked like something done in a shed if you ask me!’

‘Well Clarice not Starling, the thrillers are right behind you, and to the right is the horror section, you can see how huge it is!’ We both laughed again. ‘Did you make the team?’ I asked.

She was looking back at where I pointed and her head whipped round to look at me again, a suspicious look on her face. I kept my own face bland ‘I... ‘ She hesitated. ‘Yes, I did.’

I wondered if her legs had smarted after her interview, but concentrated on keeping any expression off my face. ‘Me too, team mate!’

‘Special Girls together!’ She responded, proffering her hand, we shook solemnly, her palm was cool and dry. ‘I have never played Netball in my life,’ she admitted.

‘You did not go to school here then,’ I said. ‘It was compulsory.’

‘No, I grew up in Bradford, this place seems very small after that!’

‘I’ll bet,’ I agreed, not admitting I had never been to Bradford. ‘You will love Netball, you have the height and the physique for it.’ Something I said put that shadow back on her face, but she dismissed it with an obvious effort.

‘I need the exercise,’ she ran her hands down her sides. ‘I work at Tesco over by Meltham, all that sitting at the till, I am getting chubby.’

‘Now who is the liar?’ I challenged, and was rewarded with a sunrise of a smile.

She glanced around, as if there might be another customer hiding somewhere, then leaned to me, I was already leaning, my habitual stance I am afraid. ‘What do you make of Coach?’ She whispered.

I blushed, and saw she was doing the same, and probably regretting asking. ‘I think,’ I found myself whispering too. ‘I think he has some very unconventional training methods, but he is very ambitious for the Team.’

She worried at her lower lip. ‘And what happens in the Team, stays in the Team.’

‘We are not little girls playing rounders any more,’ my mouth was talking by itself.

Her eyes looked full into mine, something passed between us, not knowledge, just a kind of understanding. She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh I have to go, thanks for the er... ‘ she waved the tickets at me. ‘I will be back!’

I believed her, and I had a warm feeling inside me, I had never been allowed a friend, not even a girlfriend, but I was hoping I might have one now.

I expected to be stiff and sore. Monday was not too bad and I thought I had got away with it, but when I woke Tuesday I could barely get out of bed. Groaning horribly I showered as hot as I could bear it, a bath would be better but I had not allowed enough time.

Hobbling to the bus stop I just barely got the bus to Huddersfield, mercifully it dropped me right by the University.

Librarians normally require a degree, but I could not afford to put myself through Uni, so I had to work five years as an assistant and gain an NVQ in that time, which meant a mix of home study and attending courses, and as now, taking exams, and today we have naming of parts. Ha ha, little librarian joke there. No seriously, today was Marketing, yay, super handy if we have a book sale. Most of my work was just submitting units but some required attending lectures or formal exams to top off the work. My toughest task was to keep explaining ‘No, I don’t have a computer so cannot download the units or E mail the completed ones. No, the library does not have a computer, actually yes, I am very sure, no there is no Internet cafe in Deepwell, in fact there is no cafe at all, no I don’t have a friend with a computer because I am a sad bitch with no friends. Yes I have a mobile, but I cannot afford a data plan.’

Personally I think these so called exams were just to make sure we were not downloading completed units people insisted on putting on the Internet, or paying someone to do them. There was nothing in the test I had not already covered in greater depth. Afterwards I splashed out on Tea and a scone in the cafeteria and watched with bitter envy the full time students chattering and dashing about with arms full of printed wisdom. I could have used the savings to put myself through Uni, but deep down I knew Dad would never have allowed it, and at some primal level I still thought of that money as his.

I left the library until last. For me it was like a non league football player turning up to play at Manchester United, it was hard not to gape around mouth open like a Rube, now where did that word spring up from? Oh, Clarice, of course! It was a shame she was so good looking, in the clear light of a new day I knew such an attractive girl would never be my friend.

This time though instead of wandering around the vast shelves I settled in front of a terminal and went into Google mode. I had done computers at school and found them a breeze, but I could not justify buying my own, not when I dressed like the rag doll in the song of the same name.

I had Ray Armstrong up reasonably quickly, just a case of filtering down with Education, teacher, and London. I whistled as the homepage for Strawberry Hill College popped up, it looked like a stately home, hah, good simile! There was a list of TV and films that had used the place as a location. This website still showed Raymond Armstrong as a member of staff, it did not specify his qualifications but raved on that the college provided sports training from novice to Olympic level with facilities to match. But a footnote caught my eye, Raymond Armstrong was one of the staff teaching health in sports, with instruction on massage techniques and essential oils.

I rubbed my legs, right now I could use those strong hands of his to rub some Juniper oil into my screaming muscles. The thought set off a disturbing train and blood pounded in my ears, sounding a lot like the changing room door banging in fast tempo.

Steadying my breathing with an effort I widened my search to the Gulf wars but drew a blank, he did not show up, but I did find a reference to the shooting of an Iraqi soldier who had been badly injured when forced to clear mines they had laid.

Casting back closer to home I found a scanned newspaper article on the disgraced Mister Ivory, Deputy Head of Deepwell Secondary School. Horrified eyewitness’s reported he behaved like a mad man, dragging out of class a pupil who cannot be identified for legal reasons ... I frowned at that, why could he not be named if he was the innocent? ‘ ... inflicted a severe beating to the face and kicks to the groin before other members of staff pulled him away. The boy was taken to hospital but released after an overnight stay, his mother told our reporter the attack was vicious and unprovoked.’

I clicked to view similar articles and found a dry report of the court hearing, Ivory pleaded guilty to the assault, the judge refused to hear extenuating reasons stating that nothing could mitigate such a heinous attack on a pupil under his care. The judge, obviously what Dad would call a bleeding heart liberal, went on to deliver a long winded speech on Victorian attitudes to punishment still rife in our education system. He sentenced Ivory to six months prison and should never be allowed to work with children or vulnerable people again.

I was about to close when another link caught my eye, it was a piece in the Holmfirth Examiner, which I was amazed to find on the internet at all. It was an emotionless piece of journalism probably penned by their special reporter for farm shows.

Police confirm that Mister Ivory was able to provide them with an alibi for the dates when his wife disappeared, an unnamed source told me that he had in fact been serving a prison sentence at the time. The whereabouts of Elaine Ivory is still unknown and her sister stated that she feared Elaine was dead. She tearfully told me ‘Elaine would not just run off, she is not the type.’ The police have announced they are calling off their search, a diver has checked the Old Mill Pond and found nothing.

I cleared my browser history and shut down the browser, limping still I took the rare opportunity to browse the shops, picking up some decent underwear from Marks and Sparks, new running trainers and a tracksuit with fluorescent slashes for safety at night. I justified the purchases to myself for making the Team, a well deserved reward.

I then did the rounds of the charity shops, picking up a one piece swimming costume (what on earth was someone thinking of, donating that? They will be handing in knickers next!) a handful of new looking blouses and a couple of plain Jane blue skirts, longer than my usual taste, they actually reached the knee. Gathering the last purchase I spotted a pair of shoes in a pile of stuff waiting to be sorted behind the counter. At my request the young man serving me picked them up and put them on the desk. I barely dared breath, there were no labels on them but they looked and felt high quality, I owned nothing like these, the heels had to be at least three inches and tipped with a solid chunk of steel that showed no wear at all, they were a soft black with open toes and buckle straps.

‘Try them on,’ the server invited.

‘I am not wearing socks,’ I confessed.

He indicated the otherwise empty shop. ‘It will be our secret,’ he winked. Feeling myself blush slightly I hooked off one trainer, and holding onto the counter slipped a shoe on, it felt like a soft balm and even the heel height did not unbalance me. The attendant leaned hard over the counter and let out a little whistle. ‘It fits, you get to marry the prince!’

On some strange whimsy I elevated the shoe adorned leg and laid it along the counter, something that did nothing to ease my outraged muscles. We both examined the shoe. Yeah, okay, and the bare leg. ‘I suppose I have to kiss a frog first,’ I mused. ‘How much?’

The attendant looked to the door, then back to the shoe, he licked his lips and said ‘Rivit!’

Our heads were already close together, it took the smallest of moves to place my lips to his, something popped in my brain and a gentle hand held my cheek, his mouth opened and our tongues touched, another hand was on my shin, I thought the lights were dimming. We broke, startled, both out of breath, I lowered my leg, God what the hell? Suppose someone had walked in just then?

I avoided looking at him, taking off the shoe and putting it back with it’s mate, fumbled getting the trainer back on. Once both feet were planted I had most of my control back. ‘How much?’ I repeated, but my voice was not right, it sounded like a scared mouse.

He seemed equally rattled, looked at the shoes and said. ‘One pound,’

I looked at him then, they were like new, seriously? He met my gaze, looked away again and tucked the shoes into a bag and handed them to me. I fumbled out my purse and put two fifty pence pieces into his hand. We stood awkwardly and I got it together and turned to leave.

‘Hey!’ He called as I made the door, I glanced back to him. ‘Wear them the next time you come, please!’ I raised the bag in mute acknowledgement and escaped onto the street. Once clear of the shop I raised my hand to touch my lips, recalling the feel of his lips.

That evening I changed into the new tracksuit and trainers, but not the underwear, those I folded carefully into my top drawer, yelled at Mom I was going for a run and set off at a steady pace, trying to run the stiffness out of my limbs.

I got off the Estate by the shortest route, onto the Wreck and following the line of houses along it, I had no intention at all of braving the wood in the dark, it was still light enough to avoid holes in the grassy field and I made it to the road without stumbling, there I picked up the pace and crossed the Old Mill Pond and headed left along Druid’s Way with the old cottages to my right and the Beck to my left. I ran to the end of the road where a single large house accepted the road as it’s private drive. It was brooding and deserted, it had a chequered history, about the time I was born it had been a home for wayward boys, what used to be called a borstal, two boys had hanged themselves there in the space of a month and they shut it down. It re-opened as a nursing home but was shut down by the authorities after four years, citing financial irregularities. Local legend was they pressurised some of the inmates into willing their houses to the staff and killed them off to get them.

In my memory it had been a youth hostel until complaints from the neighbours about noise and drunken teenagers falling into their gardens got it closed. It’s last period of occupancy was as a shelter for illegal immigrants waiting to be deported or have their pleas for asylum considered. It took four years for the incandescent neighbours to get it closed by the council, blocked by the government they had finally resorted to condemning the building as unfit for human habitation.

Now it slowly crumbled in on itself. It was known to the locals as the Gatehouse, in the mistaken belief it had been the entrance to Baron Ablung’s estate. With the tomes of local history in the reference room of the library - actually a disused coal cellar - I knew it was a gothic style mansion erected by Claude Emmerson, the owner and builder of the mill that once dominated this village. The house had a black reputation from build, a maid was found drowned in the stream and another vanished without trace a year later.

I touched the rusted gate with it’s chain and heavy padlock, to the side of the gate a metal engraved sign pointed up to the lowering moors, ‘Pennine Way’, a beaten path followed the grim grey wall and then struck out up the hill, following the fast running beck.

I doubled back, stretching out my legs and put some effort into running back up Druid’s Way, there were no street lights but enough front rooms spilled out light to keep me safe, when a car came nosing down the road I was pleased at how the tracksuit lit up like a beacon in the headlights, I had always been afraid to run in the dark in case I was mown down like a dear. Breathing heavy, but steady, I turned up Folly Hill Road and really put my legs to work, running on the path when I could to avoid the cobbles, but occasionally having to dodge wheelie bins that had been put out on the narrow pavement ready for collection day tomorrow.

All the shops were shut and there were only a handful of residents here, but there was the Pack Horse Pub and as I reached it a bunch of men were gathered with pints in one hand and cigarettes in the other, they hooted and howled as I ran past and some of the things they shouted were not very nice at all.

Higher up the road a deep blackness loomed, the moors, treacherous and swampy, only sheep and rabbits were comfortable there, I reached the crossroad and turned off right to follow the disused old road, by rights it should have long gone back to heather but in WWII the army rebuilt it and put an AA gun battery at the end to fire at German planes coming from Norway to bomb Manchester.

Now I was really running in the dark, there was no moon in sight and the only clue to the road was a faint glimmer from the stars that the moors did not show but the road contained grains of quartz that glittered. I kept left, where there was a sheep fence to stop me going off the road, on the right there were often steep drops down to the village with no barrier to the careless traveller. The air was cooling and it felt good in my lungs, the stiffness was gone and I ran like a clockwork machine, legs comfortably driving me on, arms counterbalancing, back straight.

Reaching the broad platform where the guns had been mounted, and what even Wilkes called the Folly, although in reality this whole road was the actual Folly, built to bring wagons and men up to work on the moors, once it had extended down to Druid’s Way by a wide loop, but when the Gate House was built Emmerson destroyed it and at some point the stub of a road that was now Folly Hill Road was extended up to link the two roads again. I jogged on the spot, there is only one better view of the village than here, close below were the roofs of Victorian cottages, solid stone and very expensive, snapped up by Londoners and the like when they rarely came on the market. This was where Elaine Ivory disappeared from and where her legally widowed husband lurked, spurning all offers to sell. They could only be reached by a narrow road that snaked down to the mouth of the Clough, an unmarked turn off on the Marsden Road.

The lights of the village were scattered and pale, but reflected beautifully in the Old Mill Pond, beyond the New Estate was like a half cartwheel draped in Christmas tree lights, an alien looking thing, a crashed flying saucer that had narrowly missed hitting a sleepy Yorkshire village.

I turned and ran back, easing my pace, I wanted to get rid of the stiffness, not add to it. Running down Folly Road was awkward, I had to lean back and slow to a careful jog, the hecklers were still outside the pub, or an identical lot, one made as if to chase me and cursed foully as he spilled his beer down himself. Reaching the Dam the street lights started and I could open up the pace again, a couple of cars dazzled me coming from the along the Marsden Road, I swore under my breath, they had no manners, they could have dipped their lights at least.

Turning off to the estate I had a strange feeling of not being alone. This was the route where I had first started to run, with Dad at my side, we would jog down to the Dam, then run back. At first Dad always beat me, but gradually I matched him, then once I beat him, I never made that mistake again, I settled for appearing to struggle to match him, he would often clap me on the back and say I was a trier and laugh about the one time he hurt his ankle and I had managed to outrun him.

We would run in unison, feet hitting the pavement at the same time, breathing in controlled deep breaths, had I dared close my eyes now I would have heard the echo, I am sure of it. What was he thinking when he crashed into that stalled lorry? Was he distracted, thinking of me, of my last words to him, how I hated him, how I was going to tell, that he could never touch me again? Did I really kill him?

Tears ran down my cheeks, I let them fall.

---

Clarice called ‘Only me!’ as she pushed the door shut, there were lights on in the house and her father’s study was shut, that holy of holies no one was allowed to visit. She was sure he was in but there was no reply. The living room and kitchen were empty, her mother would be with one of her interminable church groups of course. In the hall she pulled her tongue out at the frowning portrait of Jesus, climbing the stairs she passed pictures of saints and embroidered commandments in wooden frames, the last one was the most elaborate:

Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the LORD your GOD is giving you

‘F•©k off!’ She saluted it. In her room she lay back on her bed, the chair at her Till in the supermarket hurt her back and stiffened her neck. ‘F•©k them all,’ she added to the ceiling. One hand groped under her bed and produced an empty pint vodka bottle, she shoved it back, it clinked against several others, she found a full one by it’s weight and tweaked off the screw cap and took a long pull at it without sitting up, some of it splashed up her nose and she snorted it back out, unworried at the sting.

She used to buy litre bottles, but would drink herself into a stupor, now she rationed herself to a single pint bottle a night, mostly. If her parents knew about her stash they never mentioned it, though both were ardent tea tea-teetotallers, in God’s name of course.

Her mobile hummed and she held it up to frown at the screen, her frown turned to a dismayed ‘oh’ and she tossed the phone down with the empties. It rang on until her voice mail took it, then it rang again, and again. She drank the vodka steadily, her eyes wet and fixed on the ceiling.

Then the house phone rang and she felt the chill of panic in her stomach, but she resisted the urge to take it before anyone else picked it up. She sighed with relief as it too rang on to the answer machine, she crept along the landing and paused, the house phone had a speaker and you could hear what the message was.

‘Hi gang!’ The voice was cheerful and tweaked with a broad Bradford accent. ‘Just calling to say David and I are going to drop by next weekend, we will be borrowing our favourite niece, have not seen her since her birthday, we’ll take her out, give her a break from you guys!’

Clarice stood, frozen, shaking, she felt like an antelope looking up to find a lion about to pounce. Back in the bedroom her phone chirped, a message.

Her knees weak and barely able to hold her up she dragged her feet to her room and picked up the phone in dire trepidation. The message was a multi media one, her thumb touched the icon and a young teenage girl filled her screen, naked, legs wide apart on a bed with a Hogwarts duvet cover.

The text was brief and to the point. ‘I know you are there, do you really want your parents and friends to see these? Uncle Bob.’

‘We should have moved to Australia,’ she whispered.

She jumped at the sound of the front door, then relaxed as her mother hallowed, Ralph Crowther demanded they identify themselves when they entered, but he never did. Wrenching her eyes off the picture she hit delete and made a decision, she would not be blackmailed any more, the shame had to be better than the penalty.

‘Hi mam!’ Her voice was strangled, she swallowed and tried again. ‘Hi mam, just coming!’

Getting downstairs was a dangerous task, she was sure she would collapse and fall down, and maybe that was the best option, she felt physically sick at what she was about to do, but the thought of a weekend at the mercy of her uncles was way worse.

Her mother was in the kitchen, still in the shabby coat she had claimed from the charity shop where she worked for free. She tutted as she examined the milk carton in the fridge, consigned it to the bin with a grumble ‘no one does anything around this house!’

‘Mam, can I talk to you?’ Clarice hovered in the doorway, giving herself an escape route.

Vera weeded a couple more items from the fridge and shut the door with a thud and a frown. ‘What is it now?’ She demanded in irritation.

‘Uncle Bob called, and... ‘

Vera came alive, she pushed past Clarice and hit the play button on the phone, listened with a pleased smile.

‘I don’t want to go with them!’ Clarice burst out.

Her mother stared at her as if she were an out of date piece of meat. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Her tone was offended and angry. ‘My brothers have always been so kind and generous to you, how dare you be so ungrateful!’ She glanced at a photograph in the hall, expensively framed, Clarice, angelic, full face, professionally lit with an elegant bare neck and just a hint of her early blooming bust. Clarice shuddered at the sight of it. That was the start of the nightmare. In the studio her uncles ran it had seemed normal to strip to the waist as they wanted, to get that hint of breast. It was not as though she had not done so dozens of times on the beaches of France and Italy. She tasted metal in her mouth now, as she had when they showed her the photos they were not framing, heard in a shocked daze as they threatened to plaster them on the internet unless she took off the rest of her clothes and posed for them.

‘They... ‘ Clarice could not continue, her mother was glaring at her, challenging her to bad mouth her brothers. ‘I don’t want to,’ she finished lamely.

‘You take far too many airs for yourself, young lady!’ Vera snapped. ‘The Lord knows how I find the patience to deal with you! I know girls in this parish would beg for kind uncles to take them out, and for loving parents, you are so ungrateful!’

They make me do things! Clarice screamed, but no sound came from her. And they photograph it and use them to make me do more, and more! Vera tapped her fingers on the phone as the silence stretched out, then she pointed the tapping finger at Clarice. ‘You will behave, you will be polite and grateful to your uncles and you will stop this spoiled brat attitude!’

‘I’ll be grateful!’ Clarice gasped, the sound like an hysterical laugh. ‘Oh yes, I will be so grateful!’ She fled back to her room and vodka, drank a second pint while she watched herself from photos blue tacked to the walls, skiing on pristine snow, holding up trophies, smiling all the time for the camera, the way her uncles taught her.

Chapter 4 - Goal Shooter

The first practise session was the next day, Wednesday, at 7pm in the school gym. I was the last to arrive, delayed by a spiteful fit from Mom, complaining about me always going out, like she noticed! She just happened to come raiding the fridge as I was letting myself out.

There was a small crowd in the gym, I looked at them curiously, counting eight including myself, so either Coach had not finished choosing yet or he was including a reserve. We stood around, stretching, feeling awkward. I spotted Candy at once, had to be her. My worst fears were realised, she was stunning. She had glorious wavy brown hair that fell in a glowing waterfall to past her shoulders, her face was an elven delicate beauty and her limbs tanned perfectly even. She was about the same height as Clarice, who was next to her and waved at me, but not so big in the chest and with more pronounced hips. She wore a yoga top with crossed straps that left her midriff bare, she had a perfect lightly sculpted feminine six pack and a neat belly button that seemed to beg for a diamond to be inserted. Over her hips were tightly stretched cycling shorts that emphasised more than covered, they cut off mid thigh and left two perfect pillars of leg tucked into green and white neon trainers, the whole outfit screamed designer labels, it probably cost more than this months council tax.

I returned Clarice’s wave, hooking each leg up behind me and tugging at the foot to loosen up. I had my short tennis dress on that I had walked home in on Sunday, but with a brand new pair of rose pink panties I need not be ashamed of showing when bending or jumping. And I had my new trainers, my hair was neatly tucked up with a scrunchy.

Surveying the other girls I wryly noted the Coach liked him team to look good, but there was one that stood out very oddly, it was hard not to stare. She was small and in a leotard that had to have come off the child rack at George’s, it did her no flattery, it clearly showed tiny breasts and a gangling, thin figure, her arms and legs were like a foal’s, all length and no meat on them. Over the leotard she wore a long modest school skirt that fell below her knee, on her little feet were scuffed plimsolls.

Only her hair stood out as attractive, long, straight and blonde it framed her rather narrow face with big eyes set wide apart and a delicate mouth rather prominent nose. She looked about thirteen to me and totally out of place with the young women around her. There was a rather cruel consolation for me: had she not been there I would have had the smallest breasts, but mine were lemons to her kumquats.

Coach breezed in while I was still trying not to stare at the youngster. ‘Trainers off!’ He roared. Guiltily we ran to the sides and tugged them off, Candy looked sulky as she put her expensive footwear to one side, but her toenails were perfectly manicured and painted, God I hated her!

A double blast on his whistle and we dashed and shuffled into line, there was no clipboard today, Coach walked along the line, examining each of us, I expected, and got, the shimmer down my spine as he looked at me, but this time I had matching bra and panties with no holes or stains, I looked straight back at him.

‘This will be the last time in this gym,’ he thundered, then paused, we followed his glance, a woman was walking confidently into the gym, I recognised her at once, Miss Gwen Dollar, she had taught me English when our normal teacher left to have a baby, she was a relief teacher who stood in for others in this area. She had not changed a bit, the same short curly blonde hair, the mischievous look in her round face with tight lips and high eyebrows. She wore a leotard and plimsolls with sheer pale tights which showed off her long, long legs and high firm breasts, half the boys in the school had been in love with her, the others just lusted for her.

‘Plimsolls,’ she told Coach, raising one leg to show the pale sole. ‘Do excuse me interrupting, I wanted to join your training session, you don’t mind, do you?’ There was steel in her tone beneath the simpering tone, as if Coach could go throw himself off the Folly if he did mind. Nodding a friendly greeting to us she tucked onto the end of the line, she was the tallest lady present, topping Clarice by at least two inch, I guessed her to be about five-eleven, and most of it leg.

‘Gwen,’ Coach grated, but he did not look put out, only amused. ‘Always welcome.’ He turned to us. ‘Gwen here is an aerobics instructor in the sports centre in Huddersfield, I believe she does Leeds too?’ Gwen inclined her head in silent acknowledgement. ‘She is also a standby teacher who is helping us out this term.’ Gwen sketched an elaborate ballet curtsy. ‘A woman of many talents,’ Coach added dryly, it did not sound like a compliment.

‘As I was saying,’ the parade ground was back. ‘This is the last time we will meet here, training in future will be at North Marsden Industrial Park, I have use of the school minibus and will collect you from the Dam car park at six pm, every Wednesday and Friday, and Sunday afternoon at 2pm, when not playing a match. Miss a practise and you are the reserve! We will be playing every Sunday at two PM in the season in the Northern England over eighteen league,’ several of us glanced at the youngster, who looked blank.

Coach paced the line, stopping at Gwen. ‘This is one of the largest leagues outside London, the season starts the first week in May, we play alternate home and away, home games will be here,’ he nodded at the windows. ‘The best teams of the season make it to the Second Division which has twenty teams, the top five of the second make it to the First Division who compete nationally and internationally. Ladies, make no mistake, I will get this team into the second division this year and the first next year, all you have to do is stick with the team and you will be up there with us!’

Someone cheered and we all joined in, except Gwen, who stood with her arms folded, her face expressionless, except for the permanent mischievous look.

A sharp blast of the whistle and a gesture set us to jogging in our bare feet around the edge of the gym, another blast and we reversed and sprinted, blast again and back the other way jogging, after a few repartitions we stopped bumping into each other and carried out the manoeuvres smoothly. Coach then added a move where we all dashed to the centre, high double fived and back to jogging, he signalled this with an odd ‘Do-Whip!’ on his whistle. Soon the gym was full of the sounds of panting, I breathed easy, and noticed that Gwen did the same, so did the hated Candy who looked as good running as she did standing still, if you liked that sort of perfection.

When the double blast summoned us back into line several of the girls bent low, gasping for breath, a couple coughed deeply. Coach gave us a minute then sent us scampering into the equipment room, we hauled out the horse and thick mats and lined up to jump it, not easy without a spring board, the jump he wanted was the same as I used to mount his desk, slap hands down, flip legs up, stand up straight with a flourish then dismount.

Only Gwen managed it faultlessly first time, and her flourish was a boastful tip toe and hands high with fingers wriggling. I made the mount but as usual fluffed the dismount and would have fallen had Coach not caught me as I teetered, his thick strong arms wrapped around me until my feet found the floor, he gave me a quick hug before sending me round again and I glowed. To my delight Candy made a total bog of it, banging her knees painfully into the horse and somersaulting over, but Coach spoiled my victory by deftly catching her mid air and setting her down with a quick twirl, as if she weighed nothing.

Poor Clarice managed the mount, but then lost her balance and fell with a scream, but again the Coach snatched her mid air, but I noticed Clarice melted against him as he held her and felt a sharp pang of jealousy.

The surprise was the youngster, I think we all expected the horse to be too high for her, but she made it up easy, but instead of a straight dismount she did a breath-taking somersault and landed light as a feather, but Coach roared at her and she fled back into line visibly crying. We kept at it until we all made at least a passable attempt, I never got the landing right, almost turning my ankle on the last one, but I made it up every time. It was clear though the youngster was some sort of ringer and as we rested I spoke to her, ‘Hi, I’m Adrienne, you have lovely moves!’

To my surprise she flinched and looked at me as if I had threatened her, but she slowly relaxed and said with a thick foreign accent. ‘Hello, I am Bara, please to meet you.’

‘Pleased to meet you too, Bara,’ I replied solemnly and held out my hand, she hesitated a long time then gave it a brief touch and wandered off.

Clarice came up, rubbing her neck. ‘What do you make of her?’

I shrugged. ‘She is a bit of a mystery, maybe she is just along for the training?’ I did not believe it, I could not see Coach wasting time on a non player. As we openly surveyed her Gwen came up and put her arms about our shoulders.

‘Hello, Adrienne, nice to see you again. I am sorry, I don’t know your name?’

‘Clarice,’ I introduced, ‘And this is Miss... ‘

‘Just Gwen now,’ she interrupted me. ‘Hi, Clarice! So, Adrienne, did you make it to the library?’ Her tone was a little mocking, she had not approved of my career goal, saying I would be wasted.

‘I did - sort of, I am an assistant here in Deepwell, working for my NVQ.’

‘Well you always worked well on your own,’ she observed cryptically. ‘So, what do you reckon to our new boy?’ She jerked her head toward the Coach who was showing something to Candy that involved a lot of hand gestures.

‘He is very keen,’ I said guardedly.