12:00 midday

The self imposed walk had exhausted Malcolm and he felt shattered. The long hike across London had taken about three hours to complete. The only thing he could be thankful about was that the rain had kept off and the overnight frost was gone.
During the walk Malcolm had formulated a plan of sorts. Importantly he needed some fresh clothes and a little more money so that he could make his way to Lancashire. His girlfriend, Katie Brown, lived there and he desperately needed to see her. He was sure that she would have all the answers. Therefore he saw a quick visit to his mother's house as a step to achieving those aims.
By nature Malcolm Smith was a cautious person and had considered all the implications very carefully before making such a difficult decision. He was well aware of the risks in making this move. He knew that it would be only a matter of time before the police turned up on the doorstep of his mother's house. That was a certainty. However he reasoned that the police only had knowledge of his address in Littlesea, and to find out where his mother lived needed someone at the place where he worked firstly to go into the office, and then plough through the personnel records to find out exactly what they wanted. This is where he thought he might gain enough breathing space to get away with such a risky manoeuvre. For he was well aware that everybody at Head Office was away on holiday, and with the Monday being a bank holiday, no-one would be back at work until the following Tuesday, and that was six days away. All right, they may get someone back at work to unlock the offices and sort out the details, but that would still take time as he was fully aware that the Personnel Officer was away sunning it up in the Seychelles. So taking all this into consideration he reckoned that for the next twenty-four hours at least, perhaps a bit longer, he would be safe.
 Malcolm arrived at his mother's home sometime around midday. Outside the house, parked in the street, was a large and rather posh looking Mercedes Benz. He wondered who on Earth could afford such a car in this neighbourhood. He walked past and entered the gate to the garden path. In the drive alongside the house he could see his mother's rather aged Mini Metro. At least she was at home he was thinking. Further up the drive stood his old Honda motorcycle. He had not driven this since he had passed his car driving test some four months previous. Now the motorcycle stood abandoned and covered by a canvas sheet to protect it from the Winter weather. He had forgotten all about his old mode of transport. Suddenly he saw fresh possibilities to his mobility problem. Perhaps if he charged up the battery he could get it going again.
Malcolm had no keys to the house, in fact he had no keys for anywhere, so he rang the front door bell and waited. He smiled at the sight of the wreath hung on the door. His mother always did this at Christmas time, and before returning home he had wondered whether she would keep up tradition whilst he was away. He was glad to see that she had not forgotten.
When nobody answered he rang again, and then again. After the third attempt he began to wonder whether his mother was at home. He moved around the house to the back and tried the door to the kitchen. That too was locked, but then it always was. However a key was always kept under a flower pot on the terrace. He collected it, unlocked the door and entered the house.
It looked very much like his mother had gone out and left the car at home. This too was not unusual. She often did, and in a way this would be a good thing. He would not stop long. He would simply pack his case, put on a change of clothing, see if there was any money in one of the pots in the kitchen cupboard, and then be on his way. He might also try and get his motorcycle going again, but at this stage he was uncertain whether it actually fitted into his plans or not. He was sorry that he had missed his mother, but it had its plus points, this way he had no explaining to do.
Seeing no-one around he called up the stairs: "Mother?… Are you there?"
Again there was no reply.
He concluded that she was definitely out.
Having decided this to be the situation, he climbed the stairs and stood by the door to his own bedroom. From here he looked across the landing. The door to his mother's bedroom was open and a rag of some sorts had been left on the carpet outside. Strange? This was most unlike his mother! She was normally a stickler for neatness.
Malcolm walked down the landing and looked into his mother's room. For a moment he stood in shock and horror at the scene that greeted him. His mother was naked and chained spreadeagled to the bed. She was also blindfolded and wore a ball-gag in her mouth. But that was not all. Over on the other side of the room, in a chair by the window, slumped the body of an elderly gentleman dressed only in a outfit constructed entirely of a network of leather straps.
"Mother!" he exclaimed from the doorway.
"Mmmmm," she replied and began to struggle against her bonds.
Malcolm quickly crossed the room and removed the ball-gag and blindfold.
His mother inhaled several deep breaths before speaking. "My God!… Malcolm!…  Thank God it's you!… Get me out of this!…" she gasped and rattled her handcuffed hands.
Malcolm saw the way she was restrained. "Where's the keys?" he asked.
"In the spare room!... But he's gone!… He's not here!… What shall we do?…" she gulped still very much out of breath.
"You mean him over there?" said Malcolm pointing towards the chair by the window.
Margaret raised her head, saw the body of Mr. Mortimer and screamed. "Arrgggghhh!… No!… Oh my God!…. No!… It can't be!…."
Malcolm crossed to feel the man's pulse. He was already cold and becoming stiff. "He's dead!" he announced to his mother.
She screamed again: "Arrrgggghhhhh!…. Oh God no!… Oh God no!… Please no!… Don't let it be!…"
Malcolm tried to keep calm. "You say the keys are in the spare room?" he asked and awaited confirmation.
"Yes… Yes…" she uttered between gasps of hysteria.
He retraced his steps across the landing and entered the small room. He looked around. There was something resembling a medicine bottle on the table and a suitcase and a pile of clothes resting on the bed. He looked at the bottle and read the word 'Chloroform'. He shrugged his shoulders in disbelief at his mother's antics. What on Earth was she into now?
He moved to the bed and opened up the lid of the case. Inside he found a half used packet of gauze pads, a wad of photographs held together by an elastic band, and several typed-up A4 sheets of paper. He removed the elastic band from the photographs and flicked through what were a series of Polaroid images. The first one was of his mother handcuffed to the bed in much the same position he had just found her. He turned the photograph over. A hand written note on the back said: "Mrs. Smith - 22nd December." According to the date, this photograph must have been taken exactly one week ago. He looked at the next photograph and then the next. They also bore the same date on the back.
The next three photographs were identical to the previous three. All were shots of his mother handcuffed to the bed, and all were taken first from one side, then from the other and finally one from the foot of the bed. However this time the date was different. These apparently were all taken one week earlier still.
Six photographs remained. He expected the sequence to continue in blocks of three, but instead these were all very different. True, his mother remained the subject of each picture, but the method of restraint varied in every case. In the first one she was strapped to an X-frame; in the next she was suspended from a bar and hoist with a spreader-bar holding her legs apart; in the third he found her strapped to a chair with arms raised above her head; in the fourth she was chained hand and feet and stood behind the bars in a prison cell; and in the fifth she was chained spreadeagled to a stone-blocked wall.
The sixth photograph however varied slightly from the others. The photograph appeared to be of his mother again, but it was impossible to tell. It was actually a close-up showing the body from waist downwards as far as the knees. From the belt around the waist and the straps about the thighs he concluded that it was taken on the X-frame, but this time with one subtle difference: All his mother's pubic hairs were gone. She had been shaved totally clean.
Malcolm stared in disbelief at the last photograph for a moment or two longer. He was wondering just what his mother had been up to whilst he had been away. He shook his head in order to think more clearly, then turned his thoughts to another matter. It was obvious that these particular photographs were taken at a different location from here. The room was far too large for a bedroom and the stone-blocked walls were grey and bare. He concluded that these last six photographs must have all been taken in a BDSM dungeon somewhere. It looked very much like it anyway. He turned the photographs over and read the back. They were all dated the same. All apparently taken some four days earlier than those previously examined.
 Malcolm replaced the elastic band and put the photographs back in the case. For a moment he did not know what to think. His mind had gone numb.
Idly he picked up the pile of typed-up sheets. There were four sheets altogether. One was separate, and the other three had been stapled together. The single sheet was headed: 'At The Home Of Mrs. Smith' and itemised a list of events. It started:

(1) Dead of night. Creep along corridor. Bedroom door ajar. Push open to find someone sleeping in the bed.

(2) Find curtains drawn. Main light off. Bedside light on. Creep into room to see who is sleeping in bed.'

The numbered items went on for about three-quarters of the page, listing what looked very much like a fantasy play being acted out between the dead man and his mother.
Malcolm looked to the three stapled sheets. There was a lot more typing on these and filled both sides of the pages. This time the heading read 'A Day At Cuckoo Cottage', and itemised another fantasy. The mention of an X-frame near to the bottom of the first page suggested to him that this script went with the last six photographs he had just looked at. Putting all the facts together he assumed that to be the case anyway.
After a long and thoughtful pause he returned the typed-up sheets to the case, closed the lid and moved on. Picking up the man's jacket from off the bed he felt within the pockets. Immediately he came across a wallet and opened it up. Suddenly he whistled softly as he flicked through the pile of notes crammed inside. There must have been well over one-thousand pounds in here, most of it in twenty pound donations. Unable to resist the temptation he removed everything but forty pounds and stuffed the wad into his own back pocket.
Returning a much thinner wallet, he rummaged through the other jacket pockets and came across a great bunch of keys. There were about twenty keys on the ring. One of them was an ignition key for a Mercedes. The rest appeared to be either keys to doors or cabinets. There was one small key however, and it looked similar to the ones that had fitted his girlfriend Katie's handcuffs. Selecting this one from the bunch he returned to his mother's bedroom.
Crossing the landing Malcolm gave a wry smile. He had always known about his mother's so called boyfriends. He was no fool and knew exactly what was going on. But never for one minute did he ever consider her to be into anything as kinky as this.
Perhaps this is where he got his own taste for BDSM from?
Perhaps it was in the genes?
He wondered if that was ever possible?
His mother was sobbing gently as he walked into the bedroom.
He placed the small key into the lock of the handcuff that shackled her right ankle to the base of the bed and turned. The jaws opened and his mother's leg became free.
"Mother, I think you should be more careful with your choice of boyfriends in future!" he told her as he moved around the bed and releasing her from the rest of her restraints.

 
1:00 pm

Margaret Smith was still shaking as she sat at the kitchen table, a mug of strong black coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Malcolm was seated opposite and still trying to get some sense out of her.
"Mother… please… will you just listen to me!" he said.
"Oh Malcolm!… Whatever must you think of me?…" she cried.
"Mother!… forget it!… pull yourself together and listen to me…" he said forcefully.
"Malcolm… you should never have seen me like that!…" she sobbed.
"Look mother, I'm not stupid!… I've known about your so called boyfriends for years… It doesn't bother me at all… honest it doesn't… You just carry on doing what you do… I don't mind… honestly… just keep out of this kinky stuff… it's too dangerous…," he told her and laying it down on the line.
His mother took another gulp of coffee and dragged hard on her cigarette. Her hands were still shaking. She obviously needed time to re-assess the situation following her son's remarks, and in her current deep shock it was terribly difficult to appraise anything at all.
Malcolm spoke again. "Who is he?" he asked.
His mother looked up, but again did not speak.
"The dead man upstairs?… Who is he?…" he asked again.
"M… M… M.. Mr. Mortimer," she answered.
"Right!… His name is Mr. Mortimer, we've established that!… Now where does he live?… I think we ought to take him home," he quizzed.
His mother looked her son in the face and gave a blank stare. She shrugged her shoulders. "Malcolm, I don't know where he lives," she told him and shaking her head.
"You've no idea at all where he lives?.. Are you sure?… Think?… Come on mother!… Think!…," he said trying to push her into recalling something.
She shook he head again. "No sorry… he never mentioned it at all!" she answered.
Malcolm offered a suggestion. "Mother?… Does Cuckoo Cottage mean anything?… It was a name I found in his case," said Malcolm remembering the name on the top of the second script.
"No… not there… that… that's… his secret hideaway somewhere out in the countryside," she replied.
"Mother… please try and help… We've got to do something with him… We can't just leave him here… We've got to get rid of him… and I need help from you to do that… I need to know where's the best place to dump him so that it doesn't look too suspicious… I thought somewhere near his doorstep might be best… So where can I dump him?… That's unless you want the police crawling all over this place and asking awkward questions about exactly what you two have been up to in your spare time…," said Malcolm laying it all down on the line.
 Margaret Smith began to understand exactly what her son was driving at. Her son wanted to save her the embarrassment of informing the police. She pulled herself together and tried to co-operate the best she could. The last thing on Earth she wanted was to get involved with the police. All the same she remained confused.
She tried to explain about the cottage. "Malcolm,… Cuckoo Cottage is Mr. Mortimer's secret hideaway… Nobody, not nobody knows about the place... Mr. Mortimer insisted that I tell no-one... He made me swear on the Bible that I tell no-one… I promised faithfully to keep it a secret, so I've told no-one… honestly I haven't…" she rambled on.
"Mother!… He's dead… THE MAN IS DEAD!," Malcolm spelt it out. "So now you can tell me!"
She swallowed hard before explaining: "You can't take him there… The cottage is miles away anyway... It's just outside a little village called Muddleton Morton in the East Midlands… He took me there once… but that's not the answer… No-one will ever find him there… The place is deserted… No-one ever goes there except himself… Can't we just dump him somewhere?… Somewhere where people might know him…. Like the red light district or something?… He goes there often… so I've been told!…" she said.
Malcolm thought hard and long. Perhaps his mother had the answer. If the man was known to be into these weirdo activities then there were areas of London that could well be suited to him, and it would not look out of place. He wondered what best to do. He was confused and did not know what to think. What with his own troubles as well. All this extra bother he could well do without.
All the same, he had to act swiftly and do something.
"Mother… we need to get him dressed and all his things packed away in his case… Come on… Get up… I need your help," Malcolm urged his mother.

2:00 pm.

Many miles away, in a side ward at Littlesea General Hospital, situated on the south coast of England, three women were sat up in bed, the fourth remained under sedation and was sleeping peacefully. The doctor's had just paid them a visit and considered that the three patients who were awake capable of being interviewed by the police for a short period of time. But nothing too stressful, and definitely no intimate questions were to be asked at this stage. It was considered far too soon after all these women had been through at the hands of a schizoid psycho-maniac.
Detective Inspector Hawkins entered the room first followed by a tall and lanky policeman dressed in uniform. The Inspector carried a suitcase in his hands. The police officer held a great big bunch of flowers. Inspector Hawkins moved to a position on the floor midway between the four beds, whilst the police officer crossed to the second bed on the right and gave the patient a big kiss on the lips.
"Why thank you David," said Georgina Watkinson accepting the flowers. "They look lovely."
"And how are feeling now?" asked PC David Grantford.
"Apart from this," she said pointing to the plaster-cast about her left shoulder and continuing on down the arm as far as the elbow, "I'm okay… I'm fine."
PC David Grantford smiled and held Georgina's hand for comfort. "The Inspector's here to asked a few questions," he told her.
WPC Watkinson looked towards her superior officer who was waiting patiently at the foot of the bed. "We're all fine. You can ask us questions sir," she told him. "The doctor's say some of us can go home tomorrow. At least Davina and Tracy can. I think I've got to stay in a little bit longer because of this," she added and indicating her plastered shouldered.
"You're on extended sick leave with full pay Watkinson… that's official... Take as long as you like to get yourself fit and well again," the Inspector said with a sympathetic smile.
"Why thank you sir," replied WPC Watkinson. But in truth she was keen to get back to work.
The Inspector looked about him and addressed the three women sat up in their respective beds. "Ladies, I think you're all aware of the situation. The prisoner we arrested yesterday has unfortunately managed to get away from custody… Our priority most obviously is to find out where he's got to, and get him back behind bars were he belongs… I'm hoping that you ladies might be able to give me some clues as to where he might have gone," he explained and looking from bed to bed as he spoke.
Davina Townsend was in the bed next to WPC Watkinson and Tracy Goodyear sat upright listening in the bed directly opposite. Wendy Bartlett was asleep in the other.
"We'll help if we can," replied Davina. "What is it you want to know?"
The Inspector raised up the luggage case that he had brought in with him. It had been found in one of the bedrooms at the Amusement Park where Malcolm Smith worked. On examination it had been found to be full of women's clothes. The inspector was interested to know whether these clothes belonged to one of these girls, or perhaps someone else. If it did belong to someone else, then it may give a clue as to the teenager's whereabouts. He might even be holding another prisoner somewhere. He knew that he was groping in the dark, but he had not got a lot to go on. At that point in time he had other people working on the case trying to establish Malcolm Smith's home address, but unfortunately they too were experiencing difficulties. It appeared that everybody at Malcolm Smith's employer's Head Office were away on holiday somewhere.
There was silence for a moment, then Tracy Goodyear spoke. "I think I recognise it," she said. "I think it belongs to Richard my boyfriend."
"That would be Richard Davies, a patient in Ward B12?" queried the Inspector.
The Inspector had been told by a nurse whilst waiting in the corridor that Tracy Goodyear's partner was also resident in the hospital. He also learned that the two hospitalisations were totally unrelated. Richard Davies's condition being more related to the condition of his gonads than an abduction from the psychopathic lunatic now running loose amongst the unsuspecting community. He was also told that Richard Davies was due to undergo an operation that very afternoon to hopefully correct his condition.
"Yes he's over in the other wing somewhere. But I've not been allowed to see him yet," answered Tracy with a sigh.
"If it does belong to Richard Davies, can you think of any reason why it should end up in Malcolm Smith's possession?" he asked Tracy Goodyear.
She thought for a moment. She knew exactly who had taken the case. She had helped pack the damn thing. It was full with that horrible redheaded girl's clothes. Katie Brown had taken it with her from Richard's flat the night she had stormed off never to return again. But more importantly she vaguely recalled Malcolm Smith mentioning Katie Brown by name whilst tormenting her on that rack of his. There had to be some connection between the two. But what? She had been half drugged from the fumes of industrial glue, and the events in the dungeon were still very much shrouded in mist. But she was sure this Malcolm Smith and the redheaded Katie Brown had something going between them. She wished that she could remember.
Tracy considered whether to reveal all this to the Inspector, but remembered the pact made between the four of them. If they were going to get to Malcolm Smith first then they needed to stay one step ahead. She decided that a little lie would not go amiss. The Inspector was never to hear the name Katie Brown mentioned in any way. Her lips were sealed.
After much thought she finally spoke.
"As it got any of my clothes inside?" she asked and hoping that Katie Brown's things would still be there.
"Yes, it's full of ladies items," confirmed the Inspector.
He had told no-one of the contents, so this confirmed exactly what he had thought. These clothes did belong to one of the four girls. At least that solved one little mystery. However he considered it wrong to actually open up the case and bring them out in the ward. Some of the clothes inside were rather revealing and he did not want to embarrass the owner in front of the others. Take it easy with them he had been told, and take it easy he would. But all the same he was happy now that he had found the answer to the mysterious case's presence in one of the attic bedrooms.
 Tracy nodded as if she understood the Inspector's concern. Katie did wear some outrageous clothes. She considered carefully what she should say next. She tried to think up some logical explanation why Malcolm Smith should be in possession of her Richard's case. She recalled that she was abducted whilst sleeping in her own bed at her home, and that Richard's car was parked in the drive at the time. Malcolm Smith could have taken it from out of the back of the car. It seemed a likely explanation so she gave it a go.
"That case with my things in. It was in the back of Richard's car. I had packed a few things to move in with him, and then he had his accident. I used his car a lot after that, but I never bothered to take the case out the back," she lied to the Inspector.
Inspector Hawkins raised an eyebrow. He had visited Tracy Goodyear's home just prior to visiting the hospital and had seen no car in the drive. One of the other little mysteries to solve was just how did Malcolm Smith transport Tracy Goodyear from her home to the Amusement Park? There was a company van and a Jaguar car parked in the loading bay which could have been used. But these were spotlessly clean and he doubted whether the teenager would have found time to do this considering all the other activities he was involved in that morning. He decided to investigate further, but all the time remembering to take it easy on the girl.
"You say you've been driving Richard Davies's car about all the time he's been here in the hospital?" he queried.
"Yes I have!" she replied suspiciously. Perhaps she was not insured to drive or something! Quickly she added: "Richard gave me permission to use it!"
The Inspector ignored her last remark. He was more interested in the whereabouts of the car, not whether she was allowed to drive it or not.
"Where is that car now?" he asked.
"Outside my house. It's parked in the driveway," she told him.
"Are you sure you left it there?" he questioned.
"Yes positive," confirmed Tracy. "Why?… Has it gone?"
The Inspector did not answer. To tell her the car had been stolen may prove too stressful. But all the same he had to press on.
"Do you know how you got from your home to the Amusement Park when you were abducted?" he asked and continuing with a question of his own.
Tracy shook her head. Malcolm Smith had thrust a horrible smelling mask over her face whilst lying in bed, and that was the last thing she remembered before waking up on the rack in his dungeon.
"No, I was unconscious all the time," she replied.
At last the Inspector had something to go on. If the car was missing then there was a fair chance that Malcolm Smith had used it to transfer this girl from her home to the Amusement Park. So where was that car now? If Malcolm Smith had driven it once, and was unfortunately never relieved of the ignition keys, then there was a fair chance he could still be driving it now.
"What sort of car does Richard Davies own?" asked the Inspector.
"It's a Ford Sierra estate, a dark blue one," she informed him, then added: "Why? Has it really gone?" She was worried at the thought. If the car had been stolen what on Earth was she going to tell Richard?
"What's the registration number?" he asked.
Tracy had not got a clue. She had been driving it now for quite a number of days and never bothered to find out.
"I think it's got a 'C' in it, and the number five and maybe a nine or something," she answered honestly.
"Don't worry, if it's registered in Richard Davies's name we can find it out," he assured her.
Tracy was genuinely getting worried about the car disappearing and it started to show on her face.
The Inspector was getting a little worried too. He was thinking that he may be overdoing it. He had promised not to push the girls too far, and by the apparent state of confusion this girl was now in, he considered that he had been overdoing it quite a bit.
"Right girl's, that's enough questions for now," he announced. "Have a nice rest, and I'll speak to you all again later when you've had more time to recover."
Keeping the case in his possession, for it was still listed as evidence, the Inspector moved to the door and held it open. PC Grantford kissed Georgina farewell and followed the Inspector out. At the door he turned and waved goodbye.
"I'll visit you again tomorrow Georgina, when I'm off duty," he called.
"Bye David… and thanks for the flowers," she called back.
At that point a nurse came in and the two gentlemen departed.
Tracy Goodyear lay back down in bed and drew up the sheets. She could not speak whilst the nurse was around. She was also worried over Richard's car being stolen.
She tried to relax and think more clearly. If only she could remember some of the things that horrible Malcolm Smith had said to her whilst stretched out on the rack. There just had to be a clue there somewhere.

6:00 pm.

Whilst waiting for darkness to fall Malcolm had achieved two things. One he had recharged the small battery on his motor cycle and got it going again, and two, with his mother's help, together they had successfully managed to get all Mr. Mortimer's clothes back on and make him look respectable again. At six o'clock Malcolm set off in the Mercedes car with the body of Mr. Mortimer sitting peacefully in the passenger seat. The seat belt holding him in place.
Malcolm and his mother had been very careful not to be seen loading up the body. With his mother's help they had swapped over cars and driven the large Mercedes into the drive at the side of the house before transferring the body.
Half an hour after departure Malcolm abandoned the car in a back street of a well known seedy district of London and afterwards walked the four miles home.
Malcolm had deliberately kept all the dead man's kinky things back at his mother's house. He had plans to dispose of them later. He had also removed the ignition key to the Mercedes from the key ring and used only this to transport Mr. Mortimer to his ultimate destination. On abandoning the car he had left the one solitary key in the ignition.
Malcolm could only hazard a guess at what the police's reaction would be to finding the body the way it was. He had thought about transferring the dead man to the driver's seat, but considered this to be too risky. He just wanted to park the car and get out of there as quickly as possibly. He also did not really care very much how they found the man. At least the problem was no-longer his. He suspected that the post-mortem would reveal that the man died of a massive heart attack so no foul play would be expected anyway. At least he hoped that to be the case. The last thing he wanted was for the police to be chasing him with a murder rap added to the already existing long list of charges.

9:30 pm.

Malcolm, now dressed in his old black leather motorcycle riding gear kissed his mother goodbye. They were standing in the driveway to the house with the motorcycle alongside. On the back was strapped two luggage cases, a small one belonging to  Mr. Mortimer, and one slightly larger which was Malcolm's.
"Right mother, remember, if the police come, then you haven't seen me. I've not been home since way before Christmas. You got that? Just tell them that I'm working at Littlesea and that they should contact me there. Okay? And if they ask specifically about a Mr. Mortimer, then you've never heard of him or anybody by that name. You got that?" he said reminding her of what they had agreed.
Margaret Smith nodded her head. "Don't worry Malcolm, I won't say a thing. My lips are sealed," she assured him.
Malcolm kissed her on the lips and placed his helmet on his head. Speaking through the visor he said: "Goodbye then mother… Look after yourself… and choose your boyfriend's more carefully in future won't you?… And I'll see you probably in a couple of months time when I've finished work at Littlesea."
He had not told her anything about his present difficulties. As far as she was concerned he was still working as a 'Caretaker' on the south coast.
 His mother kissed him once again through the visor of his helmet and said: "Goodbye then Malcolm, and thanks for everything. I'm sorry I got you into this mess. Safe journey back to Littlesea."
"It's all right mom, honest it is… 'bye then, and I'll be careful," he answered then kick-started the motorcycle into action.
After a few revs of the engine Malcolm was on his way down the road with his mother stood at the end of the drive waving. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He was also thinking whether or not he would be able to find Muddleton Morton in the dark and without a map.

End of Chapter Ten