There's not really any story behind this one, other than that I had the original idea for the plot early in 1997, and tapped a quick outline into my computer so that I wouldn't forget it. I finally got around to writing the whole story after I finished university, in July of that year.

William Rawlings was a wealthy man. A self-made millionaire. An emperor of the people. A champion of the poor.

He understood. As "Little Billy Rawlings" he'd understood. As Rawlings of Rawlings Holiday Camps, he'd understood. As Sir William Rawlings, head of Rawlings International Leisure, he still understood.

"Fun!" he shouted. "That's what people want." The rest of the board, staid old men held up solely by the starch in their collars, mumbled a wordless confirmation. They were grey: ashen skin under dark suits. They were corporation.

Not Billy. He was a clown, a performer, a comedian. His shirt peeked out with the colours of sunrise, illuminating the lush green valleys of his crushed velvet suit. A deep blue river ran from his neck, between double breasted hills whose turf-like façade hid a rich mine of toffees distributed amongst his pockets.

The corporation men dealt in figures. Everything had relevance, and everything had a price. They despised their own creations. A holiday, for them, was a cruise or a simple river trip. Taking in the sights and sounds of Henley or Marlow; ending the day with a quiet meal. Theirs was far from the hustle of nightclubs and the bustle of half-board which they sold to anyone prepared to set their sights low enough.

Billy loved half-board. Billy stayed, anonymously, in his own holiday camps. Billy was at the front of the hall for every cabaret, hoping and praying that he would be selected as a stooge for his patrons' amusement. Billy understood what made his empire tick. Billy recognized the simple fact that underpins society: for every middle class man, desperate to distance himself from the fish and chip community, there is someone to clean his windows, someone to empty his dustbins, someone to filter his sewage and someone to deliver his milk.

Billy Rawlings could afford to be middle class. Indeed, Sir William Rawlings could afford to be upper class, if he wanted. But Billy knew that the world is filled with people for whom money is more important than appearance; for whom every second of fulfilment is weighed against the hours needed to earn it. He understood their motivations, their desires.

"Fun!" he repeated. "And value for money!" It was the same speech that the gathered mass of grey corporation had heard a thousand times before. It was the same speech that had made Rawlings International Leisure into one of the largest companies in the world, and had given Little Billy Rawlings a personal fortune of over two billion pounds. At least ten percent of which seemed to go on keeping his pockets stocked with toffees.

He pondered the irony of his life as he wrestled with the green stalk of a weed whose roots seemed to extend far deeper than their single week's growth should have allowed. This was the one time of the week when Billy became just plain Mr. Rawlings. His suit and shirt remained, but now they hid their frivolities within the dignifying folds of a deep grey overcoat. His legs still belied the emerald of his clothes, but not so much as to be offensive.

A hand on his shoulder, laid gently so as not to startle him, was his alarm call. "Time to go, sir." Billy's chauffeur span smartly on the ball of one foot, tearing a small spiral into the ground with the slight squeak of a rubber sole against dew-soaked grass. The rest of his steps were silent.

It was nearly six-fifteen. Billy had been here for precisely one hour. Around him, the world slept on, submerged so far into their comas that the rattle of milk bottles and screeching brakes of paper boys had minimal effect. Beneath him the sleep was even more intense.

"Goodbye." He blew a kiss, tugged one last nagging weed from the ground below, and extended his bright green legs to their full. One last look at the stone which had been the cause of his weekly pilgrimage for over ten years, then he too left a whorl in the grass as he made his way back to the car.

The avenue was lined with a mixture of trees, plaque-bearing rose bushes, and more stones. They lined up like soldiers on parade, each one desperate for inspection, hoping to bring their owners to life in somebody's mind for just one instant more. Today a single stone was successful.

"Here Lies Margaret Handel, Beloved Wife, Mother of Three..."

He didn't read on. He knew enough about Margaret's life. He thought of the inscription on his own charge: "Eleanor Rawlings, Wife of William..." There was no mention of children, no signs of motherhood. Despite a lifetime as Uncle Billy to millions of families, his greatest regret, after the loss of his wife, was that he had never been able to give her the child she'd so desperately wanted.

He turned the corner into the main road through the cemetary. He saw a rusty Ford Cortina, originally deep green, but now so spattered with ruddy brown that it looked as though it had been deliberately camouflaged. It was a familiar sight - always parked in the same place: the flag of another weekly pilgrim.

Billy walked on. The sight of his limousine - its well polished paintwork and firmly connected bumpers - would have embarrassed the Cortina into submission, had they met. But Billy's car was still almost a mile away at the end of the road - in a lay-by around the corner from the main entrance.

It was spring. The road was carpeted with a thick, pink layer of apple blossom. At the edges it simply curved slightly upwards to ride the kerb, but otherwise there was no real indication of where the road gave way to the expansive grassy tomb. A pair of muddy grooves ran like railway tracks along the road, keeping generally to one side, but wavering as the owner of a rusty Ford Cortina had let his eyes become drawn by the falling snow of flower-heads.

This, he recalled, was the reason why Eleanor lay in a public cemetary, rather than some private mausoleum. She always loved the apple blossom here, feeling that there could be no resting place more fitting than one which was anually swathed in such a beautiful mark of nature. Of course, Billy could have bought a million apple trees, had she wanted, but what she'd really liked about this place - and what he'd fully realized, although she'd never told him - was that the place was well frequented by children scrumping for apples.

He walked on, deliberately kicking up the top layer of petals until they were caught by the breeze, and flurried around him. It reminded him of Eleanor, and whilst his weekly visits to her grave ensured that it was clean and well stocked with fresh flowers, it was the tree-lined walk there and back which really brought her to life again.

He took a final step across the threshold between serenity and life, and briskly strolled the hundred yards to the lay-by. It was precisely 6:30am.

"Don't forget your meeting with Toby this afternoon." The tone was such that it implied the word "sir" had followed. George, Sir William Rawling's personal assistant, felt uncomfortable referring to him as "Billy" - but Billy felt uncomfortable being referred to as "Sir". They had agreed to omit both, but George still insisted on his own brand of implied pronunciation.

Billy employed both a secretary - Jeanette - and a personal assistant. Although occasionally called on to type "anonymous" letters to accompany donations, George was more of a companion-cum-man Friday, without whom Billy would almost certainly be lost. Whereas Jeanette held the important post of holding the fort when Billy was out, George held the even more important post of actually being out with him. Billy was quite capable of fending for himself, but he couldn't deny that having George to sort out the formalities made his life a lot easier. Then, of course, there were also the more interesting, and less discussed "jobs" that he performed.

George walked a strange line between his life alongside a man who was generally deemed to be "thoroughly nice", and a number of acquaintances who were generally (and also quite specifically, by the police) deemed to be "thoroughly nasty pieces of work". So "thoroughly nasty", in fact, that the phrase seemed to invariaby warrant the addition of another "r", just before the "s".

Billy knew nothing of this side of his companion. All he knew was that George was a man who could "get things done". Thankfully the press had yet to realize quite who Sir William Rawlings was indirectly getting things done with. Not that they actually did anything illegal whilst in Billy's employ. Or at least, if they did it was something outside the scope of the job they were being paid for.

In his own mind, George was something of a superhero. He had a special gift - his familial underground connections - and was using his powers for good. When Johnny Ebla was called on to deposit a mysterious package in a particular location in a nearby hospital, he was not, as he'd supposed, dropping off the cash for a drugs deal. He was making a large pecuniary donation to the children's ward. When "Scat" Mulligan earned a thousand pounds to obtain a very particular woman from the street corner she frequented, it wasn't for the decadence he imagined, but rather to re-unite her with her family. In fact, it was Rob Driver who had found her in the first place - fully believing he was tracking down a police informant.

Had he stopped to think about it - or had the inclination to do so - Billy would have realized that George at least looked like a criminal. His bulky frame sat uneasily within even the best tailoring that Savile Row could offer, and his crooked nose, although only having been broken once (but subsequently badly set), gave the impression of a thuggish bodyguard. But if there was one thing Billy had learnt from his years of half-board holidaying, it was never to judge by outward appearances alone. And he never did.

They discussed the rest of the day's agenda, then stopped for a cup of coffee and some biscuits (ordering Jeanette to join them) in order to fill the half hour before Billy's first meeting. The remainder of the morning went smoothly, lunch was absolutely delicious (Billy managed to get to the sandwich lady in the foyer before she sold out of egg and tomato), and the afternoon passed quite easily, if not quickly.

Eventually the chime of the ultra-tacky miniature Big Ben on Billy's desk announced that it was four o'clock. He and George grabbed their coats and made their way down to the foyer (by the stairs, not the lift - "better for your circulation"), then out to the limo. It was time to visit Toby.

Toby - or Tobias Winthroppe as the brass plaque outside his office proclaimed - had been Billy's solicitor since his days as Little Billy Rawlings. Now he was senior partner in Winthroppe, Carter and Thompson, sole holders of the Rawlings International Leisure account. Naturally RIL had their own in-house legal department, but Billy had always insisted that they should also have an external, and more independent source of legal advice. He was vindicated the first time they had to take one of their legal staff to court for misappropriation of funds.

As well as the company account, Toby still handled Billy's private affairs. Today's visit concerned such a matter: his last will and testament.

"Don't tell me you've come to your senses, and you're here to take that ridiculous clause out of your will?" Toby opened with the same phrase every time Billy visited. He hoped that one day - before the will had to be actioned - the answer would be yes.

"I'm afraid not, Tobes." Today was not that day. "Just want to replace the letter detailing my bank accounts. I've split the five million amongst five different banks - a million apiece. It seemed too risky to keep the whole lot with one corporation - especially after that fiasco with BCCI proved that even the biggest banks can go down."

"Well, there's some sense in that, I suppose - although the whole damned scheme is just ridiculous, as far as I'm concerned. Can't you talk him out of it, George?"

Unless asked to wait outside, George went to every meeting with Billy. He'd even been there when the original will was witnessed, and though he too thought it was a hare-brained scheme, he knew better than to try and dissuade Billy from it.

"Hardly my business," George replied. Even with Toby there was an implied "sir" about the tone.

"You're supposed to be his friend, for crying out loud - surely you can see the stupidity of what he's doing."

"I am still here, you know?" Billy actually found it quite amusing to watch Toby get worked up over his will, but wanted to get on with the matter in hand. Besides, if Toby was up to his usual standards, he'd have no more clients that day, and would suggest they all go into the West End for a meal - during which he would do his best to dissuade Billy from the decision he'd made.

Toby was as predictable as ever, but at least the meal was superb.

Spring was busy having pretentions at being summer, but the previous day's shower confirmed it for what it was. It also left the mat of apple blossom in a treacherously slippery condition, hastening the growth of brown-edged decomposition on each petal. Billy placed his feet carefully as he skirted along the kerbside and into the heart of the cemetary.

He turned onto the aisle in which Eleanor lay. The stone soldiers lined either side of the path, with rose bushes dotted in between. Occasionally the pattern gave way to a particularly large monument, all columns and cherubs, and Billy found himself wondering whether these hideous blocks were what their deceased would have chosen for themselves. He passed a monolith, inscribed on each side with a heart, and decorated with finely carved flowers. The last apology of a guilty partner, he cynically assumed.

His own destination was simple. Just a plain slab of pink granite, slightly arched at its top, but with no embellishment or decoration. Even the text was set in a simple serif, echoed by the size of the inscription. Whilst others left whole monologues and eulogies, Billy had said everything he needed to whilst she'd still been alive. What few words there were stemmed from tradition, and the need for just enough emotion to remind him of her life.

He stooped to remove the wilted flowers of the previous week from the stone vase which stood on the grave. The nearest dustbin was only a few yards away, and after seating the fresh blooms he disposed of the old stalks and drooping heads, together with the delicately patterned paper which had wrapped the fresh supplies.

For the next forty-five minutes he talked of his movements and emotions over the preceding week. He didn't really believe she was listening to him, but it helped to keep life sorted in his own mind, as well as reminding him of the similar conversations they used to have. As always, he finished with five minutes silence in which to remember her, then removed the last of the weeds he'd spotted during that time. He began the familiar trudge back to the limousine.

As he turned onto the road, he felt a little uneasy. It was the sort of feeling that implied he'd forgotten to do something, so he stopped for a moment to retrace his steps. He'd changed the flowers. He'd weeded the grave. He'd "discussed" the week's affairs. What else was there?

He pressed on, though it only took two steps for it to hit him. There was something odd, alright - but it wasn't an omission he'd made. The Cortina was missing. For the first time in four years. He wondered about it a little: it had probably just broken down, or the driver was sick. Perhaps he'd bought a new car, and was just waiting for the insurance to come through. It didn't really matter that much - it was just odd.

The problem was that it continued to be odd for the next six weeks. No Cortina. No replacement, parked in the Cortina's place. Billy changed his times to arrive earlier and later. Still no sign of it. The owner must have moved away.

"George."

"Yes sir?" Billy looked at him in a way that said "you forgot about the 'sir' didn't you?" George replied with a look that sheepishly admitted as much.

"We've been through a lot together, you and I, and you know that I look on you more as a friend than an employee."

"Yeeees..." George knew this was building up to something important.

"Well, what would you say if I asked you to do a favour for me? Something not entirely... well... ethical."

George executed a carefully timed sequence of eyebrow movements, which variously conveyed surprise, concern and finally warmth and friendship.

"No, no. Nothing nasty, or anything like that. It's just that it couldn't exactly be described as being 100% legal. But it's for the right reasons." Billy was becoming quite flustered. He'd never asked George to do anything illegal before. He had his suspicions about the methods George employed to get things done, but he'd never actually asked him outright to break the law.

"Perhaps if you just told me what you want done, and I'll see if there's any way I can arrange it."

Billy told him, feeling all the while as though there should be a plain brown package involved - and not just another anonymous donation.

"Is that all?" George sounded almost disappointed that there wasn't going to be anything too nefarious taking place. Billy wondered just how much he could have asked without George becoming shocked. He guessed that it was quite a lot.

A woman. Billy hadn't expected it to be a woman. Not that he was sexist, it's just that he'd formed a mental image of a man, of similar age to himself, but obviously less well off. Instead it was a woman. And he was out on the age by about forty years, too.

The path was cracked, and crumbled off in huge chunks at the edges. The chunks fell onto the lawn which lay a few inches below. It was brown and fragile, dotted occasionally with small clumps of green, where particularly hardy grasses still thrived - presumably by strangling their neighbours below ground. Such clumps merely emphasized the disrepair of the remaining foliage.

The brown of the grass, punctuated with occasional splashes of colour, seemed to be a theme which was continued on the façade of the house itself. Any traces of paint were blistered, cracked, and generally gathering in a pile at the base of the building. Only intermittently had any managed the will to cling on, leaving a streaking mess of fractured concrete and sun-bleached wood, spattered with the thin marks of civilization.

One of the ground floor windows was boarded over, and somehow managed to convey the sense that it had been that way for several years. The beading around the glass in the front door had been ripped away by the local kids, and the silicate itself only remained in place through sheer willpower, a little putty on the inside, and the careful application of three panel pins.

The door knocker seemed remarkably intact - although the chrome plating was bubbling off under pressure from the rust that formed below. He pulled it back squeakily, then slapped it home with restrained force: he didn't completely trust those panel pins. Thankfully he only had to try once more, before there was rustling from the other side.

"Hang on!" At the same time he heard a bolt being withdrawn towards the top of the door, then the whole lot shifted noticeably upwards. It shuffled backwards, bringing the woman into view. "Just a minute," she told him, and continued looking away as she kicked a large book into place below the far corner of the door. Releasing her grip slowly, she let the door sink a full three inches into place, though kept one hand on it at all times to steady it.

At the top of the door, the hinge poked forwards in mocking recognition of the job it had once performed. Now it just jeered out whenever the door was opened, pulling screws further from the wall in an occasional release of Rawlplug-supporting matchsticks. A single matchstick fell out today, but the woman failed to notice. Or, at least, she failed to care.

"Can I help you?"

She was beautiful, in a tragic way. Twenty-four - according to the details George had obtained from one of his police associates - yet going on fifty. Her skin shone with grease, and her forehead was marked with the reddened warning signs of potential spots. Her hair was dull and lifeless, sticking unattractively to her skin, or straggling in thick tendrils that spiralled over her shoulders. This wasn't what he'd imagined. This wasn't what he'd imagined at all.

"Can I help you?" She enforced the words by stabbing her hand onto her waist in implied irritation. Not that she really had anything better to do than stand in the doorway waiting from an answer from a probably senile, but definitely well-dressed, old man.

Billy followed the curve of her arm to where it hit her waist, then drew his eyes back up to meet hers. She had a wonderful body, hidden in a shoddy pile of baggy clothes, and had a face that hid so much potential. He just wanted to drag her down to Kensington for a dose of all-over beautification, then on to some of the more elite boutiques, to show the fat and pompous upper classes what a real woman looked like.

Instead he just fumbled with a piece of paper.

"Are you," he looked at the sheet, "Janet Golightly?" he enquired.

"Depends who's asking." Her voice was sharp, and ever so slightly threatening. He certainly didn't look like a bailiff, so he either had to be a council official, or a solicitor working for the council. Not that she was aware of having done anything to cross the council of late, but they could always find something.

"Do you own a Ford Cortina - slightly green, but held together with rust?" He knew he'd found the right person, and was beginning to relax enough to let his sense of humour leak out a little.

"Might do." Damn! He must be from DVLC. "Look, if it's about the tax, I haven't been driving it since it ran out - and I was just about to go to the post office to sort it." She waved a sheaf of papers at him that had been secreted by the door for just such an occasion.

"It's not about the tax."

She looked over his shoulder, expecting to see that he'd crashed into it, or it had fallen apart onto his foot, or something. It looked fine. Well, it looked as fine as it was ever going to. It also looked as though it was nestled neatly between next door's cat, and a large, black lomousine.

"Is that your limo?"

"Yes, it is."

That ruled out DVLC and the council. Either she'd won the lottery - which she had no recollection of having entered that week - or it was a solicitor. She had a rather stylized idea about quite how much solicitors earn.

Billy thought carefully about how to phrase his next question, so as not to appear to be a stalker or pervert. In the end the pressures of silence beat him to it, and he sucessfully appeared as both.

"I've seen you at the cemetary. Every week for four years."

"What?! You've been following me? You dirty little bastard." She wanted to slam the door in his face, but the obstinacy of the hinge made it an impossible task. Instead she called to the other occupant of the house.

"Steeeve! Steve! There's some old perv here's been following me. To Jamie's grave, an' everything!"

A slightly older, and generally larger man ambled awkwardly out of a side room, still clutching a can of lager and making his way at a reasonable pace along the hall towards the area that laughingly passed as a doorway. Billy began wishing he'd made his approach during work hours, when George would have almost certainly been with him.

He began to retrace his steps along the path as the wall of flesh and lager grew ever closer. He veered slightly, loosing another lump of concrete which tumbled lawnward, then adjusted his trajectory to sucessfully negotiate the gateless gateposts. His chauffeur had already started the engine as he passed the rusty green Cortina.

"I just wanted to check you were okay - and to offer you a lift there," he shouted. Thankfully the oncoming ogre seemed reluctant to venture out onto the perilous slab of concrete without some sort of footwear. "I'll swing by at about 6:15 tomorrow morning. I'll be going there anyway - my wife's buried there." He thought he'd better add the latter to try and dispel her fears about his motives.

The chauffeur was already holding the back door open for him. "6:15," he shouted again. Then he stepped into the car and, with an expensive click, was once again bathed in rich leather and silence.

Their timing couldn't have been any more precise. With nothing but an occasional milk float to slow them, the chauffeur had no trouble adjusting his speed so that they arrived almost exactly halfway through the prescribed minute. Billy had hoped that she would be waiting for them, but the house looked as shuttered and asleep as any other at that time in the morning. Much as he hated to antagonize her any further, he knew he had to give her one more chance. He stepped out of the car, and began to make his way along the concrete catwalk.

He was nearing the door when she appeared from the side of the house. "I came out the back way," she said, "the front door isn't exactly great to use at this time in the morning."

"I'm glad you decided to come."

"Yeah, well. Just don't try anything - I've got an alarm, you know." She held aloft a white plastic device, with a large and prominent red button. It hung on a lanyard around her neck, and there followed a brief description of its operation - including the fact that it would go off if pulled from the string.

"Shall we?" He stood behind the door of the car, feigning the act of holding it open for her, although it was perfectly capable of staying open of its own accord. She reached into the expanse of beige fabric that constituted her handbag, fished around a little, and withdrew a pen and paper.

"Name?" she demanded.

"Billy."

"Surname?"

"Rawlings." The combination didn't register in her mind. She stepped around to the back of the limousine, and copied down the number-plate, then jogged rapidly up the path to deposit the information in her own letterbox. Billy admired such common sense.

"Now then Billy Rawlings, let's go to the cemetary."

"So who is it that you're... you know... visiting?"

"You mean 'whose grave?' It's Jamie - my son. I got pregnant when I was still at school, and miscarried after almost eight months." It was clear from the welling in her eyes that she still found it hard to talk about, but something in her manner also indicated that it reassured her to do so.

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to pry."

"That's alright. It's good to talk about him once in a while - helps to remind me that I'm visiting the person, not the stone."

"Don't you sometimes wonder if you'd be better off not going? Give yourself more of a chance to get over it."

"Sometimes. But I think I'm as over it as I'm ever going to be. It doesn't stop me living my life anymore - though it did for a couple of years. I can't stop going, though. I couldn't bear to think of his headstone becoming old and green, and the grave being overrun with weeds. I see plenty of those as I walk through the cemetary, and it just makes me wonder if people have stopped caring. What about you? How long have you been going?"

"Ten years now. It's my wife, Eleanor. She died of cancer."

"Don't you ever think you should stop going - get on with your life, find someone new. If you can afford a limo, you probably wouldn't have too much trouble picking up women."

"Hardly my style - but I feel like you do. I'm over her as much as I can be, but I still like to go there every week. I tended for her through life - no matter how bad things got. The least I can do is look after her memory now. I know it's a phrase that gets overused, but I think the best way to describe my visits is that I 'pay my respects'. It's a lovely turn of speech, when you think about it - when you think about what it really means. God knows that after thirty years of marriage, I've got more than enough to pay back."

"Looks like we're complete opposites really. You're rich and I'm - well, let's just say that while you travel by limo, I can't even afford to get my Cortina taxed. You go to the cemetary to visit your wife of thirty years; I go to visit the grave of a son I never even knew. You're posh and I'm about as common as they come - without resorting to you-know-what, at least."

"I'd hardly describe myself as posh."

"No? Well where I come from, you're posh. You drive a posh car. In fact, you're so posh that you don't even drive it yourself. I'll bet you've got a big, posh house too. One with all its glazing intact, at that. And a working front door."

"Maybe so, but I'm not posh. I didn't get all that through dodgy connections, or handed down by mummy and daddy. I worked for everything I own - and I worked damned hard for it. I came from an area no better than where you live, but I managed to pull myself out of it. It's not easy, but it can be done."

"I guess you were the lucky one then."

They went their separate ways at the cemetary, but arranged to meet back at the car at half past seven. Apart from the previous weeks' rescheduling, Billy was usually in the office by now, and it was almost hypnotic to watch the day winding up in the houses that fringed the graveyard. Lights went on. Lights went off, replaced moments later by lights going on downstairs. Silhouettes ate their breakfast, whilst the faint screaming of children fighting over cereal freebies filled the air. Eleanor would have liked it.

All too soon he felt the hand on his shoulder. He cleared the last of the weeds, straightened a toppling flower, and said farewell for another week. The headstones stood to attention as he passed, whilst the rose bushes relaxed into their sole duty of filling the air with the smells of summer. He was spared the apple tree boulevard by dint of there being a limousine humming warmly in the spot usually occupied by a green and rust Cortina. Janet was already inside.

The journey back began more quietly, with each of them engrossed in their own thoughts. The ice was broken by Billy, asking about the state of the Cortina, and by the time they arrived back at Janet's house, she had reluctantly agreed to borrow the money to tax it, to be paid back at twenty pounds a week.

"Even when the car's taxed, I'd still be honoured if you'd join me for the journey to the cemetary each week."

"I'd love to. Besides - I've got to see you at some point each week to pay you your dues."

"Well, here we are then. May I say that it's been a pleasure travelling with you, Janet Golightly, and that your husband is a very lucky man."

"My husband? Oh, God no! Steve's my brother." She laughed. It was the first time he'd seen her laugh properly, and her smile broke through the dull hair and shiny skin in a way that lifted her whole face. She stepped out of the car - telling the chauffeur not to bother with the door, as she was quite capable of opening it herself.

"Thank you for taking me there. It was - I'm not sure if 'nice' is the right word for a trip to the cemetary, but it'll have to do - so it was 'nice' to be able to see to the grave again. I'll see you next week, William Rawlings." Suddenly her eyes widened in recognition, as somewhere deep in her mind, a scrap of information was retrieved from the file marked "irrelevant". "You're not the William Rawlings are you? Little Billy Rawlings?"

He just raised his eyebrows, and vanished behind the smooth hum of a tinted electric window.

"You're doing WHAT?!" Toby hadn't been this worked up since Billy had added that infamous clause to his will.

"I'm getting married."

"B-b-but you've only known the girl, what, six months at the most?"

"Actually it's been eight, but who's counting."

"And what about the age gap?"

"Well, what's thirty-eight years between friends."

"The trouble is that you're becoming more than just friends."

"Look! If she can put up with it - and God only knows, I can definitely put up with it - then where's the problem."

"What about the press?"

"They can go and find their own bloody twenty-four year olds if they want them."

"You know what I mean."

"Unfortunately, I do."

Billy was becoming quite tired of this conversation. He'd already had it with his cousins, his closest friends, his neighbours, and even the milkman.

"George, can't you..." but Toby didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

"Not if he still wants to be best man he can't," interrupted Billy.

"So what are you here for? Just to give me the bad news - or did you have need of my professional services."

"A bit of both, really."

"Surely your not telling me that your impending wedding mean you'll be taking that stupid clause out of your will? Maybe I am pleased for you, after all."

"As a matter of fact, yes I will. But that can wait for another day. This is far more important. I want you to draw up a pre-nuptial agreement. In the event of a divorce, Janet gets nothing that wasn't earnt during the course of the marriage."

"Ahhhh... true love."

"Enough of the comments. It was Janet's idea - and I don't entirely approve. Nevertheless, she's worried that people will think she's just marrying me for my money, so she insisted on the agreement. And I've got to put something similar in my will."

"I don't care - as long as you make a sensible one this time."

The wedding was glorious. Janet looked magnificent, with her hair and make-up arranged by professionals, and one of the most beautiful dresses you could possibly imagine. It was tailor made for her, naturally, and cut in closely at the waist before billowing out into a cascade of silk and pearls. The bodice was padded in all the right places, and felt so comfortable that she even found herself checking that she was actually wearing it.

Billy's outfit verged on the traditional, but the grey morning suit was ousted in favour of a rich blue replacement, coupled with a bright red waistcoat. The page boys were dressed similarly, illiciting a great deal of sighing from the gathered populace. Even the hard-bitten press representatives, perched just oustide the perimeter wall of the church, found it hard not to forget that they were there for a sordid tale of a rich tycoon and his much younger, almost certainly gold-digging, bride.

The honeymoon went equally well. For the first time in over twenty years, Billy steered clear of his own holiday camps, and instead they retired to an isolated cottage in the Lake District. No electricity. No heating. But a soft bed and a view to die for. It was sheer bliss.

Janet's mother and two brothers moved into the west wing of the house. They led what was effectively a separate life, but it reassured Billy and his bride to know that they were comfortable, and didn't have to worry about the essentials in life. Billy even managed to find a job on the estate for Janet's younger brother - although perhaps "created a job" is a better description.

It was a couple of weeks after they returned from the lakes that Toby was invited round for lunch. The general idea was to talk over the new arrangements in Billy's will, although the precise wording was to be finalized, and the paper signed, the following week. Billy just wanted to introduce Janet and Toby informally, and to give her a chance for a say in his affairs.

"Right, first thing's first: this damned stupid clause of yours. I presume it's still going?"

"Most definitely. There doesn't seem to be any need for it now."

"What clause is this?" Janet hadn't really discussed Billy's will with him, and had no idea about its contents. Given the way they'd met, she didn't want to tempt fate.

Billy looked at Toby. Toby returned the look, but added an "I can't tell her, due to client confidentiality" effect with his eyebrows. Billy turned back to Janet.

"It was to do with something that Eleanor told me. She knew she was dying, and the day before she passed away she asked me to sit down so that she could have a proper talk about my future. It seemed almost cruel to be discussing my life without her, but she insisted.

"Anyway, to cut a long story very short, she pointed out that I still had so much left to give. With my resources, she said, I could be a force for good in the world. I could make donation after donation, without even noticing it on the annual report. I could sponsor children overseas, I could fund schools and hospitals."

"So the clause was what? To give a certain percentage of your money to charity?"

"If only!" Toby said, in an under-the-breath-but-intentionally-loud-enough-to-hear tone.

"No. She told me that I should live for as long as I possibly could - no matter what the cost. She had faith that no matter how much I spent keeping myself from the grave, the net result would be a much larger sum spent on the needy."

"And...? I mean, taking the stairs in preference to the lift is hardly worthy of a clause in your will. What is it that you haven't told me?"

"Cryogenics."

"What?!" It was an exclamation of surprise, rather than confusion. She knew full well what cryogenics were, but couldn't believe that people other than mad poodle obsessives really went in for it.

"As soon as I'm pronounced clinically dead, a team from the cryo lab will pump me full of some kind of chemical cocktail of low temperature embalming fluids, then they stick me in a vat of liquid nitrogen. If medical science ever advances to a suitable level where it can cure what killed me, they'll try to thaw me out."

"And you honestly think they'll manage it, without killing you again in the process?"

"The will's quite specific in that. They're not even allowed to try until they have a success rate of at least 75% - or if my body starts to degenerate to an extent where my chances are only going to get worse."

"That's still at least a one-in-four chance of failure."

"But it's better than no chance at all."

"Hmmm... I'm still not convinced. What would have happened to your money whilst you were, 'resting'? And what about if you didn't pull through?"

"I had it all planned out. Most of my ready cash, and other short term investments would have been donated to charity. My stocks and shares, and any other long term interests, would be held by Toby and his successors until I returned. On the off chance that the company deteriorates, or some other unforeseen circumstance occurs, there was also a sum of five million pounds, distributed amongst several bank accounts, for which special arrangements have been made. At least that way I'll come back with enough money to make a reasonable stab at starting again. And if I didn't pull through? Well, it all goes to charity, naturally."

"Well I don't like it. It would be bad enough losing you once, but what if I was still alive when they revived you? What if something went wrong then - I couldn't bear it. If you do go before me, I'd rather just mourn you the once, and get it over with."

"Which is why I'm scrubbing the clause. Besides, I couldn't bear the thought of being resuscitated into a world without you. And since you're likely to outlast me, I can leave my charitable duties to you - so I won't feel like I'm betraying Eleanor's wishes."

"Don't forget though, I want restrictions placed on what I get from your will. If you want to leave me in charge of executing the donations, that's fine, but I don't want everything left to me personally."

"Toby?" Toby fingered the sleep from his eyes, and held his still folded glasses up to his eyes in order to look at the time. With a sigh he collapsed back into his bed, letting the handset rest on the pillow and against his ear.

"Whadja want? It's three-bloody-thirty in the morning for God's sake."

"Toby, it's George." Toby sat up with a start, pulling the telephone into a more conventional position, and suddenly wide awake.

"George?"

"Toby, there's been an accident. A terrible, terrible..." on the other end of the line, George's word turned to rubber, and he broke down.

"Where are you George? I'll be right there."

It took a few moments for George to compose himself enough to answer, five minutes for Toby to throw some clothes on and explain his actions to his wife, then a further ten minutes to drive to the hospital.

He strode rapidly up to the automatic doors, whose latency was infuriating. When at last they recognized his presence and let him pass, his eyes automatically scanned the waiting room for the familiar figure of George. He was sitting on an orange plastic chair, holding Janet in his arms. They were both crying.

Toby placed a hand on George's shoulder. He thought of starting with "I came as quickly as I could", but was painfully aware that he could have taken all the time in the world without it making the slightest difference. In the end, all he said was "George", in a kindly, reassuring tone.

"It's Billy. He tripped... at the top of the stairs. An aneurysm, they said. Couldn't do anything for him."

"My God, no." The words were released with the last of the air in Toby's lungs. He let his body drop onto a chair, and every part of him went numb as he took in the magnitude of what had occurred. It was a full five seconds before he re-filled his lungs, but quickly wished he hadn't bothered to refresh his ability to speak. Not given what he was about to say.

"He wasn't due to sign the new will until tomorrow."

"I know. That's why I called you so quickly. Isn't there anything we can do?"

"Jesus Christ, this is difficult. I know what he wanted - we discussed it just last week, but legally his current will stands - and I'm supposed to execute it."

"What happens if you don't?"

"I don't know - I can't think straight right now. I guess they'll still have to execute it at some point - even if only whilst waiting for it to come to court, assuming we challenge."

"But what about you? Won't you get struck off or something?"

"Yes."

Janet pulled her head from George's chest. The tears stopped, but her speech still wavered with the trauma of what had occurred. Nevertheless, her innate common sense prevailed.

"Call them. Call the cryo people. If he's going to have to be frozen at some point anyway, then his chances have got to be better if it happens sooner rather than later. I mean, what happens if we can't get the will overturned, and he does get thawed out in fifty years time? We have to give him the best chance we can."

Reluctantly Toby made the call. It took them half an hour to arrive. Within an hour, Billy was well on his way to being frozen.

"What's happening. Where's Janet? Get me Janet!"

A woman's face swung into view. It wasn't Janet.

"Calm down Mr. Rawlings. We'll deal with all that in good time. We just need to get your body temperature back up, then you can spend some time with our counsellor, who'll help you adjust."

"What do you mean? Adjust to what? What the hell's going on here?" For the first time Billy was aware of the moisture that surrounded him. He was in a large bath of warm water, having his arms and legs gently massaged by four nurses.

At least, he assumed they were nurses. He must be in a hospital - probably knocked out by that fall. In fact, come to think of it, he seemed to remember a sharp blow to his head, then blackness a few seconds later.

Why were they bathing him? He must have been unconscious for longer than he realized. What if it had been a coma? They could go on for months - years even.

"What's the date?"

"April the 29th, sir." Damn. He'd missed Janet's birthday. "2153."

Had he heard correctly? Perhaps - though he knew it was a long shot - perhaps that was just the time. Almost ten o'clock. The sunlight that rushed in through the windows quickly put a stop to that idea.

"Not the year 2153, surely?" He was cold. They were, by their own admission, trying to warm him up. He wasn't due to sign the new will until tomorrow. Except it wasn't tomorrow anymore. Surely they hadn't? They couldn't have? They knew what he wanted, why didn't they get it overturned?

"Have I been frozen?"

"You see, Mr. Rawlings - it's all coming back to you now. A little disorientation is perfectly normal - the counsellor will soon have you sorted out, and then we can start to re-integrate you into society."

The nurse by his left leg leaned over to look at something out of Billy's field of vision. A few seconds later he leaned back into view.

"Judging by your chart," he said, "there's no reason why you shouldn't still have at least another fifty years, these days."

When Billy had last visited the headquarters of Cryo-store (UK) Ltd, they occupied one relatively small building, which housed fifteen full body tanks, forty-five head tanks, a large DNA sample freezer, and three-hundred and twenty animal tanks, of various sizes. Although each depository was referred to as a "tank", of course for heads and animals it was usual to cram several into each cryo-freezer. Only the full body tanks were stocked on a one body, one tank basis.

From the time it took him to be wheeled through the corridors, to the fact that they now seemed to have gained at least twelve additional floors, Billy guessed that cryogenics had turned into big business. The fact that he had been successfully revived, and didn't seem to have any appendages disintegrating, implied that they had probably reached at least the 75% success mark, so he could well understand how it had moved from the freakish to the norm.

His counsellor introduced herself as Luci, and began by explaining exactly how he'd been killed, and what they'd had to do to revive him. She seemed to find it far less distasteful discussing his death than he did, and he wondered whether it was a sign of the times, or a sign of the person.

She warned him that he might experience slight memory loss - due in part to the initial damage caused by the rupturing of the aneurysm, and in part to the fact that the repair work they performed on the artery would have also caused a little damage. He wasn't aware of any memory loss, but figured that he just hadn't tried to access the particular memories stored in that area yet.

Then began the task of reintegrating him into society. First he was introduced to the room in which he would be staying. It was deliberately made up to look like something from the late 20th century, so as not to confuse him further, and backed onto a high walled garden in which he could relax. The unfamiliar sounds emanating from behind the wall indicated that he was very much in an unfamiliar world, and occasional snatches of contemporary music baffled his eardrums in a way that made Janet's music collection seem like the works of Beethoven or Mahler.

It was during their second session that he first began to ask questions. He started with precisely the ones Luci was expecting; the same ones everybody started with. What had happened to his friends and family? Was it possible to find out? He omitted the usual question about tracing descendants, on the basis that he had no children, but otherwise this was turning out to be a textbook case.

"You're luckier than most, you know." He didn't feel particularly lucky, but responded politely to the prompt nevertheless. "Someone's already done the hard work for you."

She handed him a book. It was thick and hard-backed, and pressed reassuringly into his hands. He turned it to face him, and read the title: "Little Billionaire". A clever play on words, he thought - then wondered how the tabloids had missed it for so long. It was subtitled, "The life and death of Sir William Rawlings". If only, he thought, he really had died.

As a work of fiction, it was marvellous. As a biography, it left a lot to be desired. The details improved somewhat as his life progressed, but the earlier years - prior to his first holiday camp - were absurdly inaccurate. Too much reliance on secondary sources, no doubt. He looked at the date of publication: 2040. That explained a lot.

Naturally, in a book covering his own life, there was not much he didn't know already. Some of the interviews with George, Toby and others, made interesting reading, but it wasn't until the penultimate chapter, when he actually had his accident, that things really became interesting for him.

That chapter dealt with his "death", and the subsequent court case. The judge had made an unprecedented legal ruling that because Billy was frozen, and because there was the possibility of his revival, he was bound by the terms of the will as it stood. His argument was sound - it wasn't possible to confirm what Billy really wanted, and the safe solution was to leave things as he expected to find them, in the unlikely event that he ever was resuscitated. Naturally the judge felt a great deal of sympathy for Janet, but by her own admission she would not have profited personally from a change in the will, so any overruling would not really affect her.

The author also seemed wholly unconvinced that Billy would survive the freezing process, and insisted on continually referring to him as "the late", "the lamented" and "the deceased". Billy wasn't sure whether this was amusingly naive, or just disturbing, but he let it pass.

The last chapter was the most moving. Whereas the previous had seemed almost comical in its legal wranglings, the final chapter disturbed Billy in a way that cannot possibly be imagined.

It concerned Janet's life after Billy's accident. The will had no provision for her upkeep, the pre-nuptial agreement, and the draft will drawn up by Toby, had convinced the judge that none should be granted. George was able to find accommodation for her and her family that was somewhat better than her previous dwelling, but it was still far removed from the life she deserved.

With no education to speak of, and an unjust reputation as a gold-digger, she found it hard to find work. She earned a wage as a cleaner, receptionist, road sweeper, sewage worker, postal worker - indeed, anywhere she could find work, she took it. Family and friends testified about how they'd seen her work herself to exhaustion - sometimes for over sixteen hours a day, although where all the money went to was a mystery. She died, aged sixty-three, still living in the home that George found, still working every hour that God sent. She left nothing of any great value. The place was barely furnished, the cupboards equally so. She had never remarried. She'd never had any more children.

She was buried alongside the grave of her son, Jamie, in the same cemetary as Billy's first wife, Eleanor.

"There's someone here to see you today," remarked Luci as he entered the room. The young man was dressed smartly, in what passed for a sombre business suit, but which wouldn't have been out of place in Billy's wardrobe a century-and-a-half ago. The features seemed vaguely familiar - as was quickly explained as he introduced himself.

"Good morning to you sir. My name is Nigel Winthroppe, of Winthroppe, Carter, Thompson and Vine. I believe you knew my great-great-great grandfather.

"Yes, good old Toby. If only I'd listened to him a bit sooner." Nigel looked puzzled, but let it pass.

"I've brought you some of your legal papers, which you deposited with Tobias. Bank account details, and shares certificates, I believe sir."

"Thank you. And don't call me sir - Billy will do perfectly."

"Very well. There's one other matter." He paused, as though about to deliver some distressing news. Billy wasn't sure how things could possibly get more distressing than they already were.

"Go on."

"Well... there's a letter to you. It was left with us some time after Tobias passed away, to be delivered in the event that you were successfully resuscitated." He handed over an envelope, yellowed with age, and with the single word "Billy" on the front. He recognized the handwriting instantly.

"It... it's from Janet." He sat down, slid his thumb under the flap at one side, and tore the paper. It was brittle, and opened easily, but inside the contents had aged less dramatically, and still bore patches of white. He pulled the paper delicately from the envelope, unfolded it with trembling hands, and began to read.

	My darling Billy,
	

	If you are reading this letter, then you survived your time as an 
	icicle. I know that's not what you wanted - we tried our best, but 
	the legal system puts more faith in pieces of paper than in the 
	words of those who care.
	

	I doubt you'd recognize me now. I've just made it into my sixties 
	- only another three years before I overtake you. This is the 
	third letter I've left, as circumstances keep changing. It's the 
	first one that hasn't been given to Toby, so I hope his son is as 
	trustworthy as he was.
	

	My first letter was full of optimism. I was working hard, and 
	making a reasonable wage. I'd saved five thousand pounds in just 
	six months and hoped to make a similar figure in the next six. As 
	it turns out, I did reach my target - but just as I did so, the 
	one thing I wanted to buy was raised in price.
	

	It happened again and again, so that by the time the second letter 
	was written - and still at the time of writing this one - I always 
	seem to be a few thousand pounds short of my target. What with 
	inflation, and the increased popularity of it, the price just goes 
	up and up and up.
	

	But I haven't told you what I'm talking about - though you might 
	have guessed. I'm hoping to make enough money to be frozen myself 
	when I die. Maybe then I can be thawed out when you are, and we 
	can carry on where we left off. Well, almost where we left off. 
	I've lost most of my looks over the years, and my body's hardly 
	what it was - but at least the press can't accuse you of 
	cradle-snatching anymore.
	

	Your Loving Wife, now and forever,
	

	

	Janet
	

	

"Look sir, I've checked and double-checked. There's no record of a Janet Rawlings or a Janet Golightly. If she was frozen, sir, then it wasn't by us."

Billy turned away from the receptionist, and back to Luci and Nigel. Luci had felt it would be for the best if he confirmed for himself that Janet wasn't there. She'd seen similar things happen before, and they always had to be told to their face - secondhand information was never enough.

"I've read the book, Billy. She's buried next to her son, in the same cemetary as your first wife, remember?"

"Can I visit her grave?"

"I don't know... we don't normally let people out this early into their rehabilitation."

"I don't give a damn what you usually do. I want to visit my wife's grave. Now!"

Nigel drove him there, through streets that looked more like New York in the 80s - damn, he had to get used to saying the 1980s - than any part of England. All around were high rise buildings, faced in plastic, glass, concrete, or occasionally marble. The streets were strangely empty, due to the advances in technology which meant that more and more people worked from home. Couple that with cheap public transport and high personal fuel tax, and only the wealthy could afford to drive much these days.

They pulled into the cemetary. It was like travelling back in time: apple trees still lined the road, and even the parking spaces remained. Billy fully expected to see one filled with a rusty green Cortina.

"Can you give me a few hours?" he asked Nigel. "I've got two wives to see to." Nigel handed him a watch. "Four o'clock," he said. "Three hours." Then he drove off.

Through habit, he went to Eleanor's grave first. The stone was blotched in green and purple lichens, the grave itself overrun with weeds. He cleaned them as best he could, and apologized for not bringing fresh flowers. He spent about half an hour there.

He made his way past the soldiers - many now crumbling and flaking, making their messages undreadable. The rose bushes were little better - many of them withered and dying; many of them dead and gone, leaving rusty plaques as their only mark. He crossed the road, and made his way to Jamie's grave. He'd been there a couple of times with Janet - just the other week, in his mind. He found them both quite easily, though they too were green and overgrown.

He cleaned them as best he could. Janet's headstone was small and minimal, bearing nothing but her name. Not even a record of the time she'd lived in. Billy knelt before her grave, and cried.

Another hour passed before he was broken from his stupor. Not by the familiar touch of a hand to his shoulder, but by an alien fragment of unknown noise, emanating from the plastic-walled tower blocks that stood where there had once been a housing estate. The sound was harsh and violent, and convinced him more than ever that Toby had been right all along. How could he possibly survive another fifty years of this?

He stood up, tugging away a final weed, and made his way back to the road. He still had just under an hour before Nigel's return. He walked down the road, kicking up the apple blossom as he did so, remembering a day last year when he'd done the same. His eyes wandered up to the sky, which flitted through the weave of branches overhead.

He stepped off the road. A hand reached out as high as it could, grasping at the second branch of a tree, whilst his left foot sought the crook where the lowest one met the trunk. Now he was hoisted into the soft enclave of apple blossom, and handholds came more readily. Up he climbed, with every step hiding more of the ground from beneath him, and opening more of the sky above. The branches became thinner, and bent as he pressed his weight on them, making the top of the tree sway and rustle in the windless sky.

He reached a point, so very near to the top, where he couldn't move on without the branches giving way. His head poked out of the blossom, and he could see both Eleanor's grave, and Janet's. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out a piece of paper. He clutched it tightly in his fist, as he stepped out onto the furthest limbs of the tree.

There was a crack of wood, a flurry of blossom, and Billy Rawlings died again.

"What'll come of his estate?" Robert Vine, of Winthroppe, Carter, Thompson and Vine was talking to Nigel Winthroppe, of the same.

"Hard to tell," Nigel replied. "He never left a will."

"What, nothing?"

"No. They found him clutching a piece of paper, and expected it to be a suicide note or something. All it was, was a page torn from his own biography."

"Sounds like a bit of a sick joke to me."

"It was a transcript from the judge's summing up over his first will. He'd circled a bit of it: '...and it is clear to me that Sir William did not go into this venture blindly. His will was most specific about what should happen in the event of his death. It was also equally specific about the charitable causes that should benefit in the event that his cryogenic freezing did not go to plan..."

"So you think he wants everything to go to charity?"

"That's not my decision. We'll have to see how much faith the judge puts in a piece of paper."