The following morning Henry was to take his wife, Jessica, who had been suffering from troubled dreams of late, to the country for a long weekend break. The family doctor had prescribed as much peace and quiet as she could get, as much of it as their busy lives would allow, before their inevitable return to the hustle and bustle of their busy town lives. Henry had already arranged for Alice, their nanny, to take care of their four year old son, Jeremiah, whilst they were away. Henry smiled with satisfaction as the disparate pieces fell into place, and the traps were set. All he had to do was to play his part. He signed the final document of the evening and placed it on top of the unsteady pile of paperwork on Margaret's desk. In the morning his Secretary would dutifully file them away. Henry lifted the lamp's glass shade and blew at the flaming wick, extinguishing the pool of sickly yellow light. Locking his office door he followed a line of gas lamps that led him out into the cool night air. For the first time in many years, he felt happy. Calmly he walked towards the stables as the first drops of rain splashed his shoulders. Henry listened to the quiet giggling in his mind, and chuckled along with it.

The morning air was cool and crisp. The sky was clear and of the brightest blue. A storm during the night had muddied the country track, which was still heavily rutted from the previous weeks' rains. Horse and carts made their daily wanderings between farm and field on the large Newhart estate and had churned up the soil, turning light furrows into muddy canyons. The way had become difficult and arduous as Oliver guided them onward. The coach wheels rolled down into the muddy grooves to find the clearest path. The elderly Butler apologized under his breath for every bump they traversed and for every jar that rocked the coach as it moved over deep gulley's.

Jessica sat by herself in the confines of the lonely jostling carriage. Every bounce of the coach sent her into the padded side, bruising her already sore shoulder. The wheels found yet another canyon. Jessica shifted about trying to alleviate the dull ache that had been steadily growing in her lower back. Every new and comfortable position she found was soon interrupted by an uncomfortable jarring as she was rocked side to side. Jessica listened to the rattling and banging of the coach's bones and felt every mile of the long and lonely journey. Staring out of the door's small mud spattered window, she watched as the countryside passed by. Like strangers on the road, the trees in the hedgerows seemed somber and ignorant of her passing. Oliver guided the horses down the deserted track-way and on towards the Newhart country estate. A weekend of much needed peace and quiet that was all she hoped for, unbroken, restful and dreamless sleep, especially dreamless sleep.

Earlier that morning Jessica had taken breakfast with her husband on the small garden terrace, before they were due to leave for their country retreat. Overlooking the small and fragrant chamomile lawn, Jessica sipped her Earl Grey and Henry his strong black coffee, neither talking. Jessica sat quietly and obediently whilst Henry shook out the broadsheets, bringing himself up to date with the woes of the world. The quiet air of the garden was broken. Before dependable Oliver could announce his arrival, Prison officer Stiles pushed past the dithering Butler, blurting out urgent news of a prison escape. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Stiles composed himself, and began to recite the carefully constructed story that Henry had made him remember, word for word.

Earlier that morning, as Henry had instructed, the paddy wagon, that they lovingly called Black Agnes, had been loaded with the final seven prisoners from solitary. They had been scheduled for transfer to Borden county asylum, where they would live out their lives strapped and wrapped in cells smaller than that of their prison counterparts. Somehow, during the journey, the said prisoners managed to break free of their bindings- and free of the wagon- and overpower the two accompanying guards, Officers Coal and Linton. Once they had subdued the guards, and taken their sidearms, the prisoners had made a run for it, disappearing into the countryside. Several were seen heading south, towards the city of Lincoln, whilst the others seemed to head west in the direction of the coast. Once the alarm had been raised, the police were quick on the hunt, the manhunt.

Jessica, with a look of  concern, asked 'Oh how terrible. Are the Officers alright?'

Stiles replied 'They're fine, m'lady, a little shaken, but they'll live.'

Jessica sighed 'Oh, what a relief.'

Sliding back his chair, Henry stood, folded and placed his newspaper on the vacated seat, and to his pale and drawn wife, said, 'I'm sorry, dear, but duty calls.'

Leaning over the empty breakfast plates Henry kissed Jessica's forehead, and promised her he would join her as soon as possible at their estate. Henry turned and rushed off through the garden, making his way back to prison. His prison, where he would watch in comfort as the pieces of his plan fell into place. There he would wait, behind his mahogany desk for news that the culmination of all his plans had finally been reached.

Jessica wondered if Henry would ever make it to their estate for the weekend. She didn't believe he would. She knew he would rather stay at the prison and deal with business. Even after the latest crisis had been tidied away, he'd probably stay in his office rifling through the mountains of paperwork that always kept him late. She gazed out of the window and watched the countryside pass by, and thought it was as if mother nature herself has no idea how lonely she was. The hedgerows had turned golden brown now. The warm comfort of summer had been stripped away to be replaced by the cold solitude of winter. Like her she thought, the trees were growing thin and bare, their skin unprotected and raw to the harshness of life. She watched the wild rabbits bound along through the fallen leaves, thumping their hind legs in warning as the coach approached, before scampering out of sight under the hawthorn hedgerow, abandoning Jessica to the travel the track alone. She let her gaze fall to her lap, to watch her restless hands fidget. Her mind turned to her troubled past, unaware that for some time now she had been reshaping her memories, molding them little by little until she no longer recognized which she had lived and which she had created. Her mind had woven a world in which she could feel needed, a world that she could feel safe in, a world that she could lose herself in. Desperation had driven her to try and build a life she could finally be happy in.

Pulling the small window of the coach door shut, she sat smiling at the comforting face that reflected back at her. She continued the journey alone with only her other self for company.

Bob lent his aching back against the broad rough body of an old crumbling oak. The tree had seen many centuries come and go since it first sprung from the fertile soil of Lincolnshire. In its decrepit state, it would not see the end of 19th. Bob drew on an emaciated cigarette that poked out from between his lips. Nipped between thumb and finger, the tip glowed as he filled his lungs with an acrid breath. Releasing the smoke in a long ghost like ribbon, Bob shrouded Stamford in a white grey cloud of dry, choking fume.

They had been waiting for over an hour, and not a soul had passed by. Bob was growing impatient. Listening to Stamford's continual muttering was driving him mad. The ground around his feet was littered with the dead remains of his meager dibs. His last smoke barely had time to join the graveyard at his feet before he had lit the next. Their quarry was late. Bob knew they had no choice but to wait. He considered whether he should walk away from all this, and not for the first time. He knew he could disappear for good. But he knew that disappearing for good would be on Henry's terms, not his. So he waited. He waited because there would be no excuse he could give if they did not complete the task. There was no excuse good enough to avoid Henry's ill will if they failed. So they both remained hidden behind the old Oak.

Beside him, Stamford fidgeted and stared down at his bare bruised feet, and watched as a solitary blood red worm wriggled across his toes. Stamford giggled and wiggled his toes, chasing the invertebrate. He envied the worm. Its simple life, its freedom, never having to think, never having to feel.

Under his breath he mumbled, 'I wish I was a worm. I would dig down under the soil and disappear into the dark, and forget, and be forgotten. I wish I was a worm.' Stamford dug his toes into the soil, searching.

Bob raised another ciggy to his cracked lips with tobacco stained fingers. Tilting his head back, he inhaled until he felt the hot glowing tip begin to singe his fingertips. Puffing out his chest, filling his lungs, Bob blew a large grey hazy smoke ring and followed its progress as a light breeze took hold and carried it billowing out across the deserted lane. Taking another pull on the ciggy, he completed its final destruction. Losing sight of the first smoke ring, he floated a second up over the top of the bare hawthorn hedge. With a satisfied grin Bob looked back at his companion, and wondered who the hell Stamford was, and where in hell they had found the mumbling scrag end. He was especially interested in why the Governor seemed so insistent that Stamford be the one to commit this crime. Bob thought it strange. Did it really matter who did the killing, as long as she died. Why must Stamford be the one to kill her? Hmmm.

During the months Bob had spent locked away in his cell, still as Frank, his former self, he waited for the hangman's noose to bite his neck. With nothing more than a small barred window to look out of, he watched and listened to everything that happened out in shit alley. Nothing had been as interesting or as unusual as the occupant of the cell opposite his. Bob had heard strange noises at first, heavy slapping, and extremely loud gurgling. It sounded as if the poor bastard was drowning. Then one night, after weeks of observation, he heard raised voices coming from Stamford's barred window. He recognized one as the voice of the prison doctor, and once in a while he was sure the voice of the Governor joined him. The interrogation was heavy. Bob wondered what Stamford had done wrong to be on their bad side. They had asked him over and over again about hidden things, demanding answers. Finally, they began to instruct him to kill some woman from a photograph. They had spent weeks ordering and cajoling him to kill her. Bob had known something was up, his gut new it, and now he knew it for sure. Here they were out in the country waiting for this woman to show up, whoever she was. Bob wondered if there was a way he could make money from this little venture without getting himself killed, and thought that there probably was, but he'd have to disappear, on his own terms that is. With a sideways glance he asked the annoying scrag end,

'I never did hear where you came from, Stamy me old mate. You sound a little mid country, I reckon Oxfordshire, hmm?' Bob lit yet another roll up.

Stamford's mind spun with confused helplessness. He could feel another worm wriggling, this one in his head, trying to burrow through his subconscious. It was trying to find a way through the tangled mess of forgotten memories. Stamford knew, could feel things lurking in the dark corners. His past seemed so tantalizing close, yet denied to him, locked away behind an iron cell door. No matter how hard he tried to calm his thoughts, the mental worm could find no way to the surface of his broken mind. Stamford remained fixed on what he believed was the real worm at his feet. It began to chew its way back down into the mulch. Mumbling, Stamford sputtered a string of nonsensical sounds, almost childlike in his whimpering.

Bob barked 'What's that? What you say? Stop mumbling and speak up, will ya?'

Bob spat out the chewed tip of his damp brown roll up, striking the worm and sending it slivering under the mulch. Looking into the vacant face of the supposed escapee, Bob felt nothing but contempt for the drooling shell of a man. Like him, Stamford had been given a second chance, a onetime offer of freedom, if not redemption. All he had to do was to follow orders without pissing himself. It looked to Bob as if Stamford was only going to get damper by the end of the day. Bob knew that if all didn't go to plan, then he would end up paying for Stamford's lack of action. If that was going to be the case, then he would be having a few words with the nut job- a few painful words. Bob pushed himself off the tree and turned to interrogate Stamford further, but stopped as he heard the long awaited sound of a horse trotting along the lane. Behind it a private coach, presumably carrying the woman Henry so desperately wished Stamford to kill. Bob smirked and congratulated himself; he had known all along that something was going on, hadn't he!

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