The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter One

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter One

A Chronicle of Friendship, Love, War, Adventure, and Destiny

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.


The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.


Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.


This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.


To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.


And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter One.

Gothenburg airport, right? Grey skies, breath misting in the cold, and the kinda silence that don’t come from peace—it comes from holding back tears. Johan and me were heading off to Lympstone, to start training with the Royal Marines. But my heart? That weren’t coming with me. It was stood right there in front of me, wrapped in a thick wool coat, eyes red from crying.

“Stephen… I don’t like this. I know you must go, but it feels like I am losing a piece of myself.”

“Oi, don’t say that, Vinka. I’m not popping off to war—just boot camp. I’ll be back before you’ve finished flirting with your rifles.”

“They are not my rifles. And I do not flirt with them.”

“You do a bit. I’ve seen the way you stroke that AK like it’s a kitten.”

“You promise me, Stephen. You come back. No hero stuff. Just you, in one piece. I will wait. Even if it takes a year. Or two. Or… forever.”

“Vinka… I love you. Proper love, not the schoolboy stuff. You’re my girl, yeah? Always were. Always will be.”

“I know. And I love you. Always. But go now—before I change my mind and drag you back to the car.”

We kissed, not like kids, but like we were leaving part of ourselves behind. Then I grabbed my bag, turned to go, and didn’t dare look back. Couldn’t. If I’d seen her face again, I’d’ve dropped the lot and stayed. But Johan gave me a nudge, the tannoy echoed our flight number, and that was it. We were off to make Marines of ourselves… and leavin’ our hearts standin’ in Gothenburg airport.

Petra was there too, clutching Tim like she would never let him go. He was not leaving for the Marines—only back to school—but the way her shoulders trembled in his arms, it felt no different than a farewell to war. “I will write,” he promised, his voice thick with unshed tears. Petra only nodded, her face pressed into his chest as if hiding from the world. And Tim… for all the boldness he liked to wear, in that moment it slipped away. I saw not the cheeky boy, but someone just as young and frightened as the rest of us.

On the plane, once we’d levelled out above the clouds and the engines settled into that dull, dronin’ hum, Johan turned to me—eyes still glassy from sayin’ goodbye to Marlin—and muttered, “This better be worth it, mate.” I just nodded, staring out the window like it had all the answers. “It will be,” I said, though my voice cracked halfway through.

Tim sat beside us, unusually quiet, looking down at his hands like the answers might be scribbled on his palms. Truth was, all three of us had tears still burning the corners of our eyes, but none of us wanted to be the first to let one fall. So we sat there, three lads leaving their girls behind—two to the unknown, one to the long road of waiting—trying to look like warriors… but feeling like lovesick schoolboys with crew cuts.

I was barely through the bloody front door—didn’t even get to warm the loo seat—before I was packing again. Swapped my dancing shoes for boots like breeze blocks and my cosy bed for whatever fresh hell waited at Lympstone. Royal Marines Commando training, they said. Character-building, they said. More like pain, puddles, and parade ground bollockings, if you ask me. Still, who doesn’t fancy a bit of sun, sea, and soul-crushing agony down on the Devon coast? What could possibly go wrong...

Before heading off to get our souls sandblasted and our backsides handed to us, Johan and I did one last turn at TS Amethyst. The lads gave us a right royal send-off—plenty of firm handshakes, hearty backslaps, and just a few eyes that seemed to be suffering from sudden dust allergies, if you catch my drift.

Our Chief Petty Officer, bless his wrinkled old heart, gave us a proper farewell. Claimed he was “mildly devastated” we weren’t slipping into Navy blue. Mildly, he says—though the look on his face said he was one pipe burst away from tears. Still, he held it together just long enough to say he was proud of us. We called that a win… even if it did feel a bit like gettin’ dumped with a salute.

We also swung by the rugby club for one last pint—or two... alright, three, but only ‘cause Big Dave kept buying. The chairman stood up, pint aloft, and said the door’d always be open if we ever fancied getting flattened on a Saturday again. Touching, that. In a bruised ribs and mud-in-yer-teeth kinda way.

The lads all chipped in, shouting well wishes and swearin’ blind they wouldn’t burn the clubhouse down while we were gone—though the glint in Nobby’s eye said otherwise. It was proper emotional. Almost made us wanna stay put... almost.

Thanks to all our pre-enlistment homework—and, let’s be honest, a borderline unhealthy addiction to military documentaries—me and Johan rocked up at Lympstone with our brains loaded and our humour intact.

We knew the drill from the get-go. Steppin’ off the train at the private platform, all mist and misery, we clocked the place straight away. No illusions, no butterflies—just a gutful of nerves and a grin we couldn’t quite shake.

The poor sods around us? Wide-eyed and clueless, like they’d just realised this “holiday camp” came without a swimming pool or a bar. And when the Corporals started bawlin’ like angry foghorns in the January drizzle, Johan and I just looked at each other and grinned.

Welcome to paradise, I thought, as the rain soaked straight through my soul.

Day one, they carved it into us—right into the bone—the Four Pillars of Commando Spirit: Courage, Determination, Unselfishness, and Cheerfulness in the Face of Adversity. Golden words, them. Not just a motto for the wall, but a way of breathing, thinking, bleeding. By the end of it all, those four would be tattooed on your brain so deep, you’d recite ’em in your sleep—and mean every word.

None of this house points and cloak-and-dagger fantasy—this was the real deal. Royal Marines, 1973. You wanted the green lid? Then you had to graft for it. Sweat till your socks gave up, laugh through the lung burn, and get well-acquainted with the taste of wet Devon turf.

The first few days were a right eye-opener—a crash course in personal hygiene, delivered with military precision and more sarcasm than a pub landlord at last orders. We were shown how to shower properly, shave (even if your chin was as bald as a billiard ball), brush your teeth like the Queen might pop by for a whiff, and keep your fingernails so spotless they’d pass muster at Buck House.

Anyone daft enough to show up looking like they’d wrestled a coal sack—or smelt like one—got a loud and very public sermon from the Holy Book of Bootneck Cleanliness. Rule Number One: Thou shalt not pong.

One poor sod made the fatal error of skimping on the toothpaste... By day three, he’d vanished without trace. Last we heard, he’d been claimed by the drains in the shower block—dragged down by soap scum and shame.

I thought I knew how to make a bed—proper hospital corners and all that. Even got a rare nod of approval from me mum once. But Royal Marines bed-making? That was a whole different beast. Somewhere between origami, structural engineering, and psychological warfare.

They tested the tightness with a 2p coin—if it didn’t bounce like it was on a trampoline, you were doomed. Folds had to be razor-sharp, as if we were plotting a course to Bermuda across the blankets. I even got me compass out, lining the pillow up due north. Did it help? Did it ’eck.

Ten beds in a row, looking like a showroom at Harrods—but the Corporal still managed to sniff out some tragic wrinkle or a phantom speck of fluff. Fail. No visible flaw? Fail anyway—for optimism. By the end of it, we were terrified to breathe near the sheets in case we upset the linen gods.

After inspection, our beds and lockers were trashed with all the love and care of a rockstar wrecking a hotel room—only instead of champagne and smashed guitars, we got a ten-minute countdown, a Corporal with a death stare, and a gentle reminder that failure meant a romantic jog across a freezing, soggy beach. In kit. At night.

Let’s just say... I got well acquainted with the shoreline. Knew every grain of Devon sand by name. Some of ‘em I still write to.

I never truly grasped what was technically wrong with my corners—too sharp? Not sharp enough? Folded in a way that offended geometry? By week two, I gave up trying to understand. I simply accepted that bed sheets were now my sworn enemy.

Turns out, the whole palaver wasn’t really about linen—it was about building mental grit, quiet obedience... and learning to survive hypothermia with a smile.

Then came the ironing lesson. Not so much a lesson as a life-or-death briefing on domestic survival, delivered with all the charm of a firing squad. First rule: identify the dial—cold, warm, hot. Don’t burn yourself... or the shirt... or the bloke next to you. Set the ironing board up on a flat surface, unfold it without takin’ someone’s eye out, and proceed like you were prepping for open-heart surgery.

The mission? One razor-sharp crease down each sleeve. One. Not two. Never two. Because if your shirt ended up with what they called ‘tram lines’—them tragic twin creases born of hesitation and panic—you’d win yourself a moonlit cardio session on the beach. Nothing says “learn from your mistakes” like legging it through sand and mud while questioning your entire approach to fabric care.

One poor sod spent ages carefully pressing his kit before inspection—creased trousers sharp enough to slice bacon. Only problem? He forgot one crucial detail: he’d never actually turned the iron on. Cold as a nun’s handshake.

Panic set in quicker than you can say “You’re for it, son.” With seconds left on the clock and sweat rollin’ down his back, he did what no sane human ever should—he threw on his shirt and tried to iron it while wearing it.

Now, most people would clock that as a daft idea. And they’d be right. The burn was nasty, sure, but it weren’t the worst of it. No, it was the chafing—webbing straps grinding against that scalded patch like sandpaper on raw steak. Poor bloke ended up in sick bay, not ‘cause of the burn, but ‘cause the wound went manky and refused to heal.

He got back-trooped in the end—sent back to start all over again—until his chest no longer looked like a dodgy lasagne left out in the sun.

The other hot item in our block—literally—was the coke burner, squatting dead centre like some grumpy old dragon between two rows of bunks, five per side. It kept the place warmish and vaguely smoky, like a sauna designed by a blindfolded chimney sweep with a grudge.

Keepin’ the thing fed and cleaned was a proper nightmare. If it went out? You’d better start diggin’ your own grave—or at least prepare for a bollocking loud enough to wake the dead. But when it behaved, it was a godsend for drying wet kit... just don’t hang anything too close unless you fancied lookin’ like you’d been hugged by a bonfire.

One poor lad toasted the seat of his trousers so thoroughly, his backside looked like it had been through Pompeii and back. Spent the rest of the week walkin’ like John Wayne with a vendetta.

From day one, drinks were strictly rationed—tea or coffee only, and only at meal times or when granted divine permission by the gods—sorry, the instructors. The rest of the time? Water. Just water. Like monks. Thirsty, sleep-deprived monks.

So when our room was finally blessed with a kettle, it was like the Queen had popped by and handed it over herself. No flags were waved, but there were raised eyebrows, grateful nods, and at least one tear. Naturally, it didn’t take long for someone to ruin it.

One overenthusiastic lad in Johan’s room fancied himself a bit of a chemist. Decided to brew a “welcome cuppa” using his own lovingly distilled hooch—some questionable blend of cleaning fluid, boot polish, and wishful thinking.

It promptly exploded in a modest yet spectacular fireball. His defence? “No one explicitly said don’t boil flammable liquids.” Fair point—if you’re insane.

Amazingly, he wasn’t booted out. But he did end up bunked next to the ironed-shirt casualty in sick bay. We started calling them the Scorched Troop—two-man fire hazard, no waiting.

The closest thing we had to a professional comedian in our block was a lad called Luke—though after week one, nobody called him that again. See, Luke discovered he had a unique, if slightly disturbing talent: he could inhale a balloon—or anything vaguely stretchy—up his nose and, brace yourself… pull it out of his mouth.

It was like watching a budget magic act at a dodgy school fête—half “Ooooh!” and half “What the hell is wrong with you?” Equal parts revolting and impressive, like he’d swallowed a party trick and it got stuck in his sinuses.

With a bit more practice—and what I can only describe as dangerously misplaced ambition—he was convinced he could eventually re-route it out through his ear. Naturally, we christened him Mucus. Not only did he not mind—he loved it. Wore the nickname like a Green Beret. Even started signing his letters home with it.

Poor bloke’s mum. Imagine getting a letter from “Mucus” and bein’ proud of it.

Every single day involved either marching, running, or—if the instructors were feeling especially sadistic—both, one after the other, just for a laugh. We could’ve dipped our boots in polish, Vaseline, holy water, or unicorn spit—it didn’t matter. Blisters were inevitable. Mine mostly settled on my heels, nice and neat, while other lads looked like they’d tried to jog across a barbecue.

Wet days were miserable, cold ones even worse—but me, I’d take frozen toes over runnin’ in the heat any day. Least when it’s cold, your tears freeze before anyone notices you’re weepin’ inside.

Unsurprisingly, the pace started thinning out the ranks pretty sharpish. About a third of our intake vanished within the first three weeks—one minute they were moaning about their boots, next minute they were just... gone. Rumour was they’d scuttled off home, wrapped in blankets, promising never to march again and swearing blind they’d join the post office instead.

Week three wrapped up with our first Families’ Day—a grand occasion where we got to show off our weapon-handling, PT flair, and drill routines sharp enough to make us look like a military-themed boy band. All we were missin’ was matching microphones and a fog machine.

After all the strutting and saluting, we were granted a rare and beautiful thing: a long weekend of leave. Johan and I bundled off with Harry and Ingrid, straight into the warm, civilised embrace of central heating and food that didn’t come with instructions screamed from ten feet away by someone wearing a green lid.

For two glorious days, we basked in hot baths, clean sheets, and silence—real silence, not the kind you get just before a Corporal launches into his next rant. Come Monday, we rolled back into camp slightly rounder, definitely cleaner, and probably just a bit smug.

Week four kicked off with Royal Marines history—story time, the instructors called it. Story time with extra shouting, bayonet demonstrations, and the occasional threat of being made into an example if you nodded off.

After the first month, everything ramped up quicker than a boot up the backside. What started off as “challenging but character-building” fitness suddenly turned into “whose bloody idea was this?” It weren’t just about muscles anymore—it was your brain that took the real beating. Mental fatigue crept in like a cold draft, and before you knew it, lads were vanishing from parade faster than socks in a tumble dryer. No goodbye, no warning—just gone.

But Johan and I cracked on. Eyes front, boots laced, arses dragging. By some miracle—and a lot of mutual abuse—we made it to the holy grail of week eight: survival training.

Now that was our patch. We both passed with top marks for our squads, partly because we could still think straight, and partly thanks to my granddad’s utterly bonkers but surprisingly useful party trick: how to skin a rabbit without a knife. I’d always thought it was just one of his mad countryside tales… turns out, it’s now a genuine, employable skill. Go figure.

Though we were billeted in separate rooms, Johan and I always found each other in the galley during scran breaks—usually hovering over something that resembled food if you squinted hard enough. I never cared how it tasted. If it was hot, plentiful, and didn’t try to crawl off the plate, I was happy as Larry.

See, I grew up on meals that relied more on hope than ingredients. So, to me, anything served in shovel-sized portions was fine dining. Johan was the same—we were both raised with that golden rule: waste not, want not. Our plates were cleaner than a drill sergeant’s boots by the time we were done. If it weren’t nailed down or breathing, it got eaten.

Course, there were still a few recruits who loved a moan. Moaned about the gravy, moaned about the mash, moaned about the custard. But let’s be honest—most of ‘em weren’t gagging on the food. They were gagging on homesickness, fear… and the dawning realisation that they might’ve made a slight mistake signing that dotted line.

Week nine came in like a sledgehammer to the ego—no warning, no mercy. The gym-based fitness tests were brutal. No frills, no fluff. Just a simple message: pass, or pack your bags.

Didn’t matter how hard you tried, how sorry your face looked, or how dramatic your wheezing got—if you couldn’t hit the timings, you were out. Rumour had it, if you showed enough “moral fibre”—which we reckoned meant not redecorating the PTI’s boots with your breakfast—you might get back-trooped for another go... Might.

Me and Johan? We scraped through—just. Not ‘cause we were the fittest or the fastest, but out of sheer bloody-mindedness and a sort of unspoken pact: neither of us was gonna be the first to fail.

We weren’t show ponies, but we were stubborn bastards—and that, apparently, was enough..

I thought I was fit—properly fit—until I saw the instructors in action. Even the smallest one looked like he’d been chiselled outta granite and bench-pressed tanks for a warm-up. Watching them move was like seein’ the Terminator in gym shorts.

Tryin’ to keep up felt less like PT and more like being hunted in some kind of gym-themed horror film. After just one week, I was convinced I was about to meet my maker—probably mid-burpee, with a look of pure regret on my face.

One particularly cruel round of sit-ups had me hit the required count—I was gaspin’, sweatin’, barely clingin’ to life—but the instructor just grinned and said, “Keep going.” So I did. Right up until my stomach staged a mutiny and I redecorated the gym floor with a vibrant display of breakfast rations.

He finally told me to stop... but only so he could hand me the mop.

Even though we were scattered across different rooms, me and Johan—and a few other half-mad survivors—backed each other like brothers-in-arms. The kind of encouragement we dished out wouldn’t have sounded out of place at the Colosseum or a tug-of-war final at Crufts. “You’ve got this!” “Don’t you bloody dare fall now!” “Come on, you magnificent bastard!” That sort of thing.

It was rough watching good blokes go down—lads with heart, but just not enough left in the tank. You wanted to drag ‘em with you, but this wasn’t a three-legged race. It was every man against the beast. So those of us still standing clenched our jaws, ignored the muscles screaming for mercy, and just kept pushing.

Week ten brought our prize: five days on Dartmoor, crawl-walking across bogs, hills, and what felt like every postcode in Devon—armed with a compass, a soggy map, and blind optimism. Classic British weather, of course—horizontal rain, fog thick enough to lose your soul in, and mud deeper than philosophical thought.

The grand finale? A lovely 24-hour survival exercise, which the instructors summed up neatly as: “Get lost… and don’t die.” Cheers for that.

But the real prize for surviving Dartmoor—apart from the trench-foot and emotional scarring—was the sacred weekend pass. Some recruits bolted home to see their mums, others hit the pubs like they were auditioning for Geordie Shore two decades too early.

Me and Johan? We joined six of the lads for a Friday night out in Exeter. Spirits were high, boots were polished, and we’d almost remembered how to speak to civilians again. After a few pints and a suspiciously cheap kebab, we wandered into a club—only to be stopped dead at the door.

“No groups of lads unless you’ve got girls,” the bouncer grunted, arms like railway sleepers.

So, we split up, threw on our best smiles, and went hunting for dance partners like a pair of socially-starved Noahs, returning two-by-two with some friendly local talent. Worked like a charm.

The rest of the lads vanished into a haze of hopeful romance and questionable decisions. Johan and I? We played it classy. Walked the girls out, flagged down a cab, paid the fare, and waved ’em off with the kind of gentlemanly flair that’d make your nan weep.

Under the streetlamp, I swear our halos were practically gleaming.

By the time we’d finished playing gentlemen of Exeter, the last train back to camp had long rattled off into the night, and the bus service had clearly packed up and emigrated. Undeterred—and far too sober for what lay ahead—me and Johan began the sacred ritual of finding digs.

Loads of B&Bs had lovely glowing ‘Vacancies’ signs, like little beacons of hope in the cold. Turns out, they were about as truthful as a Corporal’s promise of “just a light jog.” We quickly learned that ‘Vacancy’ meant absolutely nothing. It became a grim game of knock-and-pray—me doing the knocking, Johan doing the polite smiling, and both of us getting the same answer: silence. The kind you only hear in graveyards and empty pubs.

Apparently, most of the owners had done the smart thing and fled south for the winter, leaving their signs on like a cruel prank for daft lads in uniform.

We did eventually stumble upon this swanky hotel—massive foyer, chandeliers big enough to need planning permission, and carpets you’d feel guilty stepping on. Gorgeous. Also, well beyond our humble means. We stood outside for a minute, eyeing it up like burglars in a Dickens novel, before agreeing it was only an option if one of us fancied sellin’ a kidney... or marrying a duchess.

By now, the night had turned properly Arctic. A frosty glaze coated every car windscreen, and the pavements had transformed into Olympic-standard ice rinks. Our attempts at walking with dignity quickly descended into a sort of slapstick ballet—arms flailing, boots skidding, language best left off a postcard.

Then, just as morale was about to hit rock bottom—and possibly fracture it—we clocked a familiar glow in the distance. Lights! Still on! It was the pub we’d visited earlier, bless its booze-soaked walls. Like two freezing moths drawn to a warm pint, we slithered our way back, limbs flapping, hearts full of blind hope.

Didn’t care if it was a floor, a sofa, or a hay bale—we just needed someone with a pulse and poor enough judgement to let two half-frozen Marines collapse under their roof.

The landlady, bless her, ushered us into the back bar where a few die-hard regulars were still nursing their “final” drinks—despite last orders having been called somewhere around the fall of the Roman Empire. Apparently, if the till wasn’t open and no money was technically changing hands, then no one could be accused of illegal drinking. The regulars all ran mysterious “tabs” in a red book behind the bar, which felt more like a pub-based Hogwarts ledger than a financial system. They were a jolly bunch, warm-hearted and slightly wobbly, but unfortunately unable to offer any beds. Still, the fire was roaring, the welcome warmer than our jackets—and the eviction, when it came, was at least polite.

The landlady—clearly a woman who knew a business opportunity when it staggered through the back door reeking of draught bitter and desperation—made us an offer. If we were willing to wash up a few glasses, run the hoover over the downstairs carpets, and give the bar tables a quick once-over, we could have a room upstairs for the night. The only catch? We’d have to share it.

Sounded like a bargain to us. We didn’t even flinch—two blokes who’d spent the last ten weeks sleeping a foot apart and sharin’ enough sweat to fill a paddling pool weren’t about to get precious over a mattress and four walls.

Of course, there was one tiny issue: we were still both mildly sloshed. The idea of handling delicate pint glasses in our current state was about as clever as juggling chainsaws during a sneezing fit. So, with our most charming grins—and possibly a slight slur—we promised to tackle the chores first thing in the morning.

She raised an eyebrow, muttered something about “trusting the uniform,” and handed over the key. We nearly wept with gratitude.

Upstairs, I made a half-hearted attempt to wrestle Johan for the bed—more out of principle than hope—but gave up quicker than a drunk on a diet. Even through my clothes, I could tell the mattress had all the charm of a cold haddock: damp, lumpy, and faintly scented with boiled socks and disappointment. One poke and I was pretty sure I’d caught frostbite via osmosis.

With all the grace of a martyr, I ceded the mattress to Johan—“Go on then, your royal Swedishness…”—and I collapsed onto the threadbare carpet, which had all the cushioning of gravel wrapped in sandpaper, possibly over a brick.

Didn’t matter. Within seconds, I was out cold—dead to the world and convinced I’d discovered some new state of consciousness: Enlightened Fatigue. Blissful, brain-off, limb-numbing unconsciousness.

That was until I heard footsteps—light, deliberate, and very much heading our way. The door creaked open, slow and theatrical, like we’d stumbled into a low-budget haunted house film. I froze.

Then… a leg appeared. A bare leg.

What followed can only be described as a soft-focus fever dream gone terribly wrong: the landlady, swaying gently in what might’ve once been a negligee, but now looked like a surrendered parachute with ideas above its station.

Her face emerged from the gloom like a villain in a Hammer horror—part mystery, part moisturiser—and in that moment, I went from dead asleep to stone-cold sober, heartbeat pounding like a drum solo in my ears.

I wasn’t sure if I was paralysed by leftover booze, sheer horror, or the kind of existential dread that only comes when your only escape involves launching yourself out of a third-floor window and trusting fate—and gravity—to sort it out.

All I could do was lie there, wide-eyed, holding my breath, and pray—dear God, please let her be looking for the toilet… and not company.

She took a long, theatrical drag on her cigarette—like Bette Davis with a pint of mild—and perched herself on the edge of the bed with a creak that echoed right through my spine.

“So… how do I look?” she purred.

Now, even on a freezing winter’s night, I was sweating like a sinner in church. And not just ‘cause I was trapped under an itchy blanket—this was the kind of situation my mum never prepared me for. I’d been raised to be polite, respectful, and above all, honest… but I was suddenly battling an urge to throw myself out the window, scream “lovely, thanks!” and sprint back to camp in my socks.

I was woefully unprepared for this kind of encounter. Not even the most dog-eared “top shelf” magazine stashed behind the counter at WH Smiths had offered guidance on what to do when your landlady tries to seduce you in something that once resembled lingerie but now looked like it had lost a fight with a washing line and a hurricane.

If there was a manual on How to Escape Unexpected Landlady Seduction Without Offending Anyone or Vomiting, I’d definitely skipped that chapter.

Desperately hoping Johan would wake up and gallantly throw himself into the line of fire, I lay there as still as a corpse in a mummy bag. Surely the perfume—somewhere between burnt vanilla and deep regret—would trigger a sneeze, a cough… anything.

But no. The traitor slept on like a baby moose in hibernation. Dead to the world and entirely useless.

The landlady, clearly pleased with the effect she was having—or not—rose with a satisfied sigh, flicked her ash into a saucer a classy little touch, if you’re a ‘40s film noir villain, and casually announced she was “popping next door to see her gentleman friend.”

A phrase that, despite all its disturbing undertones, landed in my ears like a hymn. A divine pardon. A full-body absolution.

Turns out God does work in mysterious ways—usually through the unexpected blessing of an offscreen lover.