This Breakfast Puzzle Will Trick Your Eyes!

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Four

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 Four.

The sky was starting to turn that soft golden-grey you only get at the end of a clear English day, where everything looks a bit too beautiful for what’s actually happening. The Volvo ticked quietly behind us, still warm from the drive. Stephen and Johan stood tall—too tall, if you ask me—in those crisp civvy coats that suddenly looked like uniforms just because of where we were. Back straight, bags slung over their shoulders, faces doing that stiff-upper-lip thing they’d practised in the mirror, no doubt.

I didn’t say much. Neither did Stephen. We’d already said what mattered earlier… in the letters, in the way we held each other in the kitchen, in the silence that stretched between our fingers on the drive down. Still, watching him walk off through those gates—not even a glance back—I felt like I’d been quietly untethered from the world.

Marlin just stared ahead, hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. Her jaw had that set, stony look again—her “don’t talk to me or I’ll burst into tears” face. I knew it well.

“I hate this bit,” I whispered, mostly to myself.

She didn’t look at me. Just sniffed, then muttered, “We train to track people through forests and cities… and somehow a goodbye still knocks me sideways.”

We sat there a bit longer, until the gates had swallowed the boys entirely and the last echo of boot soles had faded. Then, finally, Marlin started the engine, and we pulled away from the gates like we were leavin’ behind something far bigger than just two lads.

The drive back through the Devon lanes was peaceful and cruel at the same time—frost-laced hedgerows, lazy smoke curling from chimneys, and sleepy farms wrapped in mist. Everything looked annoyingly perfect. Marlin flicked the indicator and turned onto the road for Mabel’s.

“At least we’ve got one more breakfast to get through before we hit the ferry,” she said, her voice low.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. “Last night’s sleep’ll help.”

“You were snoring,” she said, still eyes front.

“You were talkin’ in your sleep,” I said, with a smirk. “Something about Johan’s yo-yo of love?”

That made her laugh, bless her—shoulders shaking, hand thumping the wheel. “Well, it was glowing in the dark. I wasn’t wrong!”

By the time we pulled into Mabel’s gravel drive, the light was almost gone. But we didn’t need to knock. She opened the door before we were halfway up the path, arms wide, silhouette glowing warm in the hallway light, and said, “You’re just in time, girls. Tea’s on, and there’s a pudding you’re not leavin’ till you’ve finished.”

Honestly? That’s exactly what we needed.

Morning came wrapped in bacon and tea. The smell hit me before I’d even opened my eyes—rich, warm, and full of comfort, like Mabel herself had decided grief could be cured with saturated fats and a bottomless teapot. I shuffled down the stairs in borrowed slippers and a knitted jumper that still smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke.

The kitchen was already glowing with life. Marlin sat at the table, hair up in a lopsided bun, buttering toast with the precision of a woman pretending everything was perfectly fine. Mabel hovered nearby, laying out the kind of spread that could feed a rugby team or a broken heart—two types of sausage, rashers of bacon stacked like roof tiles, eggs every way you could imagine, fried bread, beans, grilled tomatoes, and enough black pudding to build a small fort. Oh—and a pot of tea the size of a coal bucket.

“No one leaves this house on an empty stomach,” Mabel declared, pouring without even looking. “And don’t argue, you’ll only lose.”

Marlin and I didn’t argue. We just ate.

When we finally pushed our plates away with groans and dramatic sighs, Mabel handed us each a foil-wrapped bacon butty for the road and a pair of thick wool socks from the guest basket.

Marlin gave her a proper hug—the sort that lingers. I followed, tucking my face into her shoulder and whispering, “Thank you—for making it feel like home, even when it wasn’t.”

She held me tight. “Anytime, love. You’ve both got a room here. Always.”

And that was it. Coats on, bags packed, car humming outside. One last look at the warm window light spilling from Mabel’s kitchen—and then we were off. Headed east. Toward the ferry. Toward Sweden. Toward whatever waited for us next.

“Remember—we’re not just waiting for them. We’ve got our next phase coming up.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Command course.”

“Promotion. Deployment.”

“World domination,” she added with a sniff.

We both laughed. It was enough. The tears, if they came, could wait for the ferry.

Marlin – Behind the Wheel, Somewhere Near Honiton

The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional slap of wet tyres on tarmac. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, but my mind… well, it was still back at the camp gates. Stephen’s last wave was burned into the back of my eyelids. And Johan? The way he stood a little taller, trying to look unbothered… but I saw the way his fingers tightened around his kitbag strap.

I hadn’t said much for a while. Just stared out the window at the hedgerows blurring past, one hand resting on the map… which I wasn’t even pretending to read. I suppose I was holding my breath—emotionally, anyway. Trying not to let the ache inside leak out and get everywhere.

Then Marlin broke the silence. “You alright?”

I nodded. Then shook my head. Then shrugged. “No Yes. I don’t know. I wanted to cry, but that felt like letting them down somehow.”

She reached over and gave my knee a squeeze. One of those quiet gestures that says more than words.

“They’re not gone forever. They’ll write.”

I snorted. “Eventually. Once they’ve stopped polishing boots and fighting over clean pants.”

Later, we stopped at this little roadside café just outside Salisbury. You know the sort—plastic tablecloths, chips with everything, and laminated signs warning about hot plates and wet floors. It smelled of fried bread and old tea bags. Comforting. In a slightly greasy, British way.

Marlin was stirring her tea like it had personally insulted her. I’d ordered toast—safe, plain, unprovoking—and was buttering it with the precision of a field op.

“Do you think they’ll make it?” I asked. Again. Like it was a mantra I needed to say aloud.

Marlin didn’t even blink. “They have to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She looked up at last, eyes meeting mine with that fierce softness only she has. “They’re too stubborn to quit. And too proud to fail. You know that.”

I looked down at my tea, watching the milk swirl like a storm. “I just… miss him.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Me too.”

The Volvo rattled back to life like an old friend waking from a nap. We’d deliberately taken the long way—avoiding the motorways where we could, stretching out the distance between duty and goodbye. Neither of us had said it out loud, but we weren’t in a hurry to get back to the real world just yet.

Somewhere past Oxford, we found a local radio station brave enough to play proper music. And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humour—ABBA came on. Of course it did. I cranked the volume without apology.

There we were, two half-trained intelligence operatives, belting out Waterloo at full volume, completely off-key, mascara smudged, scarves flapping in the draught from the cracked windows. We sang like no one was watchin’—because they weren’t—and laughed through the tears that crept in at the corners.

Just outside Reading, I turned to Marlin and said, “You realise we’re both mad, right?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Completely. But we’re in good company.”

London welcomed us with brake lights, petrol fumes, and the usual glow of sodium streetlamps. We stopped just long enough to fuel up—petrol for the car, pick ’n mix and builder’s tea for morale—then pointed ourselves up the A1 toward Hitchin.

Mama was waiting out front, suitcase standing to attention like a soldier on parade. She had a thermos of coffee, a scarf wound with surgical precision, and that look—part headmistress, part smug oracle.

“Did you bring the ferry tickets?” she asked, climbing into the back like she’d been born to it.

Marlin didn’t even look round. “Did you bring snacks?”

“Always,” said Mama, pulling oatcakes and boiled sweets from her handbag like some sort of Scandinavian Mary Poppins with a NATO clipboard.

And off we went. Three women in a Volvo, armed with caffeine, sarcasm, and leftover sausage rolls. Somewhere out there was a ferry. And beyond that, another layer of duty, discipline, and decoder rings.

But for now, there was warmth in the car, crumbs in the footwell, and the faintest smell of Stephen’s aftershave still clinging to my scarf.

I leaned back in the passenger seat and looked up through the windscreen, where the stars blinked quietly over the motorway.

“They’re probably staring at the same sky,” I murmured.

Marlin smirked. “Let’s hope they’re not doing it from the bottom of a press-up.”

The ferry crossing itself was mercifully calm—at least on the surface. Beneath our quiet smiles, the whirlpool of worry and longing still churned, steady as the tide. But we said nothing. Just braced against the railings, hands wrapped round paper cups of tea, scarves flapping, eyes fixed east.

By the time we rolled onto Swedish soil, something in us had shifted. Postcards tucked away. Hair pulled back. Uniform coats buttoned to the collar. Duty reclaimed us like a familiar shadow.

Marlin took the wheel again, guiding us north through a landscape that looked like it’d been dusted with icing sugar. Pines rose tall and dark through the mist, and the heater wheezed bravely, fighting off the chill.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.

We were back.

“Back to being spooks in training,” I muttered, tugging a wool hat down over my ears and letting out a yawn big enough to start an avalanche.

Marlin didn’t even glance at me. “You say that like we ever stopped. You interrogated that ticket inspector like he’d stolen your passport.”

“He was suspiciously grumpy,” I replied, chin raised.

“So are you when you miss lunch.”

We both laughed. Not the belly kind, but the tired, grateful kind—the kind that says, We’re still standing.

By the time we reached the gates of the training centre—a low, unfriendly sprawl of concrete tucked into a pine-covered valley—the sun was already slipping behind the tree line like it couldn’t face another Monday either. A lone sentry gave us a nod, too tired to salute, and waved us through without a word. The snow was deeper here, crisp and clean. The kind that hushes everything and makes even boot soles sound like whispers.

Inside, our quarters hadn’t changed. Two beds, two desks, one slightly cracked mirror taped with affirmations in six languages—Latin in the middle, for drama—and that familiar smell of peppermint foot balm, anxiety, and regulation-grade boot polish.

“Feels smaller than I remember,” Marlin muttered, letting her bag slump to the floor with the enthusiasm of a brick.

I collapsed backwards onto my bed with a groan. “That’s because we’ve expanded. Emotionally. And maybe a little bit around the hips.”

“Speak for yourself,” she shot back. “My hips are toned from driving in third gear through the whole of Devon.”

“Excellent,” I said, eyes already closed. “You can drive next time too.”

We unpacked in silence, falling back into rhythm like we’d never left. Folded clothes. Toothbrushes slotted into mugs. Training manuals stacked like bedtime stories.

Above our desks, the corkboard was already cluttered. Letters from the boys—creased, reread, cherished—were pinned in pride of place. The paper had softened at the folds. I knew the words by heart.

But I still read them again anyway.

Then came the knock.

There was a knock at the door—sharp, efficient, and far too early for a friendly visit. A corporal in grey fatigues stood framed in the doorway, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning like radar.

“Vinka Rask. Marlin Sjöberg. You’re to report to the lecture hall at 0600 sharp. Leadership Phase One begins tomorrow.”

Without even thinking, we shot to our feet—shoulders back, expressions neutral.

“Thank you, Corporal,” we said in perfect unison, voices clipped and clear. He gave a brief nod and disappeared down the corridor like mist before a sunrise.

Marlin and I exchanged a look—the kind you don’t need words for.

It was time.

Later That Night

We sat cross-legged on her bed, a fortress of duvets around us, peppermint tea steaming in our hands. The torchlight cast flickering shadows on the ceiling as we went through the syllabus line by line like it was a map to somewhere dangerous and glorious all at once.

Tactical decision-making.

Scenario-based interrogation.

Group command exercises.

Language immersion.

Peer assessment.—which, frankly, sounded like emotional landmines waiting to happen.

“If I ever have to rank you,” Marlin said, sipping her tea, “I’m giving you full marks for dramatic flair.”

I raised my mug. “Good. And you’re getting full marks for operational neatness. That packing cube system of yours should be classified as a strategic asset.”

She grinned. “We’re going to do fine. This time next month, we’ll be Sergeants.”

“God help Sweden,” I mumbled, barely suppressing a sleepy smile.

She flicked off the torch, plunging the room into quiet. Outside, snow whispered down from a velvet sky, frosting the pine branches until they looked sugared and surreal. Somewhere out there, I imagined Stephen snoring into a scratchy pillow, dreaming of the sea… or maybe just sausage rolls, maybe just us!

But in here, wrapped in fleece and firelight, in a room carved out of cold stone and steel discipline, we were something else.

Strong.

Focused.

And maybe—just maybe—a little bit invincible.

Lympstone Barracks – Monday Morning Misery

Any lingering romantic daydreams were violently shattered the next morning. Instead of waking up to the soft scent of Vinka’s perfume and the warm cocoon of an actual duvet, I was rudely reacquainted with reality: the unholy bouquet of damp socks, military-grade body odour, and a fart so potent it could’ve qualified as chemical warfare.

Someone, presumably Jenkins, let out a cough that sounded like a chainsaw trying to start in reverse. Romance, as far as I could tell, had died a lonely death sometime in the night—probably bludgeoned by someone’s festering boot.

I lay there a moment longer, nose buried in the corner of my scratchy green blanket, trying to preserve what little oxygen I could steal from the thin slice of air not yet polluted. Johan groaned from across the room.

“Did a badger crawl in here and die?” he mumbled.

“Only if it brought cheese and ate Jenkins on the way in.”

Someone burped, unapologetically.

With a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand crushed daydreams, I sat up and stretched. My back cracked in three places. My legs screamed mutiny. The air was colder than a sergeant’s glare and thick enough to chew. Gone were the warm mornings of guest house tea and the smell of girls’ shampoo. Now, it was lino floors, chilly draughts, and the sound of lads farting to tempo.

“At least we’ve got memory foam,” Johan quipped.

“Where?”

“In our memories.”

We laughed. Because that’s what you do when your reality is miserable but your best mate’s equally knackered and just as disillusioned. We had each other—and a blurry, half-fogged photograph of a perfect weekend that would have to keep us going through the next few weeks of mud, sweat, and God knows what else.

Because this was the Royal Marines. And romance? That belonged to Sundays and leave passes. Out here, it was all about grit, graft, and not letting Jenkins do the laundry ever again.

We barely had time to dump our kit before being whisked away for a punishing PT session that felt suspiciously like payback for having too good a time on leave. Johan and I exchanged looks that said “should’ve stayed at Mabel’s” as we were marched down to the gym in the drizzle, our boots squelching with fresh misery.

What followed was a blur of running, crawling, lifting, jumping, and wheezing. One poor sod lost his breakfast halfway through a set of burpees and was promptly handed a mop by the PTI—who, by the way, looked positively giddy.

Then came the presentation. A lovely little slide show hosted by a corporal who grinned like a game show host with a grudge.

“Gentlemen,” he began, with the false cheer of a man who definitely didn’t have blisters between his toes, “welcome to the next phase of your Royal Marines journey. You’re about to experience the magic of Dartmoor, the joy of night exercises, and the thrill of operating on four hours of sleep and half a digestive biscuit.”

The slides clicked on: rain, mud, more mud, hypothermia, some camouflage paint, and a bloke smiling through cracked lips and the look of a man who’d seen things.

“Cold. Wet. Exhausted. On the brink of despair,” the corporal chirped. “But in a character-building sort of way.”

A collective groan rippled through the room.

“Any questions?” he asked brightly.

“Yes, Corporal,” said Jenkins. “Is there a return policy?”

He was rewarded with extra kit-cleaning duties and a lecture on ‘military humour’—which, ironically, seemed to include everything except actual humour.

We filed out knowing one thing for certain: the holiday was well and truly over. The military wasn’t just back in business—it had gone full sadist.

For twelve soul-crushing, bone-cracking, dignity-stripping weeks, we were put through the kind of torture that would make a Spartan weep into his shield and ask for his mum. I’m talking cold that bites through your marrow, PT sessions that felt like death with a stopwatch, and instructors who could make the Devil himself feel underprepared.

And yet—somehow—we loved it.

Our troop had bonded into this tight-knit pack of half-broken lunatics, fuelled by blind determination, tea-strong banter, and the occasional impromptu sing-along while knee-deep in freezing sludge. One poor lad started belting out “I Will Survive” halfway through a river crossing. We didn’t stop him—we harmonised. That’s how far gone we were.

If one of us stumbled, the rest picked him up. Sometimes literally, chuckin’ him over a shoulder like a sack of wet laundry. Sometimes with sarcasm sharp enough to slice a bergen strap. Whatever got you through, mate.

We weren’t just learning how to march, shoot, and survive—we were learning how to suffer well. Together. And believe me, that’s a skill.

Map reading? Oh, that was a comedy sketch all on its own. Picture Dartmoor, yeah? Cloaked in mist so thick it felt like we were trudging through a wet sock, and somehow I was meant to be the one leading us to glory. Orienteering turned into more of a game I like to call “guess and stress.” You’d take a bearing, march ten paces with conviction… and end up right back where you started, glaring at your compass like it had just insulted your mum.

But then—outta nowhere—those long-lost skills from my Swedish escapades with Stefan bubbled back to the surface. All those hours of freezing our nips off in the pine woods, trying to navigate without stepping on a moose. Turns out, it wasn’t all for nothing. I squinted into the murk, pointed like I knew what I was doing, and marched off as if I’d seen the very path of destiny carved in moss. Truth? I was mostly hoping no one asked any follow-up questions.

Leadership roles sorted themselves out pretty quick. Usually it went to whoever looked the least confused when holding the map and didn’t burst into tears when handed the radio. Somehow, that became me. Which meant I got the honour of making bad decisions officially.

Still, we kept moving. One foggy ridge at a time.

Then came the glamorous bit—crawling under barbed wire through liquid mud cold enough to freeze your regrets and your sense of dignity. We wriggled like beached eels, dragging ourselves and our kit—which, by that point, had absorbed so much water it could’ve been classified as a small reservoir.

The cuts and bruises were a given. One lad developed a rash so mysterious it got its own nickname. And no, I’m not telling you what it was.

Complaining? Pointless. Strictly discouraged, really—mostly ‘cause it wasted precious breath that was far better spent swearing. Colourfully. Creatively. Loudly.

We gave up calling it an assault course. Started referring to it as “the daily exfoliation.” Honestly, if the mud didn’t kill us, it was probably doing wonders for our skin. Somewhere under all that misery and mineral-rich filth, we were becoming lean, mean, beautifully moisturised machines.

Ropes. Blinking ropes. We climbed ropes, swung on ropes, carried ropes, tied ropes, tripped over ropes, cursed ropes—and I swear, one night I dreamt I was a rope. Just dangling there, knotted and exhausted, while someone shouted “Dig in, recruit!” at my face.

By the end of the course, we didn’t just respect ropes—we had full-blown emotional relationships with ’em. Mine was called Brenda. She chafed, she burned, but she never let go.

And the once-dreaded brick wall on the assault course? That towering beast that used to loom like some medieval execution device? Yeah, that barely got a second glance now. I vaulted over it like it had insulted my mother, and I wasn’t the only one. By this point, fear had packed up and gone home. All that was left was muscle memory, raw adrenaline, and the very real threat of extra PT if you so much as blinked in the wrong direction.

It wasn’t grace—it was grit. Ugly, determined, blister-covered grit.

But it worked.

By now, every task was against the clock—no time for dithering, dramatic sighs, or wondering what happened to your last shred of dignity. You moved fast, thought faster, and hoped your boots didn’t betray you with a squelch loud enough to give away your position.

The exercises got more elaborate too, like we were accidentally starring in some low-budget military action film—now with extra mud! Tactical patrolling, ambush drills, silent hand signals, and the kind of stealth movement that’d make a cat look clumsy. One lad actually got mistaken for a bush. Twice.

This was it. The final filters. The last hurdles separating the soon-to-be Royal Marines from the ones who’d quietly fade away.

Every task had a point. Every blister, bruise, and barked order was a lesson. And by this stage, none of us questioned it. We didn’t whinge. We didn’t wonder. We just cracked on—like clockwork.

If, you know… clockwork was muddy, shouty, and sported a terrifying moustache.

Then came the assault boats. Now that was a circus. Picture it—eight sleep-deprived, half-mad blokes trying to lift, launch, paddle, and recover a floppy rubber boat while gettin’ sprayed with ice-cold water and screamed at like we’d just sunk the Titanic on purpose.

It was exhausting. It was chaotic.

And—oddly—it was enormous fun.

We rowed like our lives depended on it… just never in the same direction. One lad was facing backwards the entire exercise, barking orders like some budget naval admiral with absolutely no clue where we were going. We kept crashing into reeds, spinning in circles, and at one point nearly beached ourselves like confused walruses.

Our hands were numb, our shoulders felt like they were on fire, and our language would’ve made a pirate blush—but we laughed. Between gulps of salt water and shouted insults, we actually laughed. Because somehow, through all the mayhem and madness… we were getting there.

Together.

In one soggy, swearing, paddle-splashed mess of a team.

Sadly, a couple of top lads didn’t make it through. Got back-trooped due to injuries—sprains, stress fractures, and in one unforgettable case, a mysterious boat-to-head collision. Don’t ask. All I’ll say is: never stand up in a Rib during a launch. Poor bloke didn’t know whether to cry or salute the thing.

They’d come so far—right to the edge—only to be benched just before the final push. It was gutting. Like losing fingers off your own hand. But there’s no room for sentiment in the timetable. The machine rolls on.

Fresh faces from earlier courses rotated in—wide-eyed, slightly terrified—and without missing a beat, we absorbed them like long-lost brothers. That was the thing about our troop by now: we were a well-oiled, slightly unhinged unit held together by blisters, black humour, and shared trauma. We adapted to everything—weather, instructors, kit malfunctions, sleep deprivation.

Everything…

Except maybe the food.

Some things even boot camp can’t fix.

Miraculously—and I mean miraculously—Johan and I managed to stay in one piece. No pulled muscles, no busted knees, not even a stubbed toe between us. It was the sort of thing that made the instructors narrow their eyes and mutter about “hidden laziness” just because we weren’t limping.

We put it down to clean living, natural athleticism, and sheer dumb luck.

Mostly the last one.

I mean, let’s be honest—Johan could fall out of a moving Land Rover and somehow land in a yoga pose. And me? Well, I’ve always had the reflexes of a startled ferret when danger’s involved.

But whatever it was, we were still standing. Just about.

And with test week looming on the horizon, we’d need every ounce of that luck we had left.

The whole training course—especially that final week of testing—felt like someone had condensed the entire Book of Revelations into seven days of sweat, shouting, and industrial-strength chafing. Every muscle screamed, every brain cell was hanging on by its fingernails, and yet… weirdly, we were thriving on it.

It wasn’t about personal pride anymore. That went out the window somewhere around Week Nine with the last of our toenails and dignity. Now? It was about the troop. About finishing together. If one of us cocked up, it hurt all of us. If one of us passed, we cheered like we’d just won Olympic gold—shirtless, muddy, and probably slightly concussed.

Egos? There was no room for that nonsense. Just mud.

Mud, mates, and mild panic.

And somehow, it was glorious.