It is September, <st1:date Year="2003" Day="6" Month="9">the sixth of September 2003</st1:date>.

            Matthew skirts his eyes around the hallway; no, he thinks, no-one’s watching. He proceeds to make several rapid, jerky movements and then shoves the two AA batteries into the left-hand bottom drawer of the cabinet that the yellow pages and the phone are on.  He set the alarm on his watch so he’d get up early �?even though he needn’t have bothered.  He runs upstairs, into his room.

            “Matthew, what have I told you about slamming your bedroom door?  No, don’t just grunt at me, get here now�?Matt please, just come here, reason with me�?his mother, Freya appears from her bedroom.  The skin surrounding her eyes is all blotchy.  She stands for one minute, two minutes, heaving in and out�?/SPAN>

            “What? �?It was�?/SPAN>

            “Pardon, Matthew, not what!�?/SPAN>

            “the wind.  My window is open, you know, that means the wind blows through it, �?not illegal is it now?�?/SPAN>

            “Forget it, just forget it!  I�?I give up with you Matthew Gosling.�?Oh, very clever indeed! she thinks. And she panders off to her room, deliberately slamming the door behind herself.

            For a September in the North of England it’s only normal, expected weather.  The sky isn’t perfectly blue, the temperature hasn’t risen over thirty degrees centigrade.  Unsurprisingly, none of the Gosling household are feeling any remote warmth or comfort.  In fact, they’re all feeling quite detached.  Yet not so detached as fast, staccatoed hemi-demi-semi-quavers, but more like single quavers; not quite whole.  The truth is that only one of the people in their house has ever felt some sort of wholeness, contentment, comfort; and even that, was reached by compromise: Freya she’s called.  Freya �?the mother of Henry, Vanessa as well as Matthew.  Henry is the eldest, Matthew the youngest.  Yet Henry isn’t living at home now.  And to use the word mother is more correct than the word mum, in this case; though Vanessa always prefers to say mum, Matthew calls Freya mother without fail.  So, to say mother in reference to Freya is quite correct.

            The Gosling family live to the west of the <st1:place>Pennines</st1:place>, in a fairly leafy, quite affluent, suburban area: Alderley Edge.  Saying it has affluence is a total understatement! If any village could; possibly, ever, smell of money and wealth, such a place may well be named Alderley Edge.

            They are all alone in their rooms for at least two hours.  Matthew sits, his Swatch watch worn constantly and consciously.  It doesn’t help though; he thinks everything has slowed down now.  He counts the hours of the days, willing them to hurry up.

******<o:p> </o:p>

“Matt, what do you think of�?Matt, do you reckon this looks alright? I want to look smart, but�?yet�?like I’ve made an effort.   think these shoes do that�?Matt? Matthew?!�?/SPAN>

            To hear his full name was never a great thing.  Still, Matthew carries on doing what he is doing; looking past the houses through to the hills, to the sky and the clouds.  He considers how people �?girls, women in general are always claiming that clouds look like something, resemble some animal or thing of beauty.  No, he thinks, no, they want them to look like something.  Is he deprived of that as well, of another pleasure? he thinks.  His meandering thoughts stop.  Stop! �?put the signal out, stop the wheels, slow the movement; slowing, drifting back, to a final halt.  Ended, the train of thought has ended. Silly boy, he tries to think deeply and truly about what has happened when what has happened was yet to make any sort of sense. He doesn’t know that when you try to think deeply about something, it never happens.  An attempt; a considered, centred attempt to tackle, to kill pointless time where no thoughts evolved, to make his intelligence perform to its best, would be far better.  But how on Earth would he get there in the first place?  As he sits on his bed, staring at something and nothing, everything, utterly everything drifts into cold unimportance.  That is why both him, Vanessa and Freya are wrapped up in several layers of clothing �?and, the heating remains on, the switch settled at ‘constant�?

            “Matthew, you better had get here now!�?Christ! he thinks, bumping him out of his thoughts once more.  She sounds like his mother.  Why can’t I get a bit of peace in this house? he asks aloud, and rashly too.  Thankfully, he thinks, they don’t hear.  The feeling of peace he wants isn’t something he’s ever wanted before.  He decides what he’s feeling right now isn’t something of claustrophobia; but of separation and isolation �?in a house with two other people.  Separated from everyone and everything, he is, including himself.  Bar his, every window in the house is shut because of the coldness they feel, and he has forgotten the sound of the wind singing and the tinkling of their windchimes in the backgarden, as the wind tickled them �?that was one of the reasons why he used to go into Vanessa’s room and sit with her so often, he loved to look out over their large garden, looking at the swings and the river that runs past their garden, listening to the windchimes�?song.  He asks himself if they still made those sounds, thinking ‘as the wind used to tickle them�?�?stupid me! he says in his head.  Matthew rises from his bed, slowly, leaving the sheets crumpled and the Kleenex untouched (Freya put them there, neatly placed on the drawer by his bed). Within ten seconds Vanessa barges into his room. It’s strange to think a slim, tall, seventeen-year old girl could succeed in the act of barging.

            “God, don’t make it sound as if you’re worried how you look or anything…�?/SPAN>

            Still, Vanessa stands, pulling at her clothes.  Even though they are quite plain, her black, black trousers are of an invigorated shade.  They are barely worn, kept for ‘best�? she had to retrieve them from the corner of a very stuffed wardrobe, and had difficulty in ironing, for she scarcely tries.  And she tugs at the cashmere top, tugging around her waist.  It is a light blue, but not a sky blue; a sort of lavender-type shade.  She could not tug any further up.  She would not tug it up any further.  She imagines it would feel strange to do so with her fifteen-year old brother in the room, watching. She tries not to treat the topic in a tabboed way.

            “Well?�?/SPAN>

            “Well what?  You’re asking for compliments today. Well, you’re certainly�?(he searches for the words) certainly�?continuous with being vain.�?SPAN>  Matt sniggers.  He can’t help it.

            “Thanks a lot. So much…�?/SPAN>

            “So much for brotherly help. God, you know, I really just�?/SPAN>

            “Just what?�?Matt cuts through her.

            “Just. Just want to look nice.�?/FONT>