By Alyson Faye
I was on the run. From her and my old life. I landed up in a rather grimy hotel on the Norfolk coast. Booking a coach trip with an outfit called ‘Pioneer’ (that was me now), I requested a wake up call, hit the bar and then bed.
The phone rang, “It’s time Sir.”
“Your time Sir. It’s come.”
Disorientated, I staggered up, tripped and fell into the carpet’s embrace. To stay.
Emerging at dinner the receptionist apologized; she’d forgotten to ring.
Unconcerned, I took the local rag from her and read ‘Pioneer Coach Crash on A11, 5 Dead.’