Alighting from the taxi, I'd fought my way through the wet undergrowth that hung, bedraggled and limp, along the path to the front door. The reason I'd been summoned to my parents' house now escapes me but, as I hung my sodden blazer and cap up on the formidable Jacobean hall stand, I'd felt that stab of apprehension even more intensely than usual. The oak panelled walls seemed darker than I remembered, the carpets more muted, and the light that forced its way through the tiny panes of leaded glass was gloomy, pale and cold. Reaching for my handkerchief, I wiped the rain from my face, hesitating as I glanced around me, feeling as if I were in the nave of some sort of malevolent cathedral.

Though it was muffled, the sound that drifted downstairs was undeniable; a booming and raucous laughter indicative of a particular type of male camaraderie; the usual ribaldry, one-upmanship, and bombast I associated so closely with my father. My heart had sunk then; even though I was painfully naive, I already knew my father's social circle to be a detestable, iniquitous bunch, simply an older and more powerful selection of the same bullies I'd faced every day for years. But, as those mindless schoolboy thugs had taught me, I was capable of enduring almost anything, and though, physically, I might be present, mentally I was already a million miles away. Still, the longer I could put off the inevitable unpleasantness of a personal encounter the better and, endeavouring to be utterly silent, I'd crept upstairs to my room, holding my small overnight case to my chest like a shield, avoiding the treads I knew would squeak, desperate not to give my arrival away.

It was hopeless of course, because I was soon detected. As I ran a hot bath, my mother had hammered on the door and insisted that I emerge, staring at me coldly as I stood there awkwardly, clutching the old dressing gown I was sure to have outgrown. I'd been painfully aware of my Adam's apple bobbing wildly in my lean, dry throat, as I wilted beneath her disapproving stare and, as usual, struggled even to look at her, bracing myself for her inevitable tirade.

"What has happened to you?" She'd cried. "You look positively weedy!"

I'd shuffled self-consciously, miserably cognisant of the fact I was an ungainly and raw-boned fourteen year old, with long, under-developed limbs and bulbous, ugly joints. Every flaw in my appearance, and there were apparently many, had been gleefully seized upon by those with whom I shared a dormitory and, though I doubted my mother could possibly unearth any new and as yet undiscovered faults, I knew she would most definitely try. There was no point explaining to her that, even though I was hungry all of the time I was actually repulsed by almost every schoolhouse meal I was faced with, partaking fastidiously only in order to survive.

"Mummy." I croaked with reluctance, stooping like an automaton to kiss her cheek, in that way she always demanded, as if either of us felt anything, as if it actually mattered in any way at all.

A hint of a smile appeared about her heavily painted mouth. At six foot tall, I towered over her yet she retained her innate ability to make me feel small and insignificant in her presence. I felt myself shrink beneath her cold appraisal, despite my best attempts to remain composed.

"Your voice!" She'd said, with a derisive cackle. "Clear your throat! You sound awful. Probably just as well that you have so little to say for yourself…I can't imagine anyone wanting to listen to that dreadful squawking…"

I'd cringed then, horribly aware of the changes that puberty had wreaked on my body. There was the growth spurt of course, and the soft, downy whiskers that were emerging erratically but determinedly across my jaw. So far, I'd been spared the oily skin and acne that had plagued so many in my form and, fortunately, the risk-taking and rebellious behaviours that seemed to consume many of my classmates had seemed to pass me by entirely. But I was acutely conscious that not only was I tall, thin and ungainly but, with a cruel incongruity, my voice had broken almost overnight and I now spoke in what seemed like a ridiculously low pitch for someone of my age and build. One glance at the malevolent gleam in my mother's eye now seemed only to confirm the sense I had of being ludicrous, of appearing gauche and lumberingly inept.

"Your father has guests in the drawing room and he expects you to join them." She added, her tone vaguely threatening as she looked me slowly up and down. "And, Martin, for his sake, could you at least attempt to not appear so obviously unpolished? I find it incredible, I must say, when I consider the absolute fortune we pay that terrible school for your education, that you still arrive at our door looking like a scarecrow, with abominable manners to match. It really is most outrageous. I've a good mind to telephone the Headmaster…."

It was pointless remonstrating with her, not least to remind her that my Grandfather paid for my tuition, never mind that I'd just commuted for over two hours in a violent storm that had put half of Greater London under water. The sense of dread and shame drove all logic from my mind and, instead, I'd reached up, nervously, and attempted to smooth my hair flat above my ears where the imprint of my cap inevitably left an indentation. My collar was still rather damp, and cold against my neck, but my tie seemed firmly in place and, glancing down, the crisp seams pressed into the front of my school shorts had held in place, despite the crowded carriages, teeming rain and flooded streets. Lifting my chin, I'd stared silently over her shoulder, as a familiar spark of humiliation was ignited within me. But, where once my eyes might have stung with tears, as I listened I realised that I felt nothing, just a sense of impatience, really, at having been dragged from my bath preparations and forced to pay attention to her. I was an odd child, punctilious and aloof, but that did not mean that I was not occasionally filled with an adolescent resentfulness, an irritation at the way she clutched at her enormous heaving bosom as she spoke, twisting at her pearls as if I were so abject a son that I filled her with dismay.

The criticism had begun in earnest then, the vaguely intimidating warnings: that I must not speak unless I was addressed, and then I must only answer with brevity, politeness and respect. Above all else, she reiterated, waggling an accusatory finger in my face, I must never correct my father or his friends, because no one liked the tiresome know-all I was apparently proving myself to be. As her hectoring continued, I'd concealed a sigh, fixing my gaze instead upon The Sirens, one of a series of maudlin paintings that lined the hallway; old-fashioned in their heavy gouache frames. They'd been there as long as I could remember but I'd been oddly transfixed in that moment, as if seeing them through adolescent eyes had suddenly rendered them brand new. Draped suggestively upon a rocky ledge, her fish-like tail partly obscured by the lapping waves, and her damp, dark hair tumbling loosely across her shoulders, she'd clutched modestly at her bare breasts in a manner that garnered my attention, in a way the anatomy illustrations never had.

Later, when I was alone, I would pause for a closer inspection, glancing furtively around me before staring intently at the image. I could only guess at the meaning, as naive as I was, but the longing in the eyes of the drowning sailor had seemed quite disturbing; the way he held his arm out to her, imploring her to save him, as the tide threatened to carry him away. But, truthfully, I cared little for his imperilled state. It was she, and only she that I suddenly found so fascinating, depicting as she did my adolescent ideal, a perfect image of femininity that was suddenly quite madly alluring. As I gazed at her, I was briefly enamoured by the disconcerting blend of innocence and sexuality she exuded, a concoction powerful enough that I was distracted even from the lingering unhappiness of my earlier drawing room humiliation.

Of course I always expected the worst; any interaction with my parents and their so-called friends always seemed, at best, to involve an assault on my self-esteem. Even though I'd developed a thick skin, and worked hard to cultivate a lofty air of disdain, I'd still hesitated as I rapped lightly on the door. I waited to be admitted, gritting my teeth and lecturing myself as I'd turned the handle, already sickened by the braying superiority evident in Dad's voice as he summoned me inside. He sat by the fire, smug in a loudly checked sports coat and, as he watched me slink into the middle of the room, I could already sense the depth of his disappointment. He'd simply gesticulated impatiently in my direction, performing a perfunctory introduction of his only child to his friends in a manner that couldn't have been less enthusiastic. I lifted my gaze reluctantly from my feet and glanced in their direction; wary and disinterested, recognising only one of his companions, a tiresome old naval crony, and the President of the Golf Club, Sir Oswald Bamford, M.P.

"Good afternoon, sir." I intoned, polite but utterly indifferent, my hands clasped firmly behind my back.

"Martin, my boy, well, well, well, you've certainly shot up since I saw you last!" He replied, as usual so florid and jovial and painfully imprecise. "How old are you now? Sixteen?"

"Fourteen, sir." I replied, robotically, cognisant of my mother's threats yet impossibly eager for this whole torturous interview to be over. "Just turned."

"And well on the way to following in the footsteps of his old man." My father announced, standing up and walking over to me, positioning himself at my shoulder so that he could hiss crossly my ear. "Stand up straight, boy, for God's sake."

"Is that so?" Sir Oswald asked cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the sharp jab my father had just administered to my kidneys with his index finger. "Well, let me tell you, the navy will be the making of you, young man. Opens doors, opens a lot of doors actually, and not just to women's bedrooms, what?"

My head had flown up and I'd stared at him, horrified, but, before I'd had the chance to refute his appalling assumption, they'd begun to laugh like a pack of hyenas, a cacophony of lascivious self-satisfaction that actually made my skin crawl. And that's when I'd noticed the third member of the party, a youngish man of about my own height, appearing perhaps four or five years my senior, but somehow light years older in terms of bearing and poise. Sitting in front of the window, he seemed vaguely illuminated by the feeble winter light; wearing a three piece suit, and platform soles he appeared the epitome of flashy, louche sophistication. Rising slowly to his feet, he'd walked toward me, holding out his hand and smiling benevolently, like a visiting Pope acknowledging the aged and infirm.

"Johnny Bamford." He'd said, winking at me as if I were a simpleton child. "At your service."

I'd accepted his hand shake, returning it with a perfunctory squeeze and glancing away disinterestedly but it had soon become clear that Johnny, once he held the spotlight, was reluctant to relinquish his place.

"I mean that most sincerely." He'd added. "I know what it's like, to be just out of school and feel a bit lost….I mean, parties and women are all well and good for a short while but, eventually we all have to find something to do with our lives…"

"Thank you but I know exactly what I want to do." I replied bluntly, and with faint derision, pulling my hand impatiently from his grip. Fighting a desire to remind him that I was still at school and intending to remain there for at least another four years, I turned to look at my father, hopeful that, tedious formalities now completed, I might escape to the privacy and silence of my room.

"Of course, Martin knew from a young age that it was only the challenge of surgery that interested him." Dad interrupted, his inflexion and intonation now almost boastful as he smirked at his friends. "Big shoes to fill you understand but, academically, he's doing rather well. A chip off the old block you might say…"

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy though, what?" Sir Oswald interrupted crisply as I felt my face colour alarmingly. "What sport do you play, Martin? Rugger? Tennis? With arms that long that you must have a good reach? Johnny has the most ferocious backhand."

I'd snatched at the cuffs of my shirt, conscious of how my broad bony wrists protruded, and not knowing what to say. My complete lack of sporting prowess had long been a sore point between my father and I and it seemed as if old wounds were about to be reopened by this competitive buffoon and his posturing son.

"I play chess." I admitted cautiously, as always reluctant to reveal anything about myself, lest I open myself up to the usual ridicule. To also admit that I was the youngest ever school champion and, so far this year, unbeaten, seemed extraneous and unnecessary, since no one ever seemed particularly impressed by the achievement anyway.

"Do you now?" The baronet replied, glancing at his son with an obvious expression of mirth. "But what about something to get the blood pumping, eh Martin?"

I'd given a slight shrug of my shoulders, and averted my gaze to stare at the brightly coloured Persian Kashan beneath my dull and sodden shoes, feeling almost nauseous that the attention of these odious popinjays should be directed at me.

"Johnny, what do you think Martin might be good at?" Sir Oswald barked.

"How's your hand-eye coordination?" Johnny asked casually, after a moment spent appraising me as if I were the latest XJ6.

"Johnny is an outstanding mentor for young people…" His father added cheerfully, to no one in particular, and I felt my eyes squeeze shut in utter mortification.

"Well, at the moment, I'm so wrapped up in the sport of Modern Pentathlon, I've just about forsaken everything else." Johnny said lazily. "Actually, it's going so well, that everyone is saying I've even got more than a sniff of the chance at the Olympics…I hate to speak out of school but I'm actually having dinner with the Chairman on Saturday night, just to see how the land lies…. Scratch a few backs, you know what I mean…"

"As usual, you are too modest my boy." His father added indulgently before addressing the room again, rather loudly. " Johnny has a real chance of a place in the team for Moscow. And we couldn't possibly let the Soviets have it all their own way, not without at least trying to give them a bloody nose along the way…"

"Modern pentathlon?" My father interrupted suddenly, his tone now disparaging and incredulous. "I must say, it all sounds a bit bloody Army if you ask me, a load of utter cavalry bollocks if every I heard it…"

And so the conversation drifted, mercifully, away from me at its centre. Of course, I was forced to stand in the middle of the room for some time and listen to the Bamfords regale us with anecdotes of their sporting success. It seemed that there was nothing Johnny couldn't turn his hand to successfully when it came to athleticism. His achievements were legion; on mown grass and asphalt track, on the snow, the ice and in the water; apparently there was not a surface on Earth that Johnny could not triumph upon, there was not a technique he could not successfully master. Success beckoned this confident young man at every turn and all the while, as he listened on, my father's complexion became more and more cyanosed and his face more apoplectic with rage. Eventually, when he could stand it no longer, he erupted with barely controlled fury, his eyes glittering with disgust.

"Mm, yes, well..Dabbling in sports is all well and good Johnny, but what's your back plan, hmm?" He brayed contemptuously. "I mean, what are you going to do when you hit thirty and you need the inevitable double knee arthroplasty, hmm. Have you given your long term future any consideration at all?"

Johnny smiled, the smug, indulgent smirk of a man who finds the concept of failure incomprehensible.

"I'll put in a call to my friend here, the Grandmaster, see if he can't sort me out…" He said, cocking his head at me, his smile suddenly a thinly veiled sneer of derision.

"I have no intention of going into orthopaedics, I can assure you." I'd interrupted caustically, as if it were a devastating rejoinder, almost forgetting the assurances I'd given my mother. Glowering ferociously back at him I drew myself up to my full height, almost rendered giddy by a sudden surge of adrenalin, insulted but prepared to hold my ground.

Perhaps I was emboldened then too because, for the first time I could ever recall, I'd felt almost a bond of sorts with my father, an idea that we were actually on the same side for once. I'd watched with satisfaction as a grimace of disgust had tugged upward at Christopher's lip, turning his pale blue eyes to a fierce and glacial coldness and realising with relief that it wasn't aimed at me. He'd glanced at me and rolled his shoulders, his expression as haughty as a Duke and I'd been reminded firmly of the family motto: Non Patimur Stulti.

"Let me simplify the question for you then…since your interest in sport seems to require you maintain a strictly amateur status, how do you plan, practically, to make your living?" Dad asked him, his pronunciation slow and succinct, and laden with contempt. "Or is my friend the baronet going to provide you with pin-money until you knock-up an heiress? Hmm?"

I'd felt myself cringe inwardly on the guests' behalf but, far from being abashed, Johnny had simply thrown back his head and laughed, revealing a mouthful of gleaming, white teeth. I'd wondered then, as a gauche adolescent, how it must feel to be him, with a father who doted on him, and seemingly without a care in the world, possessing an innate ability to achieve success apparently without even breaking into a sweat. If, in that moment, I thought I couldn't detest him more, I was about to be proven wrong yet again.

"Actually, Mr. Ellingham, sir, I do have an excellent back up plan, and that's one of the reasons why I asked dad if if I might accompany him here today."

Again, I found myself standing ramrod straight in the middle of the room as both Johnny, and his effusively supportive father, outlined what they referred to, rather nauseatingly, as Johnny's roadmap to success. Surprisingly, it appeared that the athlete had either enough cognitive ability, or enough contacts, to have been accepted into Medical School, albeit at one of the not-very-prestigious West Midlands institutions. I listened with growing disgust as he declared that he would combine training for his Olympic dream with completing his first three years of medical study, sickened as he stated so matter-of-factly that his inevitable good marks, and his imminent fame as a National Sportsman, would then allow him to transfer back to London and the college of his choice. At this rather jaw-dropping assumption, my own father simply assumed a glassy smile and, as the subject returned to fencing, and the level of skill required across all five disciplines of the Modern Pentathlon, I asked to be excused, citing homework, and slipped hastily from the room.

Afterwards, at supper, I'd slid into my seat, glancing at my father cautiously, endeavouring to gauge his mood. Having always been reprimanded severely for any behaviour that saw me labelled as a show-off, I'd almost expected that the Bamfords would now be the subject of his ire. But, of course, I'd completely misread what had seemed to me like a rare moment of camaraderie between Christopher Ellingham and his absurdly deluded son. Even before I had the chance to pick up my spoon, he had taken me by surprise, rounding on me, his words vitriolic and demeaning as it became obvious to me that Johnny was the son he always wished he'd had. But I would not allow my shoulders to slump, nor my face to reveal my inner devastation so I sat in the most grim of silences, sipping calmly and resolutely at my soup. And all the time, my mother just gazed at us, a strange, enigmatic, half smile upon her lips, as if she could not decide whose unhappiness she was enjoying more.

And, as a new year begun, I continued to get taller, and my feet to grow bigger; my mother complaining bitterly about the cost of replacement uniforms, as if I were deliberately outgrowing my clothing and footwear just to spite her. My visits home became more and more infrequent, and the feeling of antipathy seemed mutual; I was seldom summoned to their house and I certainly never volunteered to visit. The school library was my home, and a thirst for knowledge replaced my need for any sort of family interaction. Once they had discovered the comfort of Portugal in winter, I was never forced to act out the charade of Christmas ever again and my relief was, quite frankly, enormous. Even staying at school for the entire summer holidays was preferable to spending even just a weekend in the company of my cold, unwelcoming parents.

Because of that, news of Johnny Bamford, who once soared like a meteorite across Christopher Ellingham's horizon, became few and far between. In fact, I'd had the luxury of almost forgetting about him until I bumped into him, many years later, in a lift at Barts. Factoring in his gap years and his tendency to fail key exams, he'd lagged some distance behind me and was still some way off completing his medical degree. Conversely, I was already two years into my specialist training, separating us within the hospital hierarchy, and the memory of the snub I inflicted upon him then provides me now with some satisfaction.

It doesn't help my physical discomfort though and, aware of an increasing tightness, I perform several lateral neck flexions, standing beneath the pulsating jet of the shower, allowing the water to cascade over my shoulders. The situation at Imperial is a constant nagging threat, amplifying the doubts over the decision I have made. I should have been suspicious that life seemed suddenly so smooth, so comfortable; where a more astute man would have sensed that some sort of spanner in the works could not be too far away, I'd almost convinced myself that I'd finally chanced upon good fortune.

The water thunders in my ears and I bury my face in my hands, beneath their heavy lids even my eyeballs feel tender. I cannot describe how it feels to admit it but I must acknowledge the truth as much as it pains me. I have achieved nothing in my career to date that has impressed my father as much as the idea of Johnny Bamford on a horse, or wielding an epee, or hurdling a brook so obviously did. The oily, obnoxious bastard had even used the disruption of potential Olympic boycotts as an excuse for failing to qualify and had, instead, garnered the sympathy of a disappointed nation. As a consequence, for a while he was a media darling and, as I studied for that year's finals, he seemed to be everywhere, a slick, shiny young athlete who charmed everyone that met him.

Squeezing my impossibly tight stemocleidomastoid between my thumb and forefinger, I wince and wonder if it ever registered with my father that, when the smug little golden boy had eventually managed to gain his MBBS, he had still failed to obtain a place anywhere in the UK system as a registrar for his chosen specialty and had been forced overseas to Nevada or Dakota or somewhere equally as obscure and unremarkable. How ridiculous that it could still sting me though, the realisation that I'd devoted my life to medicine, and carved out what I still considered to be a satisfactory career, only to ever attract disparagement and ridicule from my dissatisfied parents. Meanwhile, that arrogant arse puts a couple of stitches in a lip and he's God's gift to medicine, apparently. Arse.

And I have tried to rationalise my father's disappointment in me. I've ignored his fury at my refusal to join the Services, his scorn at my disinclination to be what he terms a man's man. I've accepted that I am no athlete, nor do I have the desire to be seen as charming or some sort of slimy bon vivant. In short, I will always be a failure in his eyes because I will never be Johnny Sodding Bamford, the epitome of all that is great and golden about English manhood. Regardless of all that, despite the inadequacy I always felt, in spite of my legion of deficiencies, shortcomings and failings, I could have maintained my poise completely. I could have continued to bury my insecurities deeply, my sense of self-worth apparently in tact, had I not walked into that function room tonight to discover him, the Boy Wonder, pawing lecherously at a stunning and luminous Louisa.

My head aches dully, my temporalis as hard as rock. I'd spent all day with my jaw clenched and, truthfully, seeing his hands upon her had just about been the final straw. I'd been filled with a white hot rage but, worse still, I'd been almost bent double by a new and sickening sense of fear, one I was still unable to assuage entirely, even now, hours later. Instantly, I'd feared the worst and, as I watched them from the doorway, I'd been almost overcome by panic and a strange associated nausea. I should have known better, I should have trusted that shrewd, empathetic Louisa would recognise him for the sort of man he is but I seem conditioned to always assume the worst. When it comes to emotions and relationships and everything outside of my work, the voice in my head is a fatalist, a pessimist, a defeatist prophet of doom.

I'd been reassured somewhat by her demeanour though, and her parting salvo that had left him grimacing in disbelief. As we stepped away, I was aware he continued to gape after us, his expression reminiscent of an oxygen-starved goldfish breaching the surface of its tiny bowl. For a moment I'd felt almost triumphant; bending down to receive her kiss I'd caught his eye and I could read his thoughts as clear as day. Yes, she is very beautiful and, yes, she is possibly out of her mind but, for the time being at least, Louisa is here with me. I am no longer the odd, graceless boy you took such pains to belittle, I am not a heavy-hearted milksop you thought deserving of your contempt. Placing my hand atop her hip, I'd held his disbelieving gaze for a moment longer, even raising a contemptuous eyebrow at him as she pressed herself against me and slid her mouth, warm and soft, all too briefly over mine.

But now, as I turn off the tap, my arrogance has evaporated and my imperiousness is utterly spent. The room swims and I feel nothing less than exhausted. There have been only two things in my life that I have had a true passion for. I wanted to be a surgeon and I wanted to be with Louisa. But where medicine has previously made me feel confident and assured and on top of my game, now I find myself fraught and indecisive, caught up in a maelstrom not of my making, horrified and desiccated by possible fraud, by disgrace and intrigue and unexplained departures; wary of people with secrets and hidden agendas, depleted and disturbed by never being quite sure who is friend and who is foe. I roll my shoulders over but the tension in them seems only to increase.

I press my thumb into the base of my skull, semispinalis capitus, rigid and painful. God, how I hated the idea of predatory men circling the woman I loved; thinking about their inappropriate comments and unwelcome touching sickens me and my heart begins to thump in my chest. How can I protect her when I know what they are like? Always testing and probing and flirting until they find the vulnerability, the weak spot in a woman's resolve. Men like this are always the same: whatever you had, whatever was important, they found pleasure in the act of taking it from you. It would start with your shoes, or your birthday half-crown, next a gold-nibbed fountain pen, or an exercise book full of notes. And, before you knew it, it was your self-esteem if you let them, your reputation, even your girlfriend, all hijacked more far more easily than you thought.

I can barely look at myself in the mirror and I wonder if I even have the energy or will to shave. My head throbs and I bury my face in the towel, pressing on my eyes and watching the random patterns of dark and light swim beneath my eyelids. I am nothing if I cannot take care of her, if I cannot be the man she really needs. If I fail at Imperial, what will she think of me? If I'm forced out of London, where will I go? I've tried to avoid thinking about it but my weariness lays it bare; her life is here, her studies, her friends. The idea of leaving her behind is unthinkable yet in all probability, if I'm forced to abandon London, she would surely choose to remain where she is.

I seek out some paracetamol and swallow them sluggishly, turning on the lamp and glancing at the empty bed. I am dizzy with nauseous anxiety, and only made more miserable at the prospect of climbing into bed alone. Looking around me at the controlled neatness, I wonder what sort of tedious old curmudgeon she must truly see me as. I have always had the personality type that demands I plan for every eventuality, that I identify and attempt to control each and every unknown factor in order to mitigate risk. It is a valuable skill from the point of view of surgery but it clearly does not translate that well to love. The truth is that, almost the first moment I laid eyes on her, I've been waiting for Louisa to walk away, aware that it was inevitable, simply a logical progression in the greater scheme of things when you know yourself to be unworthy. But, as I fumble indecisively with my towel, my fingers trembling and my legs like jelly, I'm now more terrified at the prospect than anything else I've ever contemplated.

She'd laughed in the taxi though, hadn't she, recounting his small talk, glancing at me sideways and smirking as she detailed his apparently endless attributes? I could tell that she was enjoying herself, I knew she was teasing me but I'd still felt every detail she'd imparted like a furious, well-aimed blow. Folding my arms and grunting impassively at her, I'd been intent on deflecting her while burying desperately the feelings of inferiority my latest encounter with Bamford had provoked. But my tactic seems now to have failed. I remind myself that, if I'd met him professionally today, he would have to stand by the door to let me pass. Without exception I would walk up the stairs first, leaving him trailing in my wake, and I doubt even he would have had the temerity to speak to me in a hospital setting without a very good reason, without privileges, without a name.

Yet here I am, exhausted and, as the darkness beyond the windows seems to creep in on me, I acknowledge that I am terrified by the prospect of him, or someone very like him, luring Louisa away. What chance would I have against someone athletic and charming, a good looking, self assured man who will take her to concerts, and sing along with her in the car, and never complain about the volume or the total absence of talent. She might have seen right through Bamford but there are thousands more like him that simply haven't laid eyes on her yet. Men who come from stable families, men who make excellent career decisions; likeable, approachable, sociable men.

I should get into bed but I waiver, in desperate need of sleep yet almost paralysed by fear, my pulse rapid, my breathing shallow and uneven.

I don't like this sense of panic but the more I fight it, the worse it gets; the lightheadedness, the nausea, the feeling of everything spiralling out of my control. I hate it but I just cant make it stop.

An anxious boy stands at the base of steep stone cliff, jaggedly hewn steps rising up above him, appearing to join the rocky shore to the endless sky. Having lost track of time, he attempts to run all the way to the top, driving himself upwards on his thin, childish legs, his lungs burning, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

The rock pools, the sea birds, and the sound of the ocean; they are a haven and a distraction until they have become a curse. When he gets to the house, his father is waiting, grim faced and impatient and, a few miles up the road, when he pulls the Jaguar into a siding, he turns to the back seat and reigns down blow after blow on his cowering son.

The room seems to shift and swim.

I notice my mouth tastes of salt.

If I did not know better, I might presume I had developed cardiomyopathy such is the rapid but apparently useless pounding in my chest. Attempting to secure my towel, all I know is that I must find her.

In the hall, random thoughts slip into my head. I should have dried myself properly. I should have put some clothes on. But I was careless and desperate, and now I am cold.

To my inordinate relief, she is still here, calmly flicking the pages of a book and sipping at a mug of tea. She seems comfortable, doesn't she? She seems calm but, then again, can I trust my judgement?

I swallow hard. My head is thumping too and I don't know what to say, I feel voiceless, I can't think of a way to tell her that if she'd just come with me now, I would accept the future, whatever it holds. I would never pressure her to stay.

She notices me and smiles. Of course, almost everyone has a mouth, don't they, and many people still have teeth but only Louisa can elevate my mood with a facial expression, fleeting yet luminous, a transformative yet reassuring glimpse of the goodness of her heart.

And, my god, she is heartbreakingly lovely tonight. Seeing her now, she is as perfect a creature as I could possibly ever imagine. Of course. She is The Siren and now I know that I'm the drowning man.

I hear myself call out to her in a tone of abject desperation, and my words seem to echo around the room. It pains me to imagine her response. I fear it.

Oh for pity's sake stop whining Martin! Why must you always be so impossibly needy?

If you show these bullies how weak and needy you are, Ellingham, of course they're going to torment you. Buck up, boy!

Must you be so needy, Ellingham? It really is quite tiresome you know, and so very unattractive. Show some backbone for God's sake.

I wait for her rebuke but instead she stands up slowly, discarding her book carelessly, tossing it away like I would a used swab.

I can't take my eyes off her as she walks toward me. Beautiful, natural, and so feminine and desirable. I love the way her hips swing, so effortless and fluid.

Love her with everything you have even though you know she's bound to break your heart.

"You're wet." She says breathily, and I stare back at her, acknowledging her accuracy with a faint inclination of my head.

"I like it." She adds, and my skin ripples with excitement she lays her palms flat and light against my lower abdominals.

Later, when her kisses deepen I will suck the champagne-scented air from her lungs. My tongue will find the sharp traces of myself on her lips and that will make me kiss her harder but now, as her mouth presses tentatively against mine, I savour the sweet lightness of her tea-infused breath and pull her tightly against me.

"Are you alright?" She asks, tilting her head back to gaze up at me, frowning but not like I've angered her.

"I'm just…tired." I tell her, mesmerised by her, staring at her as if it's the last time I will ever get to feast my eyes upon her.

"Too tired?" She says, and she smiles again.

I have an oddly intense awareness of her hands now, a sensitivity even more provocative than usual, and the way she slowly caresses my thigh is making it even harder for me to think. The pounding in my ears is deafening, my temples throb and I feel almost feverish yet, still, I want her desperately.

"No." I confess, realising that there is no longer any rhythm to my breathing, if in fact I'm still respirating at all.

In the morning, I will blush to my roots as I retrieve my towel from where it lies in the hall but, for the moment, it is abandoned as I stagger backwards, her legs around my waist. She clings to me, laughing, her hot breath on my ear, her hands clasping my jaw and we collapse as one on to the bed as she squeals my name, breathless and gasping.

"Marrr-tin…!"

Say it again, I remember thinking, rolling onto my back and pulling her down on top of me, say my name again.

My eyes sting, beyond fatigued but still I can't help gazing at her, in a fog of lust and incredulity.

"Take it off." I urge her, tugging upwards at fabric of her dress.

This is how I always wanted it to be, how I dreamed it would be. I'd spent so many years craving something unidentifiable yet I knew immediately that I'd found it. Gazing up at her as she peels off her clothing, revealing her immaculate skin, she is a sylph-like sculpture, a pert, firm goddess, an alluring nymphet drawing me toward my fate.

I watch her hands slide across across my chest, breathing heavily as she dips her head to run her tongue across my nipple, glancing at me from beneath her eyelashes as a groan escapes my throat like a desperate cry for help. I feel hot and cold, and oddly passive, gazing at her as she navigates my flesh, and mutters approving sort of noises that seem to set my mind alight.

"Mwah mwah mwah….look, Martin's mother is concerned. She thinks he's…well, not to put too fine a point on it, she thinks he's a Nancy Boy…"

My hands slide upwards, her skin so smooth and soft and tactile. I linger over her curves, cupping her breasts, running my thumb in circles over her aureola, feeling her skin pucker, and relishing her strangled moan of pleasure. If I have no patience now, I also have no words to let her know. Attempting to roll her over proves ineffective. She simply laughs and shakes her head, gripping my hips with her knees, and shifting her weight so that she now bends to kiss my abdomen, her hair trailing delicately over my chest like some sort of exquisite silk screen.

"So perhaps you'd help me out, man to man. Tell me Chris? Is my son a homosexual?"

I push myself up onto my elbows, needing to see where she goes, desperate to watch what she is doing. I need to gaze at her, breathless and paralysed as she seeks out every point of sensitivity, every errogenous zone, listening as she giggles, throatily and wickedly, as if she knows she renders me helpless.

'The approach taken is to point out that self-discipline is a necessity to social beings in all aspects of life. Avoidance of over-eating, or abuse of alcohol, and control of covetous instincts, are all freely acceptable and there is no difference in sexual matters…'

Feeling her mouth on me fills me with electricity, a force that sees my body consumed by a delicious sort of paresthesia. It is intoxicating and transformative, and she plays me like a virtuoso violinist draws his bow. I collapse, and throw my head back, running my fingers helplessly through my hair. It is an exquisite sort of tension, one that has me on a knife's edge. I stifle a moan and beg her not to stop.

But this is Louisa, wielding her power over me and so stopping is exactly what she decides to do, satisfied that I will offer no resistance to whatever she now suggests. She laughs at me again, sultry and so incredibly beautiful as I lie helpless beneath her, my imploring voice now a croaky falsetto. Mercifully, she does what I beg her to instead and, as usual, it feels like a miracle, a spectacular feeling unlike no other. She fits like a perfectly tailored glove, a sensation so warm and soft and enveloping it is as if I am bathed in hot liquid honey.

'Should your husband suggest congress, agree humbly, all the while being mindful that a man's satisfaction is more important than a woman's…'

I am utterly captivated. Watching as her as she moves is hypnotic, and almost too much to bear as she encompasses me entirely, caressing me with the rhythm of her choosing, closing her eyes and arching her back, as I reach up again to caress her breasts.

Awkward, reclusive, young Martin Ellingham, studier of mildly suggestive etchings and ruminator upon medical diagrams and biological texts; once so painfully shy and wary of any interaction with the opposite sex now finds himself a seething, aching ball of barely controlled desire, his skin raw and thin, his muscles crackling and hard, every sinew straining in a desperate attempt to hold himself together.

"Oh god." She whimpers. "That feels amazing."

Say my name, I think, suddenly consumed, my soul laid bare by my need to claim her, to move her, to take her somewhere no one else has ever done.

I feel her motion begin to slow. She presses down harder, and rolls her hips, so deep now that I am lightheaded, and I clutch at her thighs as I realise I can no longer contain myself.

Say my name, Louisa, say it like it matters that it's me.

She groans again and mutters an expletive, her laugh helpless and abandoned, leaning forward now, her hair now like a feather that strokes my chest, intimate and arousing in a way I can't explain.

Say my name, please Louisa. Say it, so when your body shudders and we are briefly seared together, when we share an exquisite moment that feels like nothing else I have ever known, and when we are rendered helpless by a tsunami of heat and lust and joy, say it so that I will know you were thinking of me, I will know that it was me who brought you here.

Her breath comes in shallow jerky gasps now, and my hold on her hips seems to involuntary tighten. I feel her body ripple with pleasure, her grip as soft as velvet, a tightness, a damp delicious heat. The surge, when it comes, is like an infusion of morphine, a slow extended sensation of joy which radiates outward from where we are bound together, a deliciously satisfying energy that banishes all vestiges of stress and uncertainty from every cell of my prostrated body. She slumps forward onto my heaving chest and exhales in a long exhausted mewl of disbelief.

"Oh my god, Martin…" She says, between gasps, her grin now quite obvious in her voice despite the way she has buried her face in my neck. "…Oh. My. God…."

I wrap my arms around her and hold her close. I have been visited by many spectres but she has kept them mercifully all at bay. My mind empties and I find a strange delight in nothingness, an emotional vacuum, a reward, a dividend I suppose, after an evening that has sucked me dry and a week that has left me utterly spent.

As we lie there entangled, I close my eyes. A skylark soars vertically, hovering effortlessly, hundreds of yards above the golden summer meadows of Haven House Farm, watched by a strange, silent little boy who cranes his neck backwards, desperate to understand how it must feel to be so weightless, so unconstrained and so free.

Don't worry, I reassure him, one day you will be old enough to know, one day you will come to understand.