But her words make me laugh out loud.

  “Oh yes, indeed! Very divided. ‘Is it a book that you would even wish your wife or servants to read?’ That’s what that awful lawyer Mr Mervyn Griffith-Jones at the obscenity trial has asked of the jury. Can you believe that small-minded, petulant little man! What do you think upsets him the most: that it’s a book about sexual love, or that it’s a book about the love affair between a married aristocratic woman and working class man? So many unprintable four-letter words,” I laugh. “Unprintable, but we do them all the same. We fuck.”

  Now I have shocked her, and the poor girl looks like she’s going to faint. I push her glass of iced tea closer to her, and she gulps it down, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “Of course,” I continue, “the Crown is using the informal precedent of ‘variable obscenity’, which is to keep obscene books from the hands of children – of which I approve –but also to keep it from women and the working classes – which I do not approve. And the reason? Because we, my dear, are feeble-minded and likely to be corrupted by its torrid pages. And the paperback was very cheap, so working class people could afford it, too. That was the real problem for the prosecutor and people like him.

  “The jury laughed at him. Did you read the report in the newspaper? They actually laughed in court! I don’t think poor Mr Griffith-Jones had noticed that three of the jurors were women, and none of them with a servant of their own. Stupid, stuffy, foolish man! So I say yes, I say! Yes! A thousand times yes! Not only would your wife enjoy reading it, she might even learn something. We’re not little dolls to be put away and protected until we’re brought out to cook the dinner. We have hearts, we have souls, we have blood and bone. We have feelings and we have desires.

  “ ‘Yes!’ I would scream with all my heart. ‘Your wife must read this book. Not let, but must! She must read, she must know’.”

  I’m exhausted, astonished by the strength of my feelings after all these years, after all these years of silence.

  I open my eyes when Miss Roberts gently touches my arm.

  “I’ll tell them, Mrs Mellors. I promise I’ll tell them all. Even if my newspaper won’t publish your story, I’ll … I’ll print flyers myself and hand them out at rallies across the country.”

  I smile at her youthful exuberance.

  “I’d really like to meet Mr Mellors and hear his side of the story, too,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “How did he propose to you?”

  “Oh, no, Miss Roberts. We never married.”

  She looks surprised, then sad.

  “And I’m afraid it won’t be possible to speak to Oliver,” I say kindly, as tears well in my eyes. “He died just last year. I miss him dreadfully, but we had 35 wonderful years together. More than some, less than others, but my goodness, we lived to the full. We really did.”

  THE END

  I’m sure you’ll recognise the characters from the infamous Lady Chatterley’s Lover written by DH Lawrence in 1928 and caused a furore in Britain when it was finally published in 1960.

  I’d always wondered what might have happened to them.

  AUGUST

  Lucky Day

  I watch her from the corner of my eye while I order my coffee.

  The coffee is good, but no better than at fifty other places within five blocks. There’s only one reason I keep coming back: for her.

  Not that I ever speak to her. Only the first time when I came in, scanned the board and asked for an Americano with the dark roast beans. I never had to repeat my order because she remembered me when I came back again two days later.

  And again, and again, and again.

  It isn’t because she’s a strawberry blonde with a beautiful face and banging body, or the fact that her smile can light up a city block, or her hazel-green eyes that sparkle with joy, or her infectious laugh—it’s pheromones, hormones, simple chemistry—the scent of her skin or the shampoo she uses or the laundry soap; I don’t know what it is, all of those things and none—it’s just her, she smells amazing, she smells like home. Which is goddamn weird and I can’t explain it, but after that first visit, I could have picked her out of a line up with my eyes closed and wearing headphones. As she turns her back to make today’s order, I take a deep breath of her unique scent: a little sweet, a little spicy, a little earthy.

  I like it when the line is long because I can take my time watching—and I hate it when the line is long because that’s too many people in the same space watching me. I know they’re watching. I see it, the hesitant glances, the covert second looks, the dead zone around me that people are reluctant to step into. A shrink told me once I walk into a room with a dark cloud of rage and distrust casting shadows around me. The stay away vibes are unmistakeable. I know because I nurtured them for a long time.

  Whatever it is, it works, and I rarely have to talk to anyone. I look, I listen, I don’t speak. Not even to her.

  Lila.

  She wears a name-badge which means every schmuck and Joe Blow can call her by her name. I don’t think it’s safe.

  And I need to keep Lila safe.

  No, I’m not an undercover cop and she isn’t in the Witness Protection Program—as far as I know—she’s my obsession.

  And I don’t need the services of that very expensive shrink with a hundred qualifications to tell me that Lila has become my favorite obsession. Or rather, keeping her safe has, although the boundaries blur more every day.

  I keep her safe because of the ones I couldn’t, the ones I lost, the ones who died.

  And I don’t know why I chose her. I don’t know and I don’t question it. Some things are beyond reason and beyond understanding. And she’s the only thing in my crazy, broken life that makes sense. She’s the one pure, clean thing that I cling onto. She’s my lifebelt in a sea of uncertainty and a howling ocean of misery.

  So I come here, and I watch her, and it helps.

  Every other week, she does the morning shift, opening the coffee shop at 6am. She leaves her house at 5.30 am and I’m there, watching. It isn’t a bad neighbourhood, but it’s not the best either, and there are a lot of creeps around. I’m one of them, but I’m the creeper who’ll keep her safe.

  It’s when she does the late shift, closing at midnight, that I worry the most. This is a college town and there are a lot of drunken assholes walking the streets. I follow her home each night to make sure she gets there safely. I watch until the lights go off and I know she’s gone to bed. She’s safe, and I can breathe again.

  She’s never seen me following her and she never will, but I know that she’s noticed me in the shop. A guy like me can’t go into a coffee shop several times a week and not get noticed. For a start, I’m a pretty big guy, 6’ 2” and heavily muscled, with a deep scar across my chin. I wear a short beard to cover that up. It’s harder to hide my scarred hands, but it’s the darkness in my eyes that people remember. Or so I’m told.

  Where I’m darkness and shadow, she’s daylight and sunshine. Lila Peters, age 22, barista, student, lives with parents and younger brother. She’s been at college for three years and still hasn’t picked her major—her indecision ought to annoy the crap out of me—somehow it doesn’t. Her friend Simone also works at the coffee shop. Simone talks a lot, which is why I know so much about both of them—but I’m only interested in Lila.

  Once upon a time, I would have asked her out but I can’t do that anymore. I’m broken and can’t be fixed. No sane woman would want me, and I don’t want an insane one—I have enough insanity for ten people.

  Besides, when I start getting bored of my right hand, I can find female company by paying for a professional—no one gets hurt and there’s no after-burn, no need for feelings.

  So I never speak to Lila, but I watch her from the corner of the room if I can get the table with my back to the wall, but sometimes from the alley at the side of the shop. I lurk, unseen, and with nothing else to do, I have endless patience.

  I know that she’s studying some liberal arts bullshit and when she goes back to school in a few weeks, she’ll have to decide what her degree will be.

  I’m only six years older than her, but it feels like sixty. She’s fresh and optimistic and so alive. Me? I’m the walking dead.

  A thousand years ago, I thought about studying anthropology but then a perfect shitstorm rained feces over my life and I never went to college. I became a Ranger—the Army’s premier direct-action raid force. That’s what the leaflet said. When I was shipped home five years later and two fingers less than the full complement, they decided I was broken, too broken to fix. I smile bitterly because maybe I should go to college and study psychology and find out why some guys, guys like me, come back from a war with a screaming case of PTSD, and other guys cruise through it and get on with their lives. But no one has ever been able to explain that shit to me. Maybe I’m just weak.

  So no, I won’t be asking out the beautiful Lila Peters with her uncomplicated life and sunny view of the world. She should have sunshine and rainbows and fucking unicorns.

  “He’s here again!”

  Simone’s whisper is loud enough to alert dogs in the next street, although she thinks she’s being discrete. I pretend not to hear as I practice being invisible in the corner. I’m getting pretty good at it. It wouldn’t entirely surprise me if one day I just disappeared completely. It would be a blessing.

  But not today.

  “You should go talk to him,” Simone urges her friend.

  My pulse leaps and sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can’t talk to her. I can’t. I won’t bring my darkness into her life.

  “Simone! Keep your voice down. He’ll hear you.”

  “Nah, no way. I’ve worked out what his deal is—he’s hearing impaired.”

  “What, no way? He can hear fine.”

  “Prove it!”

  “What are you talking about, Simone?”

  “When you call his order, face away from him. He won’t hear you, then you’ll know.”

  “That is so lame! I’m not torturing the poor man because you have one of your theories.”

  “Well, what’s your theory? You must have one?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “He comes in here every day…”

  “Yeah?”

  “For the great coffee.”

  “Hardee ha ha. Seriously, Lila. Look, I’ll prove it.”

  She turns her back to me and picks up my coffee with the name ‘Jones’ scrawled on the side.

  “Dark roast Americano for Jones!” she yells at the top of her voice.

  Several of the customers jump.

  Simone is still facing away from me so she doesn’t see me raise an eyebrow. Lila immediately blushes bright red and grabs the cup from her friend.

  “Oh my God! Stop embarrassing yourself, Simone! Let Mr. Jones have his darn coffee!”

  I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her that my name is Jonas and that ‘Jones’ is just a nickname.

  “Sorry about that,” she says quietly. “She’s just…” She fails to find the words that adequately describe her friend. “Um, enjoy your coffee.”

  That was the highlight of my day. Then I drank my coffee and left.

  I rarely stay long. Once she’s safely at work, I go to the gym, spend some time in the library and as the sun begins to disappear behind the skyscrapers, I head towards the park for a run. I know a lot of people say that it isn’t safe there after dark but that’s because it’s the time when people like me come out—the others leave me alone.

  I run fast, faster, always faster, as if the hounds of hell are snapping at my heels. Sometimes I hear them. Sometimes I smell their stinking breath and wonder if I should just stop running, just stop and let them tear me to pieces and drag me down to hell, limb by wretched limb. Maybe Hell wouldn’t have me; maybe Hell would spit me back up and condemn me to carry on living. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? I’m not scared of death—death is scared of me.

  Even the crazies stay away. After all, I am the king of the crazies.

  Until the night I stopped being invisible.

  I watch her from my place in the alley, next to the dumpster that smells of coffee grounds and piss.

  I watch her come out of the shop and look around, peering into the darkness of the alley. She doesn’t come any closer. Smart woman.

  “Mr. Jones?”

  Her voice is soft and sweet, a slight tremble, a slight uncertainty in her cadence.

  “Mr. Jones? Are you there? I … I have a coffee for you? Americano dark roast.”

  She pauses, waiting for me to answer. But my voice is locked away behind wild and chaotic thoughts.

  “It’s okay,” she says gently. “The shop isn’t that busy. You can sit at the back in your usual seat. I’ll … I’ll just leave it there for you … if you want it…”

  She sees me.

  She really sees me.

  I feel like the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the whole, wide world.

  She goes back inside, into the air-conditioned café and away from the street’s sullen August heat.

  I have no intention of going inside, but then my feet ignore the commands of my brain, and I find myself moving silently toward the door.

  And there, in the corner, just like she said, waits my solitary cup of coffee. I scan the café, checking out the other customers—only four of them. Not busy, just like she said.

  I step through the door, sliding noiselessly to my table, sinking to the seat and glancing around me.

  And this time it’s her watching me. Our eyes meet and she nods, a small smile tilting up her lips.

  “It must be your lucky day,” she says shyly. “Someone bought you a free coffee.”

  It hurts. It hurts to see her smile, to see the normalcy of her life, a life I can never have. It hurts. It rips my chest wide open. It’s hard to breathe. And I welcome that hurt, because it means I am finally feeling something. I thought my emotional well had run dry, but watching her, I feel the slow drip of emotions returning to my mind. I don’t yet know if I like it. I certainly don’t trust it. I don’t yet know what it means.

  I decide that emotions are distracting and therefore a bad thing because I’m too late to stop the café’s door swinging open as a man in a ski masks charges into the room waving a gun—a Ruger American compact 9mm.

  “Nobody move!” he screams, his voice high and wild. “Nobody fucking move!”

  Simone has already ducked down behind the counter, but Lila is frozen to the spot.

  From my seat in the corner, I can her eyes wide and terrified. And I can see Simone’s panic even as her hand inches towards the cell phone in her back pocket.

  “Open the till, bitch!” the gunman screams at Lila, his weapon pointing at her.

  A flip switches inside me. All I can think about is saving her. All I can think about is stopping the flash of fear in her eyes.

  I stand up slowly and the gunman’s gaze turns to me, the Ruger’s muzzle now pointing at my chest.

  “I’ll shoot you, man! I’ll do it! I will!”

  “Go ahead. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  My voice is rough from disuse but I know he hears me. His eyes crimp as sweat drips into them.

  “I mean it, man! Get on the fucking floor!”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do it! I’ll shoot you!”

  From my peripheral vision, I see Simone’s shaking hands clamp around her phone. If I can just give her the time she needs…

  “GET ON THE FLOOR!” the gunman screams at me.

  Instead, I take another step towards him.

  “You should leave,” I say quietly.

  He blinks rapidly, the script not going the way he’d imagined.

  “Are you crazy?” he shrieks, his voice so high pitched you’d think his balls were in a clamp. “Are you fucking insane?”

  “According to a bunch of doctors, yeah, I am.”

  He backs away from me but points his gun at Lila again.

  “Stay where you are or I’ll shoot this bitch!”

  There’s a ker-chink as the cash register opens and Lila thrusts a handful of bills at him, dropping them on the counter and stepping back.

  “Here! Take them!” she gasps.

  When his eyes dip to the notes, I make my move.

  I grab his gun arm as I sweep his feet out from underneath him. He squeezes off a shot as I almost break his wrist, but I’ve already got him pinned down, the gun skittering across the linoleum.

  In the distance, I hear police sirens.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Lila cries, crouching down next to me.

  Warmth spreads through my chest as she rests her hand on my shoulder.

  “Oh my God!”

  Two cops charge through the door, guns drawn. Simone is talking fast, hopped up on fear and adrenaline; Lila grips my arm as the cops handcuff the gunman and yank off his ski mask.

  He’s just a kid, a skinny, scared kid.

  One of the cops speaks urgently into his radio.

  “We need an ambulance—one GSW to the chest!”

  The warmth continues to spread through me and I stare in surprise as the red stain blooms through my t-shirt.

  “Oh my God!” Lila says again. “Don’t die! Please don’t die, Mr Jones!”

  “It’s Jonas. My name is Jonas. I’m not going to die,” I say, my voice beginning to fade. “Someone told me it’s my lucky day…”

  My vision blurs and darkens.

  “Help him!” she screams, her voice closer now, ringing with desperation.

  I smile up at her. She looks like an angel bathed in light. Always light.

  My Lila.

  THE END

  It was so interesting hearing people’s reactions to this story - some found it very dark, but I prefer to think of it as a beginning…

  SEPTEMBER

  All The Things I Wish I’d Said