I felt quite euphoric after I had left. So I’d had sex witha prostitute – twice. It was no big deal. I’d had an itch and I’d scratched it.I felt now that I was ready to move on with my life and face whatever camenext.
Despite my enjoyment of the experience, I saw it very muchas a one-off at that time, and never went back to Milton Keynes - well not forsex anyway. When I did return there years earlier, it was for the delights ofChristmas shopping.
As things turned out, this was not destined to be my onlyforay into paid sex. Many more adventures lay ahead on that front, but theywould all come much later.
My trip to Milton Keynes had taken place a couple of monthsago, in late-February 2024. Since then, I’d had the opportunity to see a NewYear in properly, not dying in a hospital bed, and to enjoy another Christmaswith Stacey and David, where this time I’d been on top form in the kitchen,roasting a magnificent beast of a turkey. It was way too big for the three ofus, but we enthusiastically devoured as much of it as we could.
After a year, I had grown incredibly devoted to Stacey. Itseemed she was pretty much the only family I had left. I had been an only childand my parents had long since died. She was the one bright light in myotherwise fairly aimless life, and she helped me to keep my feet on the ground.
And so it was, on this freezing cold December day that shedrove me the short distance to the cemetery just outside Oxford where my wifewas buried. It was the first time I had been there. I had thought about goingbefore, but wasn’t entirely sure where the headstone would be: there werethousands there.
Stacey had brought fresh flowers to put on the grave, and aswe walked along the narrow, stony path, she held my hand and led me to theplace.
The stone was white marble with gold lettering on it. Itread as follows:
Here lies Sarah Scott, beloved wife of Thomas and mother ofStacey
Born 16th June 1978. Died 22ndDecember 2017.
Rest in peace.
For the first time I really felt something. Over time, I hadlearnt of the circumstances surrounding Sarah’s death, and knew that when thetime came, I was determined to put things right.
She had been killed on the night of her office Christmasparty by a drunk driver who had mown her down on a zebra crossing. There hadbeen no opportunity to say goodbye: her death had been instant.
That wasn’t going to happen. I had saved four people fromthe fire at the furniture store. Now, when the time came, I would be there tosave Sarah and I had six years to plan how I was going to do it.
June 2023
I was about to take part in my first-ever social event. Icouldn’t keep living the life of a recluse forever, and now that I was in fullhealth, I needed to find things to do to occupy my time.
With Stacey living in London, and no work commitments, I hadmost of my days to myself. I spent them reading, studying and learning everypossible scrap of information about not only my own life, but also the historyand culture of the past 50 years or so.
Life would get busier for me as I got younger. The morehomework I did now while things were quiet, the better I would be prepared forwhat was to come.
One day late in the summer when I was rummaging around thepiles of junk in the garage, I came across a set of old golf clubs. They lookedlike they hadn’t been used much recently and could do with a good clean.
I took them in and opened up the bag to get a decent look atthem. In the side pocket I found a half-eaten, mouldy sandwich and a half-drunkbottle of orange juice which I threw away in disgust. Goodness knows how longthey had been in there.
Then I started cleaning up the clubs before realising therewas no point. They would only be dirty again tomorrow. I still made suchmistakes occasionally.
I then remembered the emails and texts I had seen about thegolf event and went to check them out.
It seemed I had been invited to some sort of charity eventorganised by someone called Nick. The emails very handily had both the name ofthe golf course and the tee times on it.
I also had a few texts from Nick from some weeks beforehand.The first one read as follows:
Hey, mate, long time no see. Just wondered if you’d be upfor the charity golf do this year. Would be great to see you.
I then looked at my reply. This was something else I wasfinding weird, reading my own emails and texts. It seemed I’d agreed to gobefore, so I decided that I may as well go with the flow and go again. It wouldget me out of the house for the day and give me the opportunity to meet newpeople.
A few days before the big day, I decided I had better go fora bit of practice just to check that I could actually do this, so I drove up toa course just outside Oxford, got a basket of 100 balls out of the machine, andtook them up to the driving range.
When I got there, I discovered that the sandwich, notlooking quite as decomposed as the last time I had seen it, was still in there.I disposed of it and the bottle of juice once again, this time in a bin behindthe driving booths.
My attempts at driving were a dismal failure. Whilst Iseemed able to grip the club OK, the balls went all over the place. One went sofar to the right, almost 90 degrees from where I was standing, that I heard adistinct “Oi!” shouted from a booth further along the
