On Friday, it was all over.  On Friday, it all began.

It was early morning.  Chris could hear the birds twittering outside the window; it sounded surprisingly loud after the stillness and silence of the night.  He recalled the phrase his father used to say:  ‘If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way.  If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.’  Well, he was done with excuses.  For years now, he had thought of doing this.  Bravery, he knew was often underrated.  He threw back the beige quilt and leaped out of bed, ready to face the day.

Chris looked up at the house.  Beyond the garden wall, there was a canal.  He had spent hours there chatting with Grainne, watching narrowboats slip by.  As he walked up the garden path he swallowed, trying to moisten his suddenly dry throat.  The doorbell rang.  Through the textured glass he could see a figure getting closer, and then suddenly the door opened.  Grainne stood before him, smiling.

They went into Grainne’s cosy kitchen.  They had bacon butties for breakfast again.  It was what they always had.  Chris felt his palms begin to sweat.  Why was it so hard to say?  He looked around the kitchen trying to find inspiration.  Then he spotted it:  the photograph was set in a silver frame, and he remembered the day it had been taken.  He went over and picked it up.

‘D’you remember this?’ he asked.

‘How could I forget?’  Grainne rolled her eyes.  They had gone away for a camping weekend with a large group of her friends.  One of them had started spouting what Chris termed ‘religious nonsense’.

‘You’re crazy if you believe that rubbish!’ Chris said.

The man kept talking enthusiastically, waving a large black book around.  Fed up, Chris threw the book out of the window.  Amazingly, the man had tried to sit next to him later that day, but Chris warned him, ‘If you even think it, I’ll not be responsible for my actions.’  The message had sunk in and Chris was left in peace for the rest of the weekend.

Now, Chris looked at Grainne across the table.  He took a deep breath and said, ‘I believe it all now Grainne.  On Friday I prayed.’

‘Oh Chris!’ she yelled, jumping up and flinging her arms around him, squeezing him tightly.  Her eyes filled with sudden moisture as she said, ‘Welcome to the Family!’

Bravery, Sarah knew, was often underrated.  For years now, she had thought of doing this.  It was early afternoon.  Sarah got out of the car, locked it and looked towards the house.  She could see that beyond the garden wall, there was still a school.  It was quiet now, the children must all be in their classrooms.  She opened the wooden gate and walked up the path which was bordered with orange marigolds.  She could not help smiling.  Her mother always grew marigolds.

Sarah paused by the front door and took a deep, steadying breath.  She pressed the bell, hearing it ring inside the house.  Through the patterned glass in the door, Sarah could make out a white-haired figure gradually coming into focus.  The door opened, revealing her mother in a dress the colour of wet slates.  Her face had more lines than Sarah remembered and she looked fragile.

Sarah leaned in and gently enclosed her in her arms, wishing she had come back sooner but knowing it had been impossible until now.  They moved into the hall.  There was still that mirror set in a gold frame, and Sarah remembered the day he had bought it for her.  How could she forget?  That was the day her stepfather had forced her to look into it, cruelly laughing at hte horrific burns on her face.

‘You’re so beautiful Sarah,’ said her mother, as if reading her thoughts.

Sarah bit her lip, recalling the last time her mother had used that particular phrase, trying to erase her stepfather’s words.  Thank goodness that on Friday, it was all over.  They would bury him, and Sarah hoped that all her anger and hurt would be buried with him.

They had ham and eggs for lunch again.  It felt good to ear the familiar meal with her mother.

Sarah noticed that her stepfather’s pioneering plastic skin surgery tome still had pride of place on the middle shelf of the polished wooden bookcase.  Her mother saw her looking at it.

‘If you even think it, I expect your stepfather will turn over in his grave!’ she said.

Sarah stepped across and took hold of the book.  Was that faint approval she saw in her mother’s eyes?  She threw the book out of the window.

Logan secured the riding helmet over her straight black hair held by a cream and blue patterned scrunchie at the nape of her neck.  She could not resist stroking Jack’s soft, whiskery nose and breathing in his warm, horsey scent before moving along his flank and planting her left foot in the stirrup.

‘One, two, three, hup,’ she counted under her breath, as she swung easily into the saddle.

Despite being almost six feet tall, moving with grace came effortlessly to Logan.  She had no idea how stunning she looked in her long beige jodhpurs and sky blue riding jacket, which brought out the clear blue of her eyes.  Jack’s black coat looked as smooth as silk in the sunshine, evidence of the thorough daily grooming Logan gave him.

As she leaned down to tighten the girth, Logan could not help feeling slightly nervous.  Last week she had fallen during her jumping lesson when her bleeper had gone off, distracting her at a crucial moment.

Logan hoped her bleeper would not go off today; it was securely clipped to the waistband of her jodhpurs.  Conversely, she also longed for it to go off.  Tightening the reins to encourage Jack forward into a rising trot, Logan wondered if her dad would ever receive a heart transplant.  He had been on the waiting list for months, and she did not think he could hang on for much longer.  She was unsure which was worse, the endless waiting or the cruel false alarms.  That had happened last week.  The hospital had bleeped to say a heart was available, and they had dropped everything to rush to the ward only to find that there was an unexpected problem with the donor.  It had been tough seeing the light fade from her dad’s eyes when he heard the news, his face becoming lined and grey-looking in a matter of seconds.  Logan had not known what to do or say to comfort him.  It had not helped that she could only hobble and move slowly, thanks to her fall.  She smiled a little, remembering how kind the young doctor had been, slipping her some strong painkillers and arranging for a nurse to bring her and her dad some hot, sweet tea.

The hardest thing about her dad needing a heart transplant was the fact that Logan could do nothing except wait.  She was not good at waiting.  Her natural instinct was to attack life with determination.  Suddenly, Logan felt angry at the whole situation.  She urged Jack forward into a canter, heading for the vertical fence she had previously come to grief on.  Logan’s eyes locked onto the fence, as did Jack’s, his ears pricked in concentration.  They were four paces away, three, two, Logan shifted automatically into the jump position just before Jack leapt over the fence, landing with a soft thud on the other side.

‘Woo hooo!  Well done, Jacky-boy!’ yelled Logan as she patted his neck, a huge smile on her face.  Maybe the hospital would bleep tonight….

Louisa pressed down on the accelerator even harder.  If she could maintain a steady speed they should easily make it to the airport in time.  She stared intently through the windscreen, hoping no police cars were patrolling today.  But surely even the police would understand her need for speed, when her only brother lay seriously ill in a German hospital.

‘Uh oh, looks busy up ahead,’ said Marcus.  ‘I hope it’s nothing major.’

They came to an unwelcome halt.

‘Damn,’ said Louise craning her neck, trying to see over the vehicles in front of them.  There was absolutely nothing visible apart from innumerable pairs of red brake lights and three lines of unmoving traffic stretching endlessly ahead.  Marcus fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that would explain why the M1 had become a rapidly filling car park.

… the southbound carriageway of the M1 remains closed after an earlier accident between junctions 23 and 22.  The queues are stretching back as far as junction 25 and drivers are advised to avoid using this stretch of the M1…

Louisa leaned forward and turned off the ignition before laying her head in her hands.  She closed her eyes, resting her forehead on the steering wheel.  How could this have happened to them?  Why on earth had they not thought to check the traffic before setting out?  There was only one plane leaving from Heathrow for Stuttgart today.  Her sister-in-law was expecting them to arrive tonight.  Louisa could not bear to think of her lonely vigil by Garth’s bedside.  She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder and turned her head.

‘Marcus, what are we going to do?’ she asked, biting the inside of her lips.

Marcus gave her shoulder a squeeze, and Louisa leaned her head against him with a sigh.  All around them drivers had switched off their engines; the ensuing silence was out of place here, emphasised by the steady whoosh, whoosh from the fast-moving vehicles opposite.  Every so often the car was rocked in the sudden gusts of wind caused by heavy lorries on the other carriageway.  Some drivers left their cars and gathered in small groups, comparing traffic reports.  Others talked urgently into mobile phones.  One or two headed purposefully up the grassy bank; a lack of facilities never bothered men, mused Louisa.  The driver in the adjacent car had wound his seat back and lay with his eyes closed.

Louisa felt she would have given anything to be on the opposite carriageway.  She almost hated those drivers for being free while she was trapped, surrounded by stationary vehicles.  A rustling interrupted her longing thoughts.  Marcus was rummaging in the plastic bag at his feet.

‘How about a spot of lunch?’ he asked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled at her.

‘Yes, I might as well.  Nothing else much is happening.’

She felt better, eating her humous and falafel wrap and sipping bottled water.  Drivers began returning to their vehicles and all around them engines started up.  She glanced across at Marcus, sudden hope lighting her eyes.  They were on the move again.

The huge sand dune towered above us into the hot sky and I gazed up at it in awe.  The lower part was criss-crossed with tyre tracks left by rich young Emirati men, who love the adrenalin-rush of shooting the dunes.

We began to climb, puffing and panting.  I paused to get my breath and gazed around me, pretending to admire the view.  I struggled higher, reminded of the song ‘One step forward, two steps back’, only this was more like one step forward, ten steps back.  My friend Cassie overtook me effortlessly, carrying the water bottle with her up the steep incline.  The muscles in my legs set up an ominous trembling as I battled the constantly shifting sand.  The afternoon sun beat against my back and my throat felt as dry as the desert around me.  I could not take my eyes off the full water bottle perched on the top of the dune.

Cassie shouted encouragement from the summit.  I gritted my teeth as I scrambled a couple of paces before collapsing in the sand.  Forcing myself up, I scrambled another couple of paces before collapsing again. 

Eventually I landed, shaking but triumphant, on the triangular sandy ridge.  The water was wonderfully refreshing, its cool wetness trickling down my throat.  Before me lay the white oasis city of Al Ain; behind me, the setting sun cast lengthening shadows across the undulating desert dunes.

My friend Edward had only made it half way up the dune and was sitting with his back to us.  He appeared to be watching a large, black 4×4 whose driver was trying to get as far up the dune as he could before side-sliding back down.  Cassie and I watched too, laughing and chatting on the ridge.  The driver spotted us and redoubled his efforts.  He tried to build as much power as possible before roaring up the sand.  I could not believe how high he managed to get this time, much further than on previous attempts.  He was almost at the top before the engine lost momentum and he went into a powerful side-slide.  He waved merrily at us and flashed his headlights.  We laughed and waved back, before suddenly realising with horror that the vehicle was on a direct collision course with Edward, sat alone and defenceless in the sand.  I leapt to my feet and covered my mouth with my hands, my eyes staring at the nightmare scene unfolding in front of me.  There was nothing we could do, Edward could not move out of the way in time.  It was all happening so fast that time seemed to slow down.  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut.  I was afraid to open them; I did not want to see the bloody, mangled body of my friend below me on the sand.  What had started as a fun picnic in the dunes was turning into a terrible tragedy.