by Tim O'Dell

Created on: June 04, 2009

Excerpt from Facing Fury:

The crowds screamed for justice. Unfazed by the tears rolling down his face they yelled at him. "You evil dog!" "Ugly pervert!" Jo consoled himself with the thought they didn't understand. It was little consolation, however. He had lost his wife, his love, his obsession. How could they understand? He didn't completely understand himself. Why she had contracted the disease. Why this had happened. Why, why, why; the eternal question of man's limited comprehension. As he was dragged into the courtroom Jo sobbed with loss. They could do what they liked to him, he didn't care. Jeannie had meant everything to him, everything. Now she had been ripped away by a system ignorant of their plight.

Jo stood in the dock, white knuckles gripping the smooth teak rail in front of him. As he looked down at the shiny handcuffs, linked by an unbreakable chain, he closed his eyes and longed for Jeannie. The scent of dust and stale air filled the courtroom and took him back to where he had first met his wife. Her copper hair had glinted in the dim light sieved through the dirty window. He had been working in his father's bookshop for a year, and regularly admonished his dad over the state of the place. His father had insisted, however, the grimy, musty, unlit interior gave the shop atmosphere. Jo had been nineteen then. He had placed Jeannie's age around forty two. The gloss of her hair had been that of a younger woman. But the lines around her soft grey eyes, and the tiny creases radiating from her plump lipped smile, spoke of an older woman. Still, the high cheekbones, slim, chiselled nose and translucence of her skin had made a shiver of excitement tremor down his spine.

"Hi." He had looked up as her husky greeting permeated his ears.

"Er, hello." Something about this woman made his entire nervous system zap into life.

"I was just wondering if you had any first editions of Virginia Wolf?"

He stared at her for a few seconds. Although she appeared the same age as his mother her features still drew him in like a fly trapped on a chameleon's tongue. This woman was the living embodiment of a Michelangelo bust. This woman was a Greek goddess. This woman made him want to drool.

"Have you got any then?" Her question snapped him out of his daze.

"Oh, oh sorry! Erm, I'll have a look." Relieved to be able to take his mind away from lurid thoughts, he had gone into the shelving deep in the back of the

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