The Four Seasons care home resides in a Scottish seaside town. Inside, meet resident George, and occupational therapist Carrie, who form an unlikely friendship that allows them to bury the ghosts of the pasts and learn to live again. Read an extract below.

George Bunce and the Black Wave of Fear
By Martin Geraghty
Published by SpellBound Books

‘Mr Bunce … you know the social work team’s initial assessment concluded you may be a potential danger to yourself and others.’ She paused to check her notes before continuing, ‘You need to spend a minimum of four weeks here. We need the time to make an informed decision on your future. Give us a chance to work out what’s best for you.’

‘I don’t need anyone telling me what’s best for me. I’ll be the judge of that. And forcing me to be here is not best for me. And I beg your pardon. This is the first time I’ve been guilty … sorry, allow me to correct myself,’ he said, shaking his head at the faux-pas, ‘this is the first time I’ve found myself caught up in anything of this sort. It could happen to anyone.’

She waved a hand … somewhat too dismissively for George’s liking. ‘To be fair, it doesn’t happen to anyone, Mr Bunce. There’s a reason why it happened, and we need to examine that reason. We’re here to help.’

His mind was fixed on her annoying penchant for emphasising specific words when he noticed she was staring at him with a knowing look. She was different from the others he’d encountered since being dragged into this hell. For one, she didn’t look at him like he was a kitten with a missing leg. He closed his eyes, bowed his head as if a priest had advised he partake in a moment of contemplation. She was right. He knew she was right. But he wasn’t going to tell her so. When he raised his head, her croc shoes caught his eye again. He tried to figure out what they reminded him of. He was startled by the sound of her raised voice calling his name.

Scratching his head, he said, ‘Sorry where were we?’

She closed her folder and narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you having trouble concentrating?’

‘I’ve hardly slept these past seventy-two hours. I’m tired.’

The brief silence that followed was soon broken by a clumsy form of attack.

‘What month is it, Mr Bunce?’

Arms outstretched, head tucked into his shoulders, he shouted, ‘For the love of the princess, why are you asking that?’

‘A wee question to test your memory.’

‘August … it’s buggering well August. And don’t be wasting my time with insulting questions like that again, alright? I’ll refuse to answer.’

Carrie watched the saggy skin around his throat ap from side to side as he shook his head. ‘Tell me about the memory lapses. You know … the issues your neighbours reported.’

He reacted like the time he woke suddenly on the No 278 to find he’d missed his stop. An incident the youths sat behind found rather amusing. George told the driver he found him guilty of negligence. A clear case of ageism. Countless times he’d heard the driver huff and puff when he limped aboard with bags of shopping. How he rolled his eyes when George went through numerous pockets searching for his bus pass, and how he’d insist he needn’t bother and should take a seat. You can’t be letting people travel willy-nilly without providing the necessary proof of ticket because you’re impatient, George snapped at the driver as he stepped from the bus.

‘Mr Bunce … are … you … okay?’

‘Don’t change the subject. Who’ve you spoken to? What’ve the gossip-mongers been saying?’

Her face was a picture of concern. ‘You know how people talk. Tell me about that carry-on a fortnight ago when you went into the butcher’s and asked for a pouch of Old Holborn.’

He ground his teeth at the thought of the Stasi-like informers peddling their petty tittle-tattle in exchange for a boost to their self-importance. He raised a hand. ‘Enough. I’ve been stripped of my possessions … I refuse to have my dignity snatched from me to boot.’

Using the armrests for leverage, he emitted a feeble groan as he rose from the chair. He shuffled to the window and observed a man in the distance sat cross-legged on the pavement. Ill-fitting grey suit trousers several inches shy of an acceptable level and a bright green hoody with a splash of red and yellow – some sort of national flag perhaps. The curious outfit and desperate thrusting of what George assumed to be The Big Issue into the path of passers-by, who were mainly ignoring his existence, forced him to turn and face Carrie. His situation too close to home. There but for the grace of God go I. He returned to the chair. ‘Sorry, where was I?’

Carrie finished taking notes before eventually looking up. ‘A was listing the times you’ve forgotten your whereabouts or what you were doing, Mr Bunce.’

‘Yes. Exactly. Granted I’ve had the odd senior moment lately. It’s only natural. I’m seventy years old for goodness sake. Still mobile. In possession of all my faculties. You know nothing about me. You don’t understand what happened.’ He felt embar‐ rassed by his quivering voice and took a moment to try and compose himself. ‘How am I supposed to cope in here? The noise is deafening. I’m used to silence. And it’s been replaced by those godforsaken nighthawk corridor wanderers and their incoherent babble. I barely slept a wink last night because of the damned laboured breathing and loud coughing. And an eejit next door shouting something about dock lines. There’s no lock on the door. I don’t trust them.’

‘Okay, calm down,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘And that’s not very nice, is it, Mr Bunce? Don’t go making snap judgements about people when you’ve only just got here. Relax, recover, get used to the place. You never know, in time you might like it.’ She placed the folder in her bag then rose to her feet, ‘You might make friends,’ she said in a sing-song voice.

George launched from the chair. ‘Friends? Friends! You don’t have a clue.’ He momentarily covered his face with both hands. ‘You’ve no idea how I feel. Don’t you think I’ve been punished as it is? This feels like a prison sentence … and you … you talk about making friends. Take your silly talk and go. Please. Just go,’ he said, waving in the direction of the door.

‘Listen, a understand your frustrations, and you’re right, a can’t possibly know exactly how you feel,’ she said opening her arms in a conciliatory manner, ‘what a do know is a can help you over the next four weeks, if you’ll let me.’

He turned to the window. ‘I’d like some time on my own, please. I’ve had a proper bellyful of you and your nanny state brigade.’

She forced a gentle smile. ‘Maybe some rest will do you good. I’ll be back tomorrow. You sure you’re alright, Mr Bunce?’

He twisted towards her in time to catch her winking at him as she said, ‘You take care now, okay.’

Fidgeting with the zip of his cardigan and staring at the oor, he said, ‘Can I ask you a favour, Karen?’

‘Ask away, Graham.’

He tutted at her forgetting his name. ‘My name is George, not Graham. And it’s Mr Bunce to you.’

‘I’ll call you Mr Bunce until you’re comfortable with me calling you George on the condition you promise to call me Carrie, not Karen. Deal?’ She offered her hand.

He needed to be alone so he accepted her offer. ‘If you can get me some things I need then we have a deal. Do you have a pen and paper to hand?’

She rummaged through her bag.

He watched and felt vindicated by his earlier observation that her organisational skills were lacking. His patience tested by how long she took to locate the cheap biro used a couple of minutes previously.

‘Right, take note of this, please. Old Holborn tobacco, cigarette papers, a box of Swan Vestas, a pair of black or brown moccasin style slippers, not backless, and no fur overlapping the sides, they’d only make my feet sweat. Oh, and a large writing pad and good quality black ballpoint pen. And would it be possible for you to take me to buy some clothes? I’ll need some for leaving here in four weeks.’

She cocked her head theatrically. ‘Wowser. What is this, Mr Bunce? The Generation Game? That’s quite a list. You sure that’s everything? Fondue set? Carriage clock? A cuddly toy, mibbe?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Actually, I need a soft bristle tooth‐ brush. I’ve binned that excuse of a brush that shredded my gums.’

Carrie stepped forward and rested a hand on his bicep.

He jerked from her touch.

Her bidding goodbye hung in the air unreciprocated.

As she made her way to the door, he concentrated on her croc shoes. Cartoon cheese, that’s it. Cartoon Cheese.

On hearing the door close, he ounced towards the window and closed the curtains, unable to stomach the sight of people going about their daily business.

George Bunce and the Black Wave of Fear by Martin Geraghty is published by SpellBound Books, priced £9.99.