Nothing particular had brought Theresa to the park this cold winter afternoon. Gramps was working and she didn't feel like hanging out with her friends.

The park was empty (too late for the children, too early for the druggies); she had the place to herself.

On a whim she dropped her schoolbag and sat down on a swing, gently pushing herself back and forth with the tops of the soles of her school shoes, before swinging properly, pushing off with her feet and gaining altitude with every to swing.

It was almost like freedom, almost like flying. Sometimes Theresa wished that she could fly, not for any particular reason other than to know how it felt.

Out of nowhere a gust of cold wind blew and knocked her bag over. The papers it contained spilled onto the ground. Theresa instantly jumped from her swing and tried to gather them up as quickly as she could.

However, two of her music sheets got caught on the breeze and fluttered off.

"Flippin' heck!" she cursed aloud and, having shouldered her bag, bolted after the rogue sheets of half composed music.

Every time she came within an inch of grabbing one, the breeze picked up.


"OUCH!!" she landed hard on her backside on the cold ground, "Owww," she muttered gently and got up on her knees, "I really should've paid more attention to where I was going..."

"Yes, you should have," a young, but gruff upper class voice told her sulkily before a gloved hand was extended down towards her.

"I'm sorry," Theresa said, taking the offered limb, standing up and coming face to face with...someone wearing an iron mask...must be a Dumas convention going on somewhere in the city. "I was after some papers, you haven't seen them have you? They've music notes all over them...?"


He let go of her hand once she was on her feet again.

"Oh..." Theresa's face fell. They were gone...all of her hard work. It was getting too dark to look now. Maybe she could get up early and come look again before school? "Thanks anyway..." she turned and walked away with a sad sigh and hoped that it wouldn't rain before tomorrow.

She didn't look back.


Kevin watched her go. That had been...strange. She hadn't instantly tried to get his autograph or fawned over him. In fact, she'd treated him as if he were...normal?

Maybe it was a ploy? Maybe she wanted him to go after her, he'd had fangirls do that before.

But then again, if it was a ploy why hadn't any recognition sparked in her eyes? And she'd seemed genuinely upset that she couldn't find the supposed sheets of music, if the slouch of her shoulders was anything to go by.

He took the papers from behind his back and looked at them in the fading light.

'Melody's Lament' was typed along the top, whilst below: "by Theresa S. Chappen - No.12 Hall Street, London' was written in a neat script.

He carefully folded up the papers and tucked them into his jacket pocket. It was the gentlemanly thing to do to return them.

Sometimes, fairly often, he cursed the manners that'd been drilled into him almost from infancy.


"Gramps, I'm here?" Theresa called, opening the door of the house. "Hello? Hey, anyone here? Oof!" a big bundle of black and white fur tackled her and started slobbering on her face, tail wagging ecstatically.

"Heheh, 'ello Banksy," she said, sitting up and patting the dog between the ears, "least you're here to greet me, huh? You know, that's the second time in the space of an hour I've landed on my backside?"

The dog, a mix of Labrador and Border Collie, sat back on his haunches, panting happily and grinning at her unrepentantly.

Standing, she patted him on the head again then spotted the note on the hall table.

'Working late. Money for fish and chips on the kitchen counter. Bringing home a film tonight. See you soon. Love, Gramps.

PS. Piano teacher called – off sick so no lesson this week. Same time next week though.'

"Love you too, Old Man," she laughed aloud to no one in particular before heading upstairs to her bedroom. She could get some food AFTER she'd had a shower and changed out of her uniform. This in mind, she headed upstairs, Banksy following close on her heels.

Theresa's room was covered in music posters, but not the usual sort of music posters associated with girls in their late teens. It lacked the pretty boy boyband posters or unrealistic girl singers. These music posters included The Beatles, Jefferson Airplane and the like, mixed in with Beethoven, Mozart and Bach. The desk is covered with music papers and some half written lyrics; in the corner of the room was an electric keyboard and a recorder

Even the bed covers, which were blue, were covered in musical notes (and currently a black and white dog, too)

She hung her bag on the back of her chair, along with her school tie and kicked off her shoes before heading to the bathroom, grabbing a couple of towels on the way, after telling Banksy to stay where he was.

She was going to have to buy some more hair dye, she thought, looking in the bathroom mirror. The pink colour was almost washed out and her natural blonde was starting to show, with the dye remnants it looked almost pearlesent.

With a shrug she undressed, turned on the wall radio and then, switching the station form Radio 2 to Planet Rock, stepped into the shower.


Well, this seemed to be the place, Kevin thought, looking up at the brown stone building.

For some reason he was expecting something...grander. Still it didn't matter, he was here to get this plot over with, not criticise the house.

With a sigh of inevitability, he knocked the door.

No answer.

Under his mask, he raised an eyebrow. Surely she'd be waiting, ready to answer the door the second he knocked?

He knocked again

No answer.

He rang the bell

Silence...then... Ah, footsteps and a voice called "Coming!"

A second later the door was opened by the girl from earlier. She looked slightly pink as if she'd rushed downstairs. Of course she'd rushed downstairs, she'd been waiting for him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, I was looking for my shoes and Banksy's leash...Can I help you?" she asked, looking up at him then something in her mind clicked.

He knew it. All he had to do was wait for her to start flirting with him and then he could cut her down and leave.

"Didn't I run into you earlier? At the park?" she raised an eyebrow at him as a new thought occurred to her. "Hold do you know where I live?...Fuck! Did you follow me?! You freakin' pervert! Banksy!"

As if on cue a dog started to bark loudly, apparently alerted by its mistress' voice.

Wait...what?! That wasn't how things normally went!

"What? No!" he thrust the sheets of music towards her, "your address was written on these!"

She blinked and took a good look at the papers then her face broke into an ecstatic smile as she took them from him.

"You found them! You found my music! ThankyouThankYouTHANKYOU! OhmygodIcouldkissyou!" after a few seconds, she paused, " the way...what's your name?"


"Who are you? So I know who to thank."

Ah, she was one of THOSE fangirls, the 'I'll play coy and pretend I don't know you in an attempt to seem sweet' types.

"Kevin," he said, "Kevin Mask" and waited for the excited look to enter her eyes at the mention of his name...instead she just gave him a polite but blank smile.

"OK. Well, thanks for bringing back my music sheets, Kevin," she turned and set them down on the hall table, "Excuse me, I'd invite you in for a cuppa to say thanks but I have to go get some dinner before the chippy closes. Banksy! Shush!"

A black and white dog appeared, a blue leash held demurely in its mouth. It looked up at him curiously as Theresa attached the leash to its collar before it started to wag its tail in a friendly way.

"Come on boy," she said gently, closing the door behind her, "Thanks again for returning my music. I was afraid I'd have to start again," she told him as she passed him on the steps, "Well, see you around. I hope you have fun at your Dumas convention."

Without a look back, she and the dog set off down the street and Kevin was left with the feeling that something had just gone wrong in his world. She hadn't fawned over him, hadn't giggled and flirted with him or made thinly veiled attempts to get into his jeans.

In fact, she'd acted as if she...didn't know who he was?

He shrugged it off. Not his problem. So what if one girl didn't know who he was?

But seriously, how could she NOT know who he was?! Had she been raised in a paper bag for most of her life or something?!

He stalked off, sulking and telling himself that he didn't care.

At all


But he did set off down the same street, in the same direction that she'd just disappeared down.


Author's Note: Kevin has just learnt a valuable lesson - you're world famous only to those who actually follow whatever it is that you do. Write it down, children, there may be a test on it later. (just kidding!)