To Sail Beyond The Sunset: The Life and Loves of Maureen Johnson

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I woke up in bed with a man and a cat. The man was a stranger; the cat was not.

I closed my eyes and tried to pull myself together - hook ‘now' to mp memory of last night.

No good. There wasn't any ‘last night'. My last dear memory was of being a passenger in a Burroughs irrelevant bus, bound for New Liverpool, when there was a loud bang, my head hit the seat in front of me, then a lady handed me a baby and we started filing out of the starboard emergency exit, me with a cat in one arm and a baby in the other, and I saw a man with his right arm off -

I gulped and opened my eyes. A stranger in my bed was better than a man bleeding to death from a stump where his right forearm ought to be. Had it been a nightmare? I fervently hoped so.

If it was not, then what had I done with the baby? And whose baby was it? Maureen, this won't do. Mislaying a baby is inexcusable. ‘Pixel, have you seen a baby?' The cat stood mute and a plea of not guilty was directed by the court.

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