It was just another mind-numbing Monday—same time, same platform, same collection of half-asleep commuters clutching their coffees like life preservers, all awaiting the 8:15 on the Northern Line. But things were about to change.

I’d noticed her before—the mystery woman in black, standing alone on the platform. Late thirties, maybe early forties? Casual yet smart, self-assured, confident. I often wondered who she was, where she came from, and what she did for a living. A partner at a law firm? Sales and marketing exec? Media? Pharmaceuticals? Hmm… Or maybe something in the arts—a creative? Now that’s more my cup of coffee!

There was something about her that drew me in, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. It wasn’t a physical pull, but something deeper—almost metaphysical. My driver-less train arrived, and as it pulled to a stop, the mystery woman and I boarded at nearly the same time, though from different spots along the carriage. I stole a glance in her direction, hoping to catch her eye— chance! would be a fine thing! I settled into my usual seat by the window, and about 20 minutes into the dull journey, I drifted off to sleep. 

                                                     Just a *Ping?*

Some time later, Alfie’s phone Pinged—not with his usual ringtone, the theme from that cult existentialist ’60s series *The Prisoner*.Sometimes he let it play a little longer, just to see if anyone else on the train recognized it. Some people offered a knowing smile, sometimes a wink, while others—usually younger—didn’t react at all, and many looked genuinely annoyed at his lack of consideration. It’s just a small inside joke, and most of the time, I’m the only one who gets it.

Maybe the Ping was a glitch in the provider’s software, or perhaps some sneaky surveillance updating their facial recognition system. Next time I hear it, I’ll throw on a red  nose just to mess with their algorithms. Perhaps we could have a National Red Nose day?

Or maybe it’s just Samantha—now calling herself Sam—been binging on  too many episodes of "Loose Women," about to fire  off her usual stream of conscious of reminders: Alfie!  Don`t forget to pick up Danny  from his judo! class, his sat-nav has malfunctioned again and he`s not sure of his way home! Oh yes, "don`t forget to renew your life insurance Policy?" ”Happy days!"

Then the green screen flashed a message: *LOOK BEHIND YOU*. Alife instantly took a mental snapshot of the carriage—1/60th of a second, the blink of an eye—scanning every detail. Had anyone else seen it? No one seemed aware; they were lost, on autopilot, eyes glued to their smartphones, immersed in their own personal micro worlds.

Do I dare glance over my shoulder, revealing my position and identity? Maybe it’s someone from my past, back to settle an old score—perhaps an ex with an axe to grind, or worst-case scenario, a stalker. Just then, the train hisses to a stop, the doors slide open sucking in a huge gulp of stale air and I steal a sly look behind me, using just enough peripheral vision to catch sight of the doors. She’s there!—the mystery woman. Our eyes lock , and she throws me a knowing smile, as though privy to something beyond my grasp. Moments later, she steps off the train and disappears into the crowd. I made a mental note of where she had got off, "Finchley Central! Golders Green on the Northern Line" the 2 stops before mine!

Was it her message? Just a coincidence? Or yet another case of synchronicity—the very phenomenon I’d been researching—showing up yet again? It might tie into my theory that all beings are connected behind an invisible veil, hiding the true nature and mechanisms of reality, a single underlying force that connects all particles and forces. Max Plank the German Physicist proposed there was no matter as such but behind it existed an Intelligent mind.  There must be a simple explanation as to what that hidden field is. I had a very plausible, grounded, explanation of what that connection might be, but was keeping it under wraps for the foreseeable future, if my theory proved correct it would send major shock waves through political, religious and in particular, financial institutions! 

  Magic, Mystery and Science!

That smile was the moment everything shifted. I had to find her again, to discover who she was and what lay behind that connection. Maybe start a conversation—maybe she’d been thinking the same thing and had her own theory. But a whole week passed, and she never came back.

Back at the studio, the shift is complete. Digital has overtaken analogue, and Oliver, the resident know-it-all assistant, is in his element, rambling on about mirrorless cameras, megapixels, and the wonders of Photoshop and Lightroom, now standing in for the old darkroom. He’s relishing the freedom to experiment with images and text however he likes, oblivious to how the digital age will reshape the way we create and share information, turning the medium into the message and how it would steer our children’s future. His digital ID, DNA, and biochemistry are all compressed onto a microchip no bigger than a grain of sand, reduced to just a number—categorized, filed, and stored until needed. Soon will come the mandatory government chip under his skin. In the blink of an eye, we’ve gone from cash, to pin and chip, and now to “skin and chip”—a constant, inescapable reminder of his so-called freedom.

He’ll probably never experience the stillness and solitude of a darkroom, sealed from the world, a liminal space bathed in the warm, soothing glow of a red safe light. He won’t know the quiet rhythm of rocking the developer tray, seeing gentle waves wash over a landscape or portrait like a baptism as the image slowly emerges. Fully absorbed in the moment, he would witness his creation emerge before his eyes, shifting from negative to positive, darkness giving way to light. "Magic, Mystery and Science working together as one!" The very essence of what we may lose, if we sit back and bury our heads in the sand.

By then, they would have dubbed photo chemistry the devil’s own brew—a wicked mix far too dangerous for human hands, a genuine threat to the planet!—and promptly banned it for all eternity, as if the universe itself didn’t already have its own plans!

Lately, I’ve been pondering my future and feeling more convinced that something grander lies ahead, far beyond the confines of a  dystopian fate. As Hal David put it in 1967, “I know there’s something much more, something even non-believers can believe in.”

The following Monday, at the same time and in the exact same place, she reappears. This time I make sure to get on at the same spot and get off at the same same station, guess I’ve officially become the stalker! The train is crammed with the early morning rush, bodies pressed together as the last stragglers squeeze through the doors. Soon, only a handful of people remain in the carriage, and we’re quickly approaching Finchley Central. The train jolts, brakes screeching, and suddenly we’re nudged nearly shoulder to shoulder. She’s as close as she is ever likely to be, this is my big moment, and I can’t mess it up.

I mumbled a quiet “Er, hi,” expecting her to think I was some fool trying to chat her up, which wasn’t too far from the truth, actually. I braced for her to tell me in no uncertain terms to get lost, but to my amazement, she smiled and said, “You heard it too.” “Heard What?” I asked. “The Ping.” The train came to a stop, the doors slid open and we were swept onto the platform together with what was left of the other time travelers? I stood there, speechless, until she said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask if we could meet for coffee sometime?” Turns out, I was spot on about the confidence! She mentioned knowing a quiet coffee bar hidden down a quirky, dimly lit passage where we could meet and talk.

But who could she possibly be? A spirit guide, a time traveler, a government spook? I held some fairly radical views that I was on the verge of publishing, yet nothing that should have justified a covert agent tracking my every move. Perhaps she was one of those seductresses who entice men into illicit affairs to test their loyalty to those closest to them. Was she part of some elaborate scam with an accomplice.? What might I be getting myself into? I hesitated for just a split second, then said, “Okay, let’s meet!” thinking, " in for a penny in for a pound"

He told Sam he’d be late getting home because an unexpected delivery was coming in just after six.

(It`s October, Friday the 13th.)

The Cosmic Coffee Bar.

It was 6 p.m., and the sky was darkening as Alfie made his way down the narrow, dimly lit passage. Under a flickering neon sign he could just make out a dark silhouette. Silence not a sound, was it really her, or was she part of an elaborate plot with an accomplice hiding in the shadows. A wave of panic washed over him, fight or flight teetering in the balance. Was it a setup, or was she really there in person? Alfie slipped his wallet with his credit cards, bank cards, and driver’s license into his inside pocket and zipped it up. Then he adopted a confident swagger, whistling “I Did It My Way” as if he didn’t have a care in the world and could handle anything thrown his way. In fact his knees were  talking to each other saying "we are about to die"! As he got closer, the silhouette turned, the neon light flickering across her face. She smiled, and Alfie knew he was in the right place at the right time, or was he?

Hi Alfie, Julie, she spoke his name as though it belonged to her, then stepped in a gave him a gentle Bise. The kind of greeting by people with history.The touch was brief but the question it raised wasn`t. He was sure he hadn`t mentioned his name during that brief encounter on the platform at Finchley Central!

The sign on the door read, "Push to open, pull to change your mind." Slightly puzzled but sensing the humor, he glanced at Julie. She gestured at the sign  above the door, gave him that knowing smile, and suddenly it clicked—it was the Cosmic Coffee Bar, not Costa’s. 

Maybe it was some sort of social experiment, a way to gauge a person’s reaction—character, did they react with anger, frustration, confusion, or switch of the auto pilot  and actually stop to think and see the humor in it. Either way, it was a perfect icebreaker and a hint of what was to come. This was shaping up to be a whole different ride. Maybe it was time to break free from the rigid, artificial, Orwellian world of pixels and politics, and make waves somewhere else—maybe even drift “Into the Mystic.” Were we born before the wind, before the Big Bang, will the Big Bang someday be nothing more than a blast from the past?

Once inside, it felt surreal—unlike any coffee bar I’d ever been to. The mood lighting shifted with the atmosphere, while the scent of freshly ground coffee blended with a soothing fragrance I couldn’t quite identify. The barista never asked, “drink in or take out”; he already knew!

Triadic Thinking. (The Power of 3)

The interior was vast, a massive crucible, perfectly round with books on every subject lining the curved shelves. Alfie did a quick 360, taking it all in with awe. Tables were scattered randomly—some square, some round, and a few triangular. It was the triangular ones that caught his eye. A table for three? In one corner, he spotted three people seated at an Equilateral Triangular table, facing each other. No hierarchy, all equal, nowhere to hide. Person A could observe person B/C, B could observe  C/A, and C could observe A/? Hold on, let me run that through again! On second thoughts! Answers on a post card to? No.One Marslight Crescent, E.T.3. A meeting of minds was clearly underway, perhaps the table  served as a crucible for a new way of thinking—an entirely fresh approach to problem-solving. Bill Hick`s quote, came to mind. "the next revolution will be a revolution or idea`s. Old scientific notions like cause and effect, logic, and both lateral and critical thinking were set aside, with the emphasis shifting toward the open exchange of ideas and collaborative efforts to tackle any challenges they chose. They met in the middle with a low five, like boxers before the bout began, and again when it was over. It was all based on respect—no winners, no losers, no draws. Three people, three utterly ridiculous ideas, and, defying all logic, one spectacularly accidental masterpiece falls into place. Dangling above the table was a sign boldly proclaiming, “Non Mihi, Non Tibi, Sed Nobis,” which, for anyone without a Latin degree, might as well have said, “Not mine, not yours, but ours… so hands off the dessert unless you’re ready to share!

”In fact it was my old School Motto! 

Not for me, not for you, but for us!

She led me to a quiet, dimly lit alcove, where there was a table for two. Before I could reach for the back of the chair, she leaned forward and slid it out from under the table for me to sit. A female chauvinist?  perhaps, but I wasn’t about to complain—it felt oddly liberating! Maybe she`d pick up the tab as well! She then cast a quick glance to the side, peered over my shoulder, and raised two fingers in the air. Something about that signal touched a nerve, somewhere long past but could`nt i figure out what it was. All i know, it wasn`t a victory sign.Then she mouthed, “Two coffees" to the barista.

”On top of each side of the table top was a 8-inch square of dimpled glass, with a gently pulsing holographic red heart glowing beneath. She explained it was a Speed Dating Table—able to transfer your entire data faster than the speed of light, "but don’t tell Einstein!"—each person placed a hand on the glass, and in an instant, their full DNA, bio-metric and bio-chemistry would be scanned and recorded.. No need for the usual small talk —what’s your name, what do you do for work, what’s your normal  type, how long have you been single, and so on, giving away absolutely zero intel on the mysterious stranger staring back at you! 

She asked  Alfie if he was up  for some  fun, he could sample just a quick birth sign analysis. No problem—Alfie was now in auto pilot mode, with no space between his thoughts, emotions, and actions, completely ego-driven. It was his Achilles’ heel and would be his downfall. Thier was a time when Alfie would draw the letters SF in black ink on his index and middle fingers to remind himself to stay focused but like the majority of people  once they ventured from thier front door auto mode kicked in! 

Alfie pressed his palm against the glass and immediately felt the dimpled sensors shift under his skin, their soft touch sending a shiver up and down his spine. He’d once had his fortune told on a seaside pier, but this was palmistry on a Cosmic level. The reading practically shouted Scorpio—bold, fiery, fiercely loyal, and always ready with that signature sting in the tail! Cross them once, and congratulations—you’ve just been added to their eternal “do not forget” list.

When used to its full potential every personal detail was downloaded: Ancestry, family tree, parents, time, date, and place of birth; birth sign analysis; education; circle of friends; ex wives-partners; medical history; work history; and financial history, web site history,  purchases, returns. Criminal records. Qualifications, musical tastes, hobbies, personality traits, political and religious views, biorhythms, sleep patterns, potential future physical and mental health concerns, weaknesses and strengths. There was basically enough info  to write a glowing in depth unauthorized autobiography or a career ending “character assassination,” just a thought. 

Then, colored lights shimmered beneath the glass plates, revealing a compatibility profile. It could be seen as a smart way to protect someone’s personal safety from phyco`s, creeps, stalkers, scammers or gold diggers targeting vulnerable people—Or! a foolproof way to harvest all your information! After hearing the explanation of what it could do, Alfie  worried she might push him to take the full test, but to his relief, she just gave a knowing smile and said, “Maybe we can try it later!”

She told me she was based in Golders Green working as a counselor specialising in holauclast survivors and their familiies.—not the usual type who dives into your past searching for flaws or weaknesses, then decides, in their infinite wisdom, whether you need cognitive therapy or, in the worst-case scenario, medication or months even years of Therapy, depending on how deep your pockets were! 

She avoided sticking to standard practices, choosing instead a fresh, holistic approach—attuning to tone, facial expressions, mannerisms, subtle cues, and intuition while taking into account their awareness, emotional intelligence lived experience. No rules, no guidelines, not even a hint of procedure—she’d chucked the training manual out the window ages ago, probably hitting some poor unsuspecting pigeon on its way down.

But something didn’t quite add up! She’d said earlier she had noticed me on the platform and, for some strange reason, felt drawn to me—yet somehow managed to completely overlook “The Ping” and the Message.

She then dropped the bombshell—she was also a practicing white witch! I half expected her to ask for a lock of hair and some nail clippings before vanishing in a puff of smoke. Could that explain the aroma: Incense, when I first walked into the bar, along with her unconventional approach to counseling? Was it mere chance, a bizarre coincidence, synchronicity! or the universe flexing its cosmic match making skills that brought us together? or was there a darker side to her, either way, the whole thing felt  suspiciously orchestrated, planned in advance. Was there some kind of shady setup happening—scanning my DNA, checking my biometric details, and using them for blackmail or something even more sinister? My mind jumped to that popular film "The Wicker Man," imagining myself as a sacrificial lamb headed to the slaughter. Things were begining to warm up! My instinct was telling me she was a "wrong `un`"

Was this their M.O.? Were there other victims? More importantly, why me? Did I have something they wanted? Had they somehow breached the firewall on my computer? Could I trust her—or even my own instincts? If Sam caught wind of this, I’d be in deep- big trouble. Should I abandon ship before I get in too deep, or play along and try to uncover the source of the Ping? or just "cast my fate the wind?"

 She asked about my back ground, I was  fully aware that if she slipped into counseling mode, the dynamics would shift and every word and gesture of mine would be scrutinized. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. If we’re not careful, it’ll soon be "in for a credit in for a credit" Imagine ABBA singing, “Credit, Credit, Credit, it’s a rich man’s world,” or Dick Turpin declaring, “Stand and deliver, credit or your life!” Yeah sure, Dick, try again later—we’re busy! Just doesn’t feel right.  Money makes the world go around… a credit for your thoughts?

It still felt like a rare chance to open up about some deep-rooted issues and maybe uncover some answers. I decided to keep it simple, sharing only select details. I asked her, “Where would you like me to start—past, present, or future?” thinking I’d catch her off guard. She replied, “Start whenever, wherever you feel comfortable, Alfie. We can fill in the gaps later.” She was clearly one step ahead of me! She had clearly slipped into counseling mode—or was it some kind of witchcraft? Would i become just a platonic friend, a patient, or a victim? If so what was the Protocol!? 

As we delved further into my past, my fear and anxiety began to fade—I felt myself falling under her spell. I talked for about half an hour, and she never once broke the flow. I described the school gates, the break from academia, and my research into my father’s experience as a POW in WWII. Then came the dream—that moment of pure consciousness that went beyond language, time, and identity, where everything and nothing existed all at once. Non-duality.

 Unlike those with near-death experiences who feel grateful for a chance to return, I had nothing waiting for me. No past, no future, no love, no hate, no black/white, heaven or hell. No family, no unfinished business, the slate wiped clean. When I finished speaking, she smiled and said, “We don’t usually meet people like you.” I thought she was about to tell me I was big enough, old enough, and smart enough to unravel my own problems. 

Then she gave me the answer I had been seeking: ‘You’re an intellectual because you think about what you are saying.’”Those carefully chosen eleven words— that was it. I remembered the boy outside the school gates, and in that moment, I rediscovered my true self. The fog had lifted. It was a wake-up call I felt deeply, though its full weight still eluded me. I never revealed the full impact of those words to Julie. Time had flowed past at an incredible rate and i was fearful of missing  my connection and running out of excuses for Sam. We agreed to meet the following Friday—on the platform where we first met same, time, hopefully with less drama!?  Little did Alfie know it would be the last time he spoke or saw Julie!

The week dragged on and Alfie began to see Julie in a different light, the antifascist of Sam. Porgressive, radical, highly intelligent. Friday couldn’t come around quickly enough; He had so much more to share with Julie, and was eager to get know her better maybe a romance might develop. Alfie had clearly fallen under her spell. When Friday came, he told Sam he’d be home late yet again, claiming he needed to reconfigure the studio for the new digital equipment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt.

Samantha was his childhood sweetheart, the love of his life, and family had always been his top priority, but he felt they were drifting apart, moving in different directions, and Julie seemed to be the one who fit his plans. On the train, Alfie’s emotions surged like a roller coaster careening out of control. Should he bare his soul to Julie and confess the depths of his feelings, maintain a calm facade and let their connection unfold naturally, or simply blurt out in a rush of passion that he had fallen hopelessly in love with her?

 He was at Finchley Central now, but there was no sign of Julie. Had he gotten the time wrong or the venue? Were they supposed to meet at the coffee bar instead? Alfie waited for 20 minutes, three trains had passed but no sign of Julie. Alfie had no real reason to be concerened and decided to make his way to the Coffee Bar. 

As he left the station, the rain poured down heavily, and he hoped Julie wasn’t waiting outside getting soaked on his behalf.

As he ventured further down the alley closer to the coffee bar he sensed something was amiss though he couldn’t quite place it. Then the penny dropped— not from heaven but from place deep inside his solar plexus. The neon sign wasn’t flickering, and he could hear the sound of someone singing and the hammering of nails. 

That’s when Alfie noticed the guy boarding up the windows. Bang, bang, bang—What’s it all about, bang Alfie, bang! Bang! Is it just bang, bang! for the moment—bang, bang!—we live. He paused only to replace nails between his pursed lips. The lyrics hit Alfie with unexpected force, like part of some cruel cosmic joke—a synchronicity he could have easily done without. Alfie asked him, "whats going on?" he said "the place had closed down during the week mate, and was under new ownership and  gonna opening next Friday as the Golden Burgar bar." In an instant, Alfies  was world was turned upside down both sides of his brain the right and left hemispheres were spinning-out of sync. He turned to to walk away unsteady on his feet gone was the cocky, leary walk, when the guy called him back and said "you must be the geezer that chic was talking about, dressed all in black roll top jumper, classy, mate, i could ave fancied her myself, anyway! "She hung around for half an hour or so, then had to go, said she had a train to catch" Before leaving, she handed me this letter for you." Alfie snatched  the letter from his hand, and started walking away when the guy called out, "Oye, mate, don’t forget—next Friday there’s a free hamburger at the entrance. We’ve got a new neon sign, flashing lights and an all new digital DJ, the works! It’ll be great!" The irony wasn’t lost on Alfie. Alfie stuffed the letter into his pocket turned his "collar to the cold and the damp" and headed for the station

The rain now was heavier and the wind like a horizontal twister was shoving Alfie down the ally, as if he had no legitimate reason to be there. By the time he got to Finchley central he was soaking wet, and confused, had he got the time wrong, had she! or did she have no intention of wanting to continue their meeting and was going to end their connection. 

The train rolled in, and he stepped aboard, sinking into his usual window seat—alone, damp, and confused. Then it hit him: the letter. With shaky hands, he drew it from his pocket, flipped it over, and spotted the initials SWAK. Relieved that all wasn’t lost, he imagined Julie moistening her tongue with her lips, then lifting the letter to her mouth with both hands. She slowly slid her tongue along the triangular flap, tracing up one edge to the tip and down the other, before gently smoothing the edges together with her fingertips, sealing it with a kiss. With a sense of curiosity and last minute hope, Alfie tore it open—only to find a perfectly blank page staring back at him. 

No message, no hint, not even a doodle. Just the silent, mocking emptiness of someone who clearly thought invisible ink was hilarious. Alfie muttered to himself "Life can be so cruel, Should have followed my instinct, i knew all along she was a wrong un!" But why had she ended it that way, no explanation, no good bye. 

Alfie’s mind flashed back to the week before, the phone call from Sam to renew his life insurance Policy! was she part of the scam? where they in it together" when Julie had offered him to sample the palm reader and assured him it was just a quick fun sign analysis! Had he been tricked? Was it actually recording the whole time, secretly harvesting his details? Mission over. Job done. Paranoia crept in as Alfie imagined the worst—blackmail, character assassination, theft of his research for financial gain, discrediting him, and passing off his work as their own.  .

The motive? It all comes down to insurance money and the theft of years’ worth of painstaking research, all aimed at manipulating the financial industry.

 Seconds later, his phone pinged, and his heart skipped a beat, hoping at last for an explanation from Julie. Maybe she had gotten the time wrong, or perhaps she’d been caught up in a desperate call from a suicidal client and hadn`t had time to write a message! 

 It wasn’t Julie, it was Sam! 

"Alfie, no need to stress about getting home late—there’s been an incident on the rail network, and the trains are a mess. Oh, almost forgot, Danny fixed his sat-nav, and the Insurance company has just renewed your life insurance policy, no problem. Catch you later. Love you loads, Sam.

By now, Alfie’s spirit was broken; he was just a ghost on a train going nowhere, and he could`nt care less. He had lost the will to live. Julie had betrayed him, and he had betrayed Sam’s trust, even casting doubt on her loyalty. As the train set off and slipped into the tunnel, the gentle sway of the carriage rocked him into a deep sleep, carrying him past his stop and all the way to the end of the line.

He was still out cold when the guard hopped on to check for the usual forgotten items—umbrellas, smartphones abandoned by not-so-smart people, empty energy drink cans under the seats. Muttering to himself, he grumbled, "You’d think with all that extra energy they’d have the strength to carry them to the bins! Lazy sods! Bring back National Service, that’d sort ’em out! What with the usual drunks having missed their stop—that’s when he spotted Alfie at the far end of the carriage.

He called out: “End of the line, sir, Time to get off,”  Alfie didn’t stir. He tried again, “End of the line!?” Still no response.The guard walked over and tapped Alfie on the shoulder. When Alfie didn’t move, he leaned in to detect any smell of  alcohol or signs of breath, there was none, he assumed  he had passed away, just another victim of the daily grind.—nothing unusual, we see at least half a dozen cases like him every week on the network. He turned and walked toward the door, reaching up to press the button that dimmed the fluorescents and closed the doors, sealing Alfie inside. 

Later, in the dark, solitary depths of the underground, Alfie slowly opened his eyes, and in that moment of clarity, the truth struck him—Julie had been his spirit guide all along! That was the reason she hadn’t returned; her purpose in his life had been fulfilled, her mission complete, leaving him with the strength and wisdom she had quietly bestowed.

Alfie glanced up at the carriage ceiling and spotted the tiny red glow of the surveillance camera, blinking at him like it was judging his life choices.

 A wide grin spread across Alfie’s face, as he popped on a Red Nose, fired off a cheeky wink, and slowly closed his eyes again. Was this the end of the ride, a bizarre dream, or had Alfie just clowned his way into the Mystic? 

"A credit for your thoughts!"

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. 

Edgar Alan Poe. American Poet. (1/19/1809 - 9/7/1849)

Author`s Note: The sound behind the Title.

The title Ping comes from a moment i left outside the main story-one of several disturbances from that period that never settled into anything i could explain. One night quite recently i was settling down to sleep when there was a sharp, loud and  distinct Ping, as clear as a bell, eminating from somewhere in or near the bed. 

 At first i thought came from the pull out draw. A rat, a mouse, silly idea they don`t create sounds like that. i froze, slowed my breathing laying perfectly still until i could get a grasp of the situation. It`s strange because you don`t think the obvious that it could be someone standing by the bed with metal-whatever whacking the metal head board! i  did`nt dismiss out of hand. i could`nt it was real. Just another strange incident to go with the others  that where occurring around about time. Some days later my curiosity returned to that sound. 

It had to be something small with some weight that could be swung swiftly and deliberately within a small space. It was`nt a lump hammer, to big, unwieldy, a ball pin hammer, similar to the one the Yorkshire Ripper used on his victims, again to heavy, would just produce a thud! a smaller pin hammer similar to what a picture framer may use to tap in small sprigs that hold the frame contents in place. again the long thin handle would soak up the vibration,  and there was not room to get the angle and whip needed .

Then i recalled those small silver weighty hammers that came with the toffee packs on sale back in the 50s and 60s used to break the toffee slabs to smaller pieces. I imagined that hammer held between the finger and thumb, with a short, fast whack would sound about right. It`s size belied its weight, small enough and heavy enough to produce the sound i heard. 

The next step was to find a hammer and put my theory to the test. I found out that Walkers still made the pack, even after all these years. It arrived in the post the very next day. My first strike was on the smaller bars, producing a dull, flat sound. Then I hit the large down tube—there it was, that unmistakable sound, ringing out loud and clear. Once again, the same questions surfaced, just like with the footprints. This time, though, it was an auditory mystery, not a visual one. We know where and when, but the questions remain: Who? What? Why? And How?