The icy grey buildings seemed to spring out at him from around the corner as the taxi took the bend that would lead him to his fate. The snow that littered the roads and paths had partially cleared, leaving frozen, dirty white patches surrounding the area. As they drove into the complex, the buildings darkened and loomed out at him as he passed. The gentle hum of the car engine and the warmth of its heater, Cosseted him in his comfortable seat; a womb he didn't want to leave. But the time had come.

The driver stopped outside one of the cold, bare buildings that used to be army barracks and now constituted a hospital. His stomach lurched painfully.

"Out you get then," said his mum. "Not long to go now"

She smiled cheerfully as she said this, at the same time 'aiding' his departure from the taxi by nearly dislocating his left arm. He mustered a watery smile.

He saw it, but he didn't want to see it; at the same time he couldn't bear not to see it. He saw the sterile, ashen faced surgeon bounce through the theatre doors at the same time as the needle came towards his arm. He felt violently sick. He retched mentally, uncontrollably, but didn't move an inch. His mind fuzzed. He was going to faint! He wanted to faint but he couldn't; he was flat on his back already.

He felt the sharp pain as it pierced his arm, then the dull throb as the injected fluid circulated within him. Oh how he wanted to die. Oh how he... wanted... he wanted.. he... .

The ring of the rapidly opening starched curtains made him start. Or at least he thought they had. Maybe it was.. no! What was that? Maybe it was the.. OOOH GOD! All he knew was that there was a pain, a pain that rifled his entire body from the base of his spine to almost every nerve ending he possessed. He closed his eyes again in a vain attempt to obliterate the ache. His head was fuzzed. What WAS that above his bed? He lapsed again into a healing sleep.

"Plucky young kid if nothing else," said the doctor as he examined the dressing on his patient's back. "Quite a big operation. He'll be sore for a while yet but he'll soon know the benefits"

He passed on, leaving his patient dreaming, blissfully unaware.

He wasn't sure when he'd woken, or even if he had. There was someone there, at the side of his bed. He knew they were there, he could hear them, he could see them. At least, he could see SOMEthing. There were voices, so many voices.

As he stepped gingerly into the taxi (aided somewhat more gently by his mum) he turned to the low, grey, ugly building that had protected him from the worst of the winter weeks. He looked away, knowing he'd have to return again sometime. He knew it wasn't over yet, even if it was only tests to check on his spinal column where they'd taken the tumour from (they finally told him two days ago). He'd heard something about "minor complication.. possibility of internal bleeding.. take it easy... nothing strenuous" He didn't worry about that. Doctors were always saying things he didn't really understand.

The train rattled along, carrying its passengers from one end of the country to another. One of the was Stephen. Another was a man called Ian. They were sitting opposite each other in the carriage. They were soon talking about this and that; football and stuff. Stephen's mum just slept. The train was fairly empty, it was mid-day, but that didn't keep the death toll down.

Stephen heard the bang. It was like a cannon retort; loud. He felt his head bounce off something or someone. There was glass, bodies, luggage, snacks, coffee, everything flying. Screams. People were screaming, yelling, moaning. He saw Ian. He was perfectly still. He saw the small bracelet that identified him as a diabetic. He saw the instructions on the small plastic packet. His back ached. His head was fuzzed. He could hear voices, so many voices. He saw it, but he didn't want to see it; at the same time he could not bear not to see it. The needle.

The small syringe full of insulin was in his hand in front of him. He felt violently sick. He retched, this time very physically. He felt cold. Oh God, his back.

He read the instructions again. He was going to faint! He wanted to faint. NO! He wouldn't. He couldn't!

He could almost feel the sharp pain as he pierced Ian's arm and the dull throb as the insulin circulated. He knelt over the still motionless body. His back ached terribly. His head was fuzzy again. The moaning around him wouldn't stop. Why won't it stop?

He was moaning now himself. Oh please make them stop... make them... please... oh stop... Oh!"

As we commit this young body to the ground, we ask the Lord to remember his suffering and his bravery ...... Ian stood with bowed head in the cemetery. His arm was still in plaster. He could still feel the throb of pain where he'd been injected. It hadn't been professionally done, the ambulance men and the doctors were horrified at the way he'd been injected.

But he was alive. Sore, but alive. Stephen wasn't. Ian knew, he knew. It had to have been Stephen. There was no-one else in the compartment except Stephen's mother and she suffered the same fate as Stephen.

Ian raised his head and gave thanks.