45 Minutes of British English Stories co

I know you'll find this hard to believe, but listening to a short story can improve your English far faster than sitting in a boring classroom for hours. No way, Steve! It's true, Greek Guy! Is there a free guide? Of course there is! You can download a free guide to all the vocabulary that was used simply by clicking the link in the description below. However, if you're already a member of our English Improvers community, this will be sent straight to your inbox. But for now, just sit back, relax and enjoy this short story. Hi, I'm Steve and I'm Greek Guy. Let's do this! Not a human. The best part of being a dentist isn't the money or the respectable title. It's that moment at 6 o'clock, after the last patient has finally gone. On this particular Friday, that patient was old Mrs Thompson. She'd just shuffled out of the door, leaving only one small task standing between me and a well-earned fish and chips for tea, locking up. After bending over patience all day, my back was screaming blue murder as usual. So I hobbled towards the front door to flip the close sign. And that's when the door burst open. A man stood there, soaked to the skin, with hair like a bird's nest and wild eyes. He looked completely off his rocker. Before I could say a word, he scurried past me and plunked himself straight down in the big examination chair, sinking into it with a desperate sigh. Sod's law, I thought. My hopes of getting home on time vanished. I closed the door, walked over and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Alright, I said, trying to keep my voice calm and professional. What's the emergency? He didn't answer straight away. He just looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the equipment, the posters of smiling perfect teeth, the sterile metal trays. His fingers twitched on the armrests. Then he looked me dead in the eye and said, Well, it all started when I was a young boy. It looked like my fish and chips were going to have to wait. My stomach grumbled in protest, but I had to admit, he had me hooked. I leaned forward a fraction. Go on, I said. I didn't eat what the other kids ate, he said slowly, his voice full of drama. My mum was at her wit's end. She'd make a lovely roast dinner. My brothers would fill their boots, but I'd just sit there, staring at it. And that made your teeth weak, I guessed, trying to steer him towards something I actually understood. After all, poor diet in childhood can cause no end of trouble for your teeth. Finally, we were on solid ground. He blinked as if the thought had never occurred to him. No, nothing like that. My teeth are fine, thankfully. He tapped a surprisingly white incisor with his fingernail. There was a long pause. I glanced at the clock. If I didn't get a move on, my missus would hit the roof. Still, I had to admit, this bloke had me curious. He continued as if there had been no interruption at all. I love the night. Can't stand daylight. Always been that way. I stay up until the early hours, every night without fail. What? And you forget to brush your teeth, I asked, making another stab in the dark. What? He shook his head sadly, as if I was missing the point entirely. No, I'd never missed a day brushing. The real problem, he said, leaning forward, conspiratorially, is that I can't hold down a job. I just flit from position to position. I start a new role, and in the first few weeks, I'm a model employee. The boss thinks I'm the dog's bollocks. But then, after a while, the routine starts to get to me. My mates have all settled down, got married, had kids. But I was never interested in that. I just wanted a quiet life. I'd start getting distracted, he continued. I worked in an office once. I'd be staring at the computer screen, and my mind would just wander. I couldn't concentrate. My boss, a chap named Peterson, pulled me aside one day. He said, Son, you were a bit wet behind the ears when you started, but I thought you had potential. Now you're all over the place. What's the score? I tried to explain, the man said. But how do you tell a man like Mr. Peterson, a man who suits office life to a T, that you just don't fit in? He didn't get it. He just assumed I was trying to skive off. In the end, he had no option. He gave me the push. My patience had run out. My back was killing me. My missus had probably fed my T to the dog by now. And this man was rambling on about his career choices. I still had absolutely no idea what any of this had to do with dentistry. I had to cut him short. Look, I said, my voice sharper than I intended. This is all very interesting, but I'm a dentist. I fix teeth. So how exactly can I help you? The man's frantic energy seemed to vanish, replaced by a strange calm. Took a deep breath. I don't think I'm a human at all. He said with certainty. I just stared at him completely lost for words. After a moment of stunned silence, I finally found my voice. Then what do you think you are? He looked at me as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. That's easy, he said. I'm a moth. A moth? This guy was clearly a nutter. I gathered my thoughts, trying to be practical. Right, I said slowly. Look, like I said, I'm a dentist. I'm afraid you need to talk this over with a specialist, a psychiatrist. There's one who works in this building actually, just next door. The man nodded. I know, he said, but he's gone home for the day. I was completely bewildered now, my frustration at its peak. Then why did you come in here? Looking at me like I was the crazy one, he said. Because your light was on, of course. Let's do this. A lucky find. You need to get out from under my feet, my wife Debbie said in an exasperated voice. I've got my friends coming round and frankly they don't want to see you sprawled out on the sofa. But it's my day off, I whined, knowing I didn't have a leg to stand on. Exactly, that's why you need a hobby, she said, a sly smile appearing. My brother Martin has a spare set of golf clubs and said he'd show you the ropes. You'll get some exercise, a bit of fresh air and who knows, you might take to it like a duck to water. What she meant, of course, was that she'd have the house blissfully husband free for a few hours each week. Still, there was a small part of me that quite fancied the idea. I'd heard business types wax lyrical about golf, how it was where useful contacts were made and lucrative deals were struck. Maybe it was time I joined their ranks. All right, I said, putting on a brave face. Ask Martin to set it up and I'll give it a go. Fast forward to Saturday morning and there I was, pulling into the car park of the local golf club. I'd splurged on some golf attire which included a snazzy jumper and shoes that looked good but felt like they'd been designed by someone with a grudge against feet. I felt like a fish out of water. Martin stood by the clubhouse, already grinning. Well, don't you look the part, he said, laughing as he handed me a big heavy bag of golf clubs. I grabbed it and nearly fell over. This weighs a ton, I complained, resting it on the ground. I'm not sure I can carry this all the way around the course. Don't be daft, Martin said, shaking his head. We're going to hire trolleys from the clubhouse. He pointed to the posh building a short distance away. Heaving the heavy bag onto my shoulder, I gasped, that's a relief, and trudged after him up the steep path. Just a few minutes later, trying to hide the fact that I was a little out of breath, we were standing at the first tee, waiting as a group of four older gentlemen started their game. They made it look as easy as pie as they effortlessly struck their balls towards the first hole. They seemed to be really good, I muttered. I'm not sure I can do this. Martin gave me a confident slap on the back. Relax, mate, Rome wasn't built in a day. Everyone's a little shaky when they first start. I could actually feel my knees knocking and my palms becoming clammy. I was so nervous. The old boys finished up, nattering as they wandered off into the distance after the balls they'd just hit. Martin reached into his pocket and handed me an orange golf ball that had Beeper 2000 printed in bold letters on it. One of the biggest problems folk who are learning to play have is losing their golf balls, he said in a serious voice. So I want you to use this. It's my prized possession. I've never seen anything like this, I said, examining the ball in my hand. This ball is the bee's knees, he said. If you hit it into the tall grass or the trees, it starts to beep automatically, progressively getting louder until you find it. You're pulling my leg, I said, surprised. He was obviously very impressed with the little ball's capabilities. But that's not all. If it starts to get dark, then it glows brightly. You can see it for miles. Blimey, that sounds great. But you see that big lake on the course, I said, pointing. I'm pretty sure that's where most of my balls will end up. Don't be worried. The Beeper 2000 floats and when it senses water, a tiny propeller comes out and brings it back to the edge of the lake. I can hardly believe it. It must be impossible to lose, I gasped, shaking my head in disbelief. I bet it cost a bomb to buy. Look at me right in the eye, Martin said. I don't know. I found it. Let's do this. Money for Nothing James Hartley had spent the last 15 years of his life behind a desk in the English city of Birmingham. Watching numbers flicker across multiple computer screens. At 42, he was a senior investment banker at a prestigious firm. The sort of man who wore bespoke suits and was always on the go, checking his phone compulsively every few minutes, even during dinner with his wife. A summer break to the Maldives had been his wife Emma's idea. You're going to have a breakdown if you don't take some time off, she'd warned him, after he'd fallen asleep during a conversation with her for the third time in a week. You haven't had a proper break in five years, James. You're burning the candle at both ends. The children barely recognize you anymore. James had protested, of course. There was a huge merger to finalize. The quarterly reports to review. The presentation for the board of directors. His assistant Claire had a list of meetings scheduled that stretched into next month. How could he possibly disappear for two weeks? But Emma had been unusually firm. She'd already booked the flights, paid the deposit for the luxury villa, and informed his secretary that Mr Hartley would be completely unreachable for a fortnight. No emails, no phone calls, no video conferences at three in the morning because Singapore's financial markets are awake. Just you, me, and the kids. Like a real family. The flight had been tortuous. James had fidgeted in his first-class seat, unable to concentrate on the film playing on the screen in front of him. His laptop sat in his carry-on bag overhead, calling to him like a siren song. Just a quick check of his emails. Just a brief glance at the Tokyo markets. Just a moment to review some contracts one more time. Stop it, Emma had said, without even looking up from her novel. She knew him too well. By the time they'd landed in the capital, Malé, and taken the speedboat to their resort, James had worked himself into a state of barely suppressed anxiety. The resort was undeniably beautiful. Impossibly blue water, powder-white sand, luxury villas perched over the lagoon on wooden stilts. But to James, it felt like a gilded cage. The first two days passed in a blur of forced relaxation. Emma and the twins, Sophie and Jack, eight years old and full of boundless energy, threw themselves into holiday mode with enthusiasm. They snorkelled over coral reefs, built elaborate sandcastles, and squealed with delight when they spotted a sea turtle gliding through the shallows. James tried to join in. He really did. He helped dig moats around the sandcastle, smiled and nodded when Sophie showed him a pretty shell she'd found, and even agreed to try paddleboarding, despite looking utterly ridiculous wobbling on the board. But his mind was elsewhere, running through spreadsheets and profit margins, worrying about deals that were almost certainly managing perfectly well without him. So here he was, trapped in what the brochure had called Paradise, an exclusive resort on a private island chain where wealthy tourists paid obscene amounts of money to lie on white sandy beaches and pretend they weren't thinking about their emails. James had lasted exactly two days before he simply couldn't stand it anymore. The azure waters and swaying palm trees that had initially seemed picturesque now felt suffocating. It seemed like a beautiful prison. He promised Emma he wouldn't work during the holiday, but that promise was killing him. On the third morning, unable to bear another moment of enforced relaxation, James slipped away from the family villa whilst Emma was still sleeping. He'd heard the resort staff mention a small neighbouring island. It was uninhabited apparently, just a quiet stretch of beach where guests occasionally went for private picnics. The resort manager arranged a boat to take him across. Though the young staff member seemed puzzled by James's request. There's nothing there, sir. Just sand and coconut trees. Most guests prefer our main beach with the bar service and sun lounges. Peace and quiet. That's exactly what I want, James had replied curtly. Somewhere quiet where I can think. The neighbouring island was a fifteen minute boat ride away. Presence of pristine white sand, fringed with palm trees that leaned towards the impossibly blue water. As the boat pulled away, leaving James alone on the beach, he felt a momentary flutter of panic. No phone signal, no Wi-Fi, no connection to the outside world. Just the gentle lap of waves and the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. He walked along the shoreline, his expensive deck shoes sinking into the soft sand. The beach curved around a rocky outcrop. And as James rounded the corner, he was surprised to see he wasn't alone after all. An elderly man sat on the sand near the water's edge. A simple fishing rod propped in the sand beside him, its line disappearing into the crystal clear water. The old man looked to be in his seventies, his skin deeply tanned and weathered like leather left too long in the sun. He wore nothing but faded shorts and a battered straw hat. And he seemed completely absorbed in watching his fishing line, as if he had all the time in the world. James hesitated feeling like an intruder, but the old man turned and smiled, gesturing for him to approach. Good morning, he called out in perfect English, his accent betraying the fact that English wasn't his first language. Beautiful day for a walk, isn't it? Yes, quite, James replied, making his way over. I didn't realise anyone else would be here. I hope I'm not disturbing you. Not at all, not at all, the old man said warmly. Please sit down. The fish aren't biting much this morning anyway. James lowered himself onto the sand, feeling slightly ridiculous in his designer polo shirt and crisp linen shorts. The old man, by contrast, looked completely at home, natural in this environment, with the coconut palms swaying overhead. On holiday from England, the old man asked, studying James with keen, intelligent eyes. That obvious, is it? James replied with a slight smile. Yes, we're staying at the resort on the main island. My wife's idea. She thinks I work too much. Wives are often right about such things, the old man said sagely. What is it you do that keeps you so busy? Investment banking, James said. Mergers and acquisitions, mostly. Corporate restructuring. It's quite demanding. Ah, the old man nodded thoughtfully. Important work, I'm sure. Must pay very well. It does, James acknowledged, though something in the old man's tone suggested he wasn't particularly impressed. I've done quite well for myself, actually. Senior partner, corner office, fancy car, that sort of thing. Started at the bottom, worked my way up. Took years of 80-hour weeks, mind you. But it was worth it. 80 hours, the old man repeated slowly, as if trying to comprehend the number. That's more than double what most people work, isn't it? Welcome to investment banking, James said with a dry laugh. Though to be honest, it's often more than that. Weekends, holidays, middle-of-the-night calls from Hong Kong. But that's what it takes to get ahead in my industry. Can't show weakness, or someone younger and hungrier will have your job before you can say redundancy package. Sounds exhausting, the old man observed. It is, James admitted. But the rewards are substantial. My family wants for nothing. Private schools for the twins. Nice house. Holidays like this one. Security, you know. That's what it's all about. The old man seemed to consider this. And do you enjoy it? This work that takes so much of your time? The question caught James off guard. Did he enjoy it? He'd never really thought about it in those terms. Work was work. It wasn't supposed to be enjoyable. It was supposed to be profitable. But looking back over the past decade, trying to pinpoint moments of genuine satisfaction rather than just relief at closing a deal, James found the task surprisingly difficult. It's challenging, he said finally. Intellectually stimulating. The thrill of putting together a complex deal. Seeing all the pieces fall into place. That's quite satisfying. But do you enjoy it? The old man pressed gently. James opened his mouth to give an automatic yes. Then closed it again. He thought about the knot of anxiety that lived permanently in his stomach. The way his jaw ached from grinding his teeth in his sleep. The tablets his doctor had prescribed for his blood pressure. He thought about missing Jack's school play because of a meeting in Frankfurt. And Sophie's tears when he'd forgotten her birthday last year. I suppose I don't think about work in terms of enjoyment, he said quietly. It's more about achievement. Building something. Providing for my family. The old man nodded slowly. His weathered face thoughtful. My father used to say that a man who spends his whole life preparing to live has forgotten to actually do the living. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. Watching the fishing line bop gently in the water. James found himself relaxing despite his usual restlessness. Lulled by the rhythmic sound of the waves and the warmth of the sun on his face. This is a remarkable spot, James said eventually. Gazing around the untouched beauty of the small island must be worth an absolute fortune. You think so? The old man asked mildly. Oh, definitely, James said. His professional instincts awakening. Prime location. Crystal clear waters. Perfect white sand. With the right development, you could build a luxury resort here that would make millions. Dozens of villas, a spa, restaurants, water sports center. Sounds very busy, the old man observed. Busy means profitable, James countered. I've done plenty of property development deals in my time. A place like this in the right hands could be transformed into a gold mine. Do you know who owns it? I do, actually, the old man said. A slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It's mine. James sat up straighter. His interest immediately peaked. Really? You own this island? For many years now, the old man confirmed. It belonged to my father before me and his father before him. It's been in our family for generations. Then you're sitting on a fortune, James exclaimed, his mind already racing with possibilities. Have you ever thought about selling or developing it yourself? You could make an absolute mint. Why would I do that? The old man asked, genuinely curious. Why wouldn't you? James replied, warming to his subject. Look, I've seen dozens of projects like this. You sell the island to a development company. I could put you in touch with the right people, actually. And you'd walk away with enough money to set you up for life. Seriously. You'd never have to lift a finger again. But what would I do with all that money? The old man asked. James laughed, thinking the question was absurd. Anything you wanted. You could travel the world, buy a mansion in London or New York, invest in the stock market. You'd have it made. The world would be your oyster. Hmm, the old man said, thoughtfully. And after I've travelled the world and bought this mansion, then what? Absolutely anything you wanted, James explained patiently. You could retire properly, somewhere warm and beautiful. Spend your days doing whatever makes you happy. Go fishing, whenever you feel like it. The old man was quiet for a long moment, looking out at the endless expanse of turquoise water. His fishing line twitched slightly. So no difference to the life I live now then, he said softly. Let's do this. Tiny's day out. Half six in the morning and I wake up to the sound of my neighbour's hacking cough as he lights up his first fag of the day. The walls in this bedsit are paper thin. I can hear every move he makes. I reach over and switch off my alarm. No point in that, now I'm wide awake. I shuffle over to put the kettle on. It sits on a rickety little table in the corner of my room. Next to a stack of yesterday's mugs. While it boils, I listen to Rob slam his door and stomp down the stairs to his battered old Fiesta. The engine coughs and splutters, almost as badly as he does. Right, shower time. I grab my towel and nip across the landing to the bathroom I share with Rob and an older lady who lives down the hall. I met her the day after I moved in when I forgot to lock the toilet door. Let's just say she saw more than she bargained for. She hasn't spoken to me since. Can't say I blame her, really. The water comes out lukewarm and that's been generous. It's not so much a spray as a pathetic dribble. Such a far cry from my old house where I had the luxury of two bathrooms one with a proper power shower and the other with a gorgeous deep bath. But I had to pack up and leave when my wife of just eight weeks, Ruth, ran off with my best mate, Jono. That was six months ago and I've got to say, I don't half miss him. I throw on my work clothes, grab my keys and jump into my van. It's not a long commute to Townley Engineering we make and repair small conveyor belts the sort you see at supermarket checkouts. Not exactly glamorous, but it pays the bills. My boss, Dan, is already there, of course. The man practically lives at the factory. Morning, Tiny, he shouts across the workshop. Couldn't sleep? Or have you wet the bed again? He's having a proper laugh at his own joke as usual. Everyone calls me Tiny, which is ironic really seeing as I'm six foot eleven inches tall. British humour at its finest. Hi, I grunt. Not really in the mood for banter this early. I've got a brilliant job for you today. You're going to be travelling abroad. Hope you've got your passport handy. Now he's got my attention. One of my colleagues got sent to South Africa last year to repair a conveyor belt at a diamond mine. I was green with envy. Where am I off to then, I ask, trying to play it cool. It's a Tesco in Wales, mate. You should be there and back by five. Wales. Fantastic. Not that I've got anything against the place. I used to love going there camping when I was a kid. But it's literally half an hour from our factory gates. And it's definitely not South Africa. The only cougars you'll spot there are middle-aged women on a night out in Cardiff. Dan hands me a slip of paper with the address. Tesco High Street. And then a big long word I couldn't begin to pronounce. Wales. What happened here, I ask, squinting at the paper. Did a cat walk across your keyboard? No, that's actually the name of the town, Dan says, grinning. You're having me on. That can't be right. It is, I promise you. Apparently it's the longest place name in the world. And it's all in Welsh. How on earth do you say it, I ask, still staring at this impossible string of letters. Buggered if I know, Dan admits. But there's a postcode. So just stick that in the sat-nav and you'll be sorted. Fair enough, I sigh, heading off to the stores to pick up a replacement belt and various bits and bobs that I'll probably need. Ever heard of this place? I ask Maureen, who runs the stores. Oh, yes. Went through there on my honeymoon over 20 years ago, she says, her face lighting up at the memory. We stopped to have our picture taken by the road sign. It's the longest place name in the world, you know. So I've been told. Any chance you know how to pronounce it? Not really. I know it ends with go-go-goch, but I reckon you'd have to be Welsh to get it right. I gather what I need, chuck everything in the van and punch the postcode into the sat-nav. The robotic voice pipes up. Two hours to your destination. Right then, Dan was spot on. I should easily be back by five. I set off, reminiscing about when I was younger and those camping trips to Wales with my family. I pass through the sprawling estates of Runcorn, a new town built to house the overspilt from Liverpool. Nearly everyone I meet round here is a Scouser. Friendly enough folk, but I can barely understand a word they say with that mad accent of theirs. About 20 minutes later, I cross the border and pass the sign with the red dragon that says Welcome to Wales. With the same message underneath in Welsh. Wales is one of those places that's part of the UK, but also its own country, with its own language and everything. Apparently everyone speaks English, but loads of people can speak this ancient language as well. Then I'm into the rolling green hills, dotted with sheep as far as the eye can see. I pull up at the Tesco and head inside. At the information desk, I'm greeted by a stunning woman with a lovely Welsh lilt and a figure that could stop traffic. Oh, it's so good to see you, she says warmly. We're only a small store and we've been struggling without all our checkouts working. Without pausing for breath, she adds, You're very tall, aren't you? Yes, I reply. Nearly seven feet, actually. Lovely, she breathes, giving me a proper once over. Is she coming on to me? Shall we crack on then, I ask, gesturing to the roll of belt I brought with me. She leads me to the broken checkout and sure enough, the old belt has snapped clean through. They only last a couple of years before they need replacing. Standard wear and tear. I get stuck in, only having to stop twice for people wanting selfies with me. The joys of being one of the tallest blokes in Britain. By the time I'm done, my stomach is telling me it's well past lunchtime. I head back to the information desk and the same woman, who has been finding excuses to check on me every 15 minutes, each time bringing yet another cup of tea. All done, I announce, handing her an invoice to sign. So soon? What a shame, she says, looking genuinely disappointed. Is there anywhere nearby I can grab a quick bite, I ask? Only the fast food place next door, I'm afraid. I join you, but I don't finish for another hour. Never mind, I say. Maybe next time. It's a date then, she replies with a wink. I'll make sure to break another checkout belt soon. Shaking my head with a smile, I leave the store and pop into the fast food outlet next door. Standing in the queue, I look up at the menu and once again see the town's impossible name stretched across the top. I try to sound it out under my breath, but it's absolutely hopeless. Finally, it's my turn. The young woman behind the counter, who also has that gorgeous Welsh accent, asks, How can I help you? I lean in slightly and say, Before I order, would you mind telling me how to pronounce the name of this place? She looks me dead in the eye and says, quite seriously, It's McDonald's. Let's do this. The Unexpected Visit Emma shut the front door behind her with a sigh that echoed through the silence of her home. The keys clattered onto the hall table as she slid off her heels, grimacing at the ache in her arches. She felt drained, both physically and emotionally. Work had been relentless today, another endless stream of emails, phone calls, and constant carping from her manager. But it wasn't just that. Something had been eating away at her for weeks now. It was Simon, her husband. She'd been noticing his odd behaviour over the last few weeks. The whispered phone calls, the hastily closed laptop whenever she walked into the room, and the strange purchases on their joint credit cards. There was even a booking for a hotel room. Emma didn't want to believe it. Their marriage was strong and the envy of all her friends. But the evidence was stacking up. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out he was having an affair. To add to her frustration, when she'd built herself up to confront him, rehearsing exactly what she was going to say, he wasn't even home. She glanced at the clock on the wall, nearly half seven. Simon usually got back from work an hour earlier. She double-checked her mobile, but there was no text. She looked around the kitchen. No note. No explanation. She shook her head, anger building up inside her. Emma made her way to the living room and sank into the sofa. The silence in the house felt heavy, almost oppressive. She stared at the TV remote, but didn't turn it on. Instead, her mind drifted back to their conversation two nights ago. Just a work thing, Simon had said when she casually asked about the late night phone calls. You know how it is. But she didn't know how it was. Simon was a plumber, not a secret agent. And who needs to whisper about a leaky tap? She stared at the blank TV screen and saw her reflection staring back at her. Tired, frazzled, and far from the confident woman she used to be. Her stomach clenched. Maybe tonight was the night she'd get the truth. She pushed herself off the sofa and headed upstairs to change out of her work clothes. As she reached the top of the stairs, she froze. The bedroom door was ajar and there was a faint sound. Was that someone breathing? Was Simon back already? Holding her breath, she nudged the door open and her heart stopped. Two shapes lay under the duvet on her bed. Shifting slightly, as though trying to get comfortable. Emma's breath caught in her throat. Someone was here. No, two people were here. The realisation hit her like a train. All her suspicions, all her doubts had been true. And now, to add insult to injury, Simon had brought his mistress into their home. Into their bed. Her vision blurred with fury and betrayal. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on Simon's cricket bat propped against the wardrobe. Without thinking, she grabbed it. The weight of the bat felt solid in her hands. Logic fled. Replaced by a red-hot rage she had never known she was capable of. Grabbing the bat, Emma strode forward. Her vision blurred with fury and tears of betrayal. She raised it above her head and brought it down hard on the nearest lump under the duvet. There was a muffled groan. How dare you, she shouted, swinging the bat again. She turned her attention towards the second figure, who was now shifting under the covers. Showing no mercy, she rained down blow after blow. The sounds of impact filled the room, mingling with cries of pain, until finally both shapes lay motionless. The only sound, her own ragged breathing. Emma staggered back, the bat slipping from her hands and clattering to the floor. Her chest heaved as she stared at the duvet, now rumpled and stained with something dark. Her body trembling and her mind reeling. What had she done? She stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, her mind racing. She needed to think. She needed to call someone, but who? And what could she say? She was still standing in the hallway, gripping the banister for support, when the front door swung open. She spun round to see Simon standing there, a carrier bag in one hand and a look of mild confusion on his face. Where have you been? She demanded, her voice shaking. Just popped to the shop, we were out of tea bags. He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the cricket bat lying on the floor behind her. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. Emma felt the room tilt slightly, the weight of what she'd done constricting her chest and making it difficult to breathe. Simon, she whispered, her voice barely audible. Who's upstairs? He blinked. What do you mean? Oh, surprise! He grinned, oblivious to the tension in her voice. I was going to tell you when I got back, I thought it'd be nice to have some family around, so I've been telephoning your mum and dad to arrange it and they flew up for a visit. They were knackered from the journey, so I let them have a kip in our bed. This video has been specially chosen to improve your English, so give it a click and I'll see you next time. Bye.