He had half promised himself that he wouldn't be getting into anything that had the potential to get complicated again. He was getting too old for it. He even had something of a very part-time job driving the odd limo full of half drunken girls on a night out when it got busy for an old friend. It felt good to be helpful in small doses and at least the giggling droves wouldn't be stumbling into cars driven by shady men with certain foul intentions.

And the odd cheeky hand on his rear when he held open the car door was far easier to contend with than a slew of bullets and flailing fists.


Still, there was that niggling itch in the back of his mind. The itch that whispered how nice it would be to go on a good long drive somewhere and if he happened to deliver something at that somewhere and make a few bob out of it, well, that wouldn't be so bad. It was only those two times that there had been any trouble and it had been relatively wrinkle-free for a long time before that.

What's the worst that could happen? His car could get blown up? He'd already survived that and the gleaming replacement in the garage testified to it.

So when the next rare call came on his old "work" number, he didn't ignore it like he usually did but gave the old familiar answer.

"I'm listening."

Frank had been fast asleep in bed, when something woke him up - maybe he was too warm, or there was a noise or a draft or something. Only... it wasn't his bed (well, the bed in his room in Milliways), or at least it hadn't been his bed for years. He was in the room he had when he was a little boy. No trouser press by the wall, no chair with his suit jacket hung over the back and car-patterned wallpaper where the walls usually were bare. Also, his feet were sticking out the end of the small child-sized bed.

Must have been cold feet that woke him up then.

Frank sat up, pushing back the covers and swung round to put his feet on the floor. "Shhi..agh". Not on the floor then. On a sharp cornered Lego brick. Funny how Lego was never quite so dangerous when he was little. Pushing the bricks out the way with a foot, he sat on the edge of the bed, ran a hand over the short bristles on his head and looked around. This was exactly his room from when he was a kid, right down to the toy cars neatly parked next to his school shoes and creatively completed maths homework spilling out of the small rucksack on the floor.

This was weird. When he'd gone to bed in his room at Milliways, it was bare and plain and now... it must be some Milliways quirk - like how his garage door turned out to come here instead and how the Bar served up drinks on her own. Yeah. That was it. Only it wasn't was it? This wasn't his room at Milliways and when the door opened a crack, letting the once familiar light from the hallway spill into his childhood room, it became clear that he really was at home. Really home, with the feeling of belonging and rightness you get before you grow up and realise you can't stay at home with mum and dad forever, before you start being aware of how you'll get too old for never worrying about anything and how one day you'll have to start looking after yourself rather than tea appearing by itself on the table at 5 o'clock and your pyjamas and school uniform always being clean and ready for you when you need them.

All that was forgotten though, when Frank spotted the head peering around the door.

"Can't sleep?" she said, as she expertly navigated through the toys and comics scattered across the floor to sit on the bed next to him.

"No." Frank looked down at the floor and rubbed his neck. Sleeping in a too-small bed designed for a body far lighter and smaller than his was uncomfortable.

A sigh and Yvonne Martin lifted a hand to stroke her son's hair. "Bad dreams again?"

"It's not that." He looked up at her. "I just...don't know what to do."

She looked at him for a moment, seeing both the boy she'd raised and the man that he'd become, though always her little boy.

"Do what's right, Frankie." She said, putting an arm over shoulders far broader than those on the lanky teenager that had been her son the last time she'd seen him.

"I don't know if it's that easy."

"Of course it is." She corrected him, smiling. "You'll do what's right, find a nice girl to look after you and get me some grandkids."

Frank smiled. "I don't need looking after, I'm a big boy now."

"Your father says that, and we both know it's not true." She planted a kiss on his forehead. "Now, back into bed. You've got a busy day tomorrow and we don't want you falling asleep at the wheel."

He climbed back into the bed, which somehow wasn't so small anymore, and sitting beside him on the bed, Yvonne tucked him in.

"Sleep well, Frankie." Another kiss on the forehead and she got up and headed towards the door.

"G'night Mum." Frank closed his eyes for a moment and then suddenly sprang awake. "Wait!"

Only the car wallpaper and toys were gone and Frank found himself in his dark, empty room. What was that about it being a busy day tomorrow? And his mum... wasn't here.

He sat up in bed for a while, trying to remember and not quite getting there. Just a dream, he guessed, though it felt like a weight was lifted in his heart. He'd figure it all out tomorrow, but now it was time to get back to sleep.

Frank is carefully spooning batter onto a baking tray when the phone rings. He answers it to hear a voice say:

"I'm looking for a transporter."

Leaving the spoon in the mixing bowl, Frank automatically responds with an "I'm listening" while he takes a pen and small notebook out of a drawer. Noting down a few details, Frank ends the call having arranged a meeting to sort out his next job.

You'd think, after the rather public near-disaster that was Miami, Frank would lay low, do something else and keep out of the transporting game for a while. Unfortunately, an army pension doesn't go as far in London as it did in Florida or the South of France and he's become rather attached to his current style of living.

Aside from that though, he does enjoy the driving.

Once he knows more about the job, he'll have to make sure he has the right tires and the car is properly tuned to handle the task. Later, perhaps, he'll give the car a wash and wax so it looks just how he likes it. Now, however Frank turns back to the mixing bowl and baking tray and, following Tarconi's mother's madeline recipe precisely, continues to carefully spoon batter onto the baking tray.