OUR AUTHORS WRITE FOR YOU...
PC Darkcliff, Miriam Drori, Julian Lamon, Kyrian Lyndon, James Gault, Ted Bun, Nmesoma Okechukwu, Rob Burton, Keith Guernsey, Angie Elliston, Paul Johnson, Alieu Bundu, Sally Dixon, Sherry LeClerc, Johanna Lamon
A SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH AND FRENCH by JOHANNA LAMON
THE HITCH-HIKER : A TRUE STORY
By Johanna Lamon, translated from the French by James Gault.
At the beginning of June 1996, two youths came out of the Akido club in Béziers. They had just finished two hours of martial arts training, but they didn’t want to meet up with the other club members. They left, knowing Bruno has his Baccalaureate exams the next day. Tired and in a hurry, they made their way to the car park. Sylvain, nineteen years old, took the wheel and off they set.
A few minutes later, on the deserted road, the two boys noticed a silhouette on the right hand side of the road. Sylvain slowed down. As they approached, they saw it was a young girl, fragile and diaphanous. Sylvain stopped the car. Bruno rolled down the window and asked her if she wanted a lift home, reminding her it wasn’t wise to wander around alone at night. The girl didn’t answer. Bruno got out of the car and invited her to take a seat in the back, which she did, and the car started up again. After fifteen minutes, the two boys arrived in their village.
It should be pointed out that Sylvain and Bruno were a couple of responsible boys, determined to bring the young lady home safe and sound. Each of them had a sister of their own, for whom they felt a sense of responsibility. And so Bruno turned round to ask their passenger where she lived.
But there was nobody sitting in the back seat of the car. The young girl had evaporated: just flown away.
You can imagine the shock the two boys got.
After taking Bruno to his house, Sylvain went home to his. As he got out the car, he cast an eye on the back seat to see if the girl had come back and, amazed, noticed that she had forgotten her reefer-jacket. He picked it up and went to bed.
The next morning, Sylvain found the jacket still lying on the back of his sofa. Intrigued, he thought the girl must be missing it. But how to know where she lived, because she hadn’t spoken a word during the journey? He fumbled through the pockets and found a piece of paper with an address written on it. Could it be her house?
Around noon, the two friends met together for lunch. Sylvain related the story of the jacket and of the address to Bruno. The pair of them decided to take the jacket back. They went to the village noted in the paper, and stopped in front of the house.
They rang. A woman of around forty opened the door.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“Good day, Madame. We picked up a young girl yesterday evening on the Pézenas road. When she got out, she left her jacket in the back seat of the car. We found this address in the pocket.”
The woman’s face went white, and then she fainted. The boys just had the time to catch her before she fell. They took her back inside, made her sit on chair in the kitchen and drink some water. Little by little, the woman came to. She explained that the jacket was in fact her daughter’s…. but that Elodie, her darling child, had died, five years earlier, on the very same road where the youths had met her. She had been killed by a speeding driver.
ORIGNAL VERSION IN FRENCH
L'autostoppeuse
Une histoire vraie
Lieu: Région de l'Occitanie, sur la route de Béziers – Pézenas
Année: 1996
Personnages: deux jeunes sportifs, Sylvain et Bruno, une autostoppeuse
Au début du mois de juin 1996, vers 22.30 heures, deux jeunes gens sortent du club d'Aïkido de Béziers. Ils viennent de s'entraîner près de deux heures aux arts martiaux, sans envie de rejoindre les autres membres du club, pour aller boire le verre de l'amitié. Ils partent, sachant que pour Bruno les épreuves du baccalauréat auront lieu le lendemain. Fatigués, pressés de rentrer, ils se rendent au parking. L'un des garçons, Sylvain, un jeune homme de 19 ans, prend le volant et les voilà partis.
Quelques minutes plus tard, - la route est déserte -, les deux garçons aperçoivent une silhouette, sur le côté droit de la route. Sylvain, le conducteur, ralentit. En s'approchant, les deux jeunes voient une jeune fille, frêle et diaphane. Sylvain arrête la voiture. Bruno descend la vitre et lui demande, si elle veut qu'on la ramène à la maison, ajoutant qu'il n'était pas prudent de se promener seule, la nuit, sur une route déserte. La jeune fille ne répond pas. Bruno sort alors de la voiture et lui propose de prendre place sur le siège arrière. La jeune fille s'exécute. La voiture redémarre. Au bout d'un quart d'heure, les jeunes sportifs arrivent dans leur village. Faut-il préciser que Sylvain et Bruno sont deux garçons sérieux qui ont à cœur de ramener la jeune saine et sauve. Chacun d'eux a une sœur, donc ils se sentent responsables. Aussi, Bruno se retourne vers la passagère pour lui demander où elle habite. Mais il n'y a plus personne sur la banquette arrière. La jeune fille s'est "évaporée, envolée"… On imagine le choc des deux jeunes. …
Après avoir ramené Bruno à son domicile, Sylvain rentre à son tour. En sortant de la voiture, il jette un coup d'œil sur la banquette, comme pour vérifier si la jeune fille était "revenue"… et constate, stupéfait, qu'elle avait oublié son caban. Il le ramasse. Ensuite, il va se coucher.
Le lendemain matin, Sylvain retrouve le caban posé sur le dossier du canapé. Intrigué, il pense que ce vêtement devait manquer à la jeune fille. Mais comment faire sans savoir où elle habite, puisqu'elle n'a pas dit un seul mot durant tout le trajet? Il fouille les poches et découvre un bout de papier avec une adresse inscrite. Serait-ce son domicile?
En fin de matinée, les deux amis se retrouvent pour déjeuner ensemble. Sylvain raconte l'histoire du caban et de l'adresse à Bruno. Les deux décident alors de rapporter le vêtement. Ils se rendent dans le village indiqué sur le papier, puis s'arrêtent devant la maison.
Ils sonnent. Une femme d'une quarantaine d'années ouvre la porte.
- "C'est à quel sujet", - demande-t-elle?
- "Bonjour Madame, nous avons pris en charge une jeune fille hier soir sur la route de Pézenas. Elle est partie, laissant le caban sur la banquette arrière de la voiture. Dans une des poches, nous avons trouvé une adresse sur un papier." -
La femme blêmit, puis défaillit. Les garçons ont juste le temps de la rattraper avant qu'elle ne tombe. Il l'accompagnent dans la maison, la font asseoir sur une chaise, à la cuisine et lui font boire de l'eau. Peu à peu, la femme reprend ses esprits. Elle explique alors que ce caban était bien celui de sa fille. …. Mais que Elodie, son enfant chérie, était décédée, cinq ans auparavant, sur cette même route, où les jeunes l'ont rencontrée, tuée par un chauffard
THE HITCH-HIKER : A TRUE STORY
By Johanna Lamon, translated from the French by James Gault.
At the beginning of June 1996, two youths came out of the Akido club in Béziers. They had just finished two hours of martial arts training, but they didn’t want to meet up with the other club members. They left, knowing Bruno has his Baccalaureate exams the next day. Tired and in a hurry, they made their way to the car park. Sylvain, nineteen years old, took the wheel and off they set.
A few minutes later, on the deserted road, the two boys noticed a silhouette on the right hand side of the road. Sylvain slowed down. As they approached, they saw it was a young girl, fragile and diaphanous. Sylvain stopped the car. Bruno rolled down the window and asked her if she wanted a lift home, reminding her it wasn’t wise to wander around alone at night. The girl didn’t answer. Bruno got out of the car and invited her to take a seat in the back, which she did, and the car started up again. After fifteen minutes, the two boys arrived in their village.
It should be pointed out that Sylvain and Bruno were a couple of responsible boys, determined to bring the young lady home safe and sound. Each of them had a sister of their own, for whom they felt a sense of responsibility. And so Bruno turned round to ask their passenger where she lived.
But there was nobody sitting in the back seat of the car. The young girl had evaporated: just flown away.
You can imagine the shock the two boys got.
After taking Bruno to his house, Sylvain went home to his. As he got out the car, he cast an eye on the back seat to see if the girl had come back and, amazed, noticed that she had forgotten her reefer-jacket. He picked it up and went to bed.
The next morning, Sylvain found the jacket still lying on the back of his sofa. Intrigued, he thought the girl must be missing it. But how to know where she lived, because she hadn’t spoken a word during the journey? He fumbled through the pockets and found a piece of paper with an address written on it. Could it be her house?
Around noon, the two friends met together for lunch. Sylvain related the story of the jacket and of the address to Bruno. The pair of them decided to take the jacket back. They went to the village noted in the paper, and stopped in front of the house.
They rang. A woman of around forty opened the door.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“Good day, Madame. We picked up a young girl yesterday evening on the Pézenas road. When she got out, she left her jacket in the back seat of the car. We found this address in the pocket.”
The woman’s face went white, and then she fainted. The boys just had the time to catch her before she fell. They took her back inside, made her sit on chair in the kitchen and drink some water. Little by little, the woman came to. She explained that the jacket was in fact her daughter’s…. but that Elodie, her darling child, had died, five years earlier, on the very same road where the youths had met her. She had been killed by a speeding driver.
ORIGNAL VERSION IN FRENCH
L'autostoppeuse
Une histoire vraie
Lieu: Région de l'Occitanie, sur la route de Béziers – Pézenas
Année: 1996
Personnages: deux jeunes sportifs, Sylvain et Bruno, une autostoppeuse
Au début du mois de juin 1996, vers 22.30 heures, deux jeunes gens sortent du club d'Aïkido de Béziers. Ils viennent de s'entraîner près de deux heures aux arts martiaux, sans envie de rejoindre les autres membres du club, pour aller boire le verre de l'amitié. Ils partent, sachant que pour Bruno les épreuves du baccalauréat auront lieu le lendemain. Fatigués, pressés de rentrer, ils se rendent au parking. L'un des garçons, Sylvain, un jeune homme de 19 ans, prend le volant et les voilà partis.
Quelques minutes plus tard, - la route est déserte -, les deux garçons aperçoivent une silhouette, sur le côté droit de la route. Sylvain, le conducteur, ralentit. En s'approchant, les deux jeunes voient une jeune fille, frêle et diaphane. Sylvain arrête la voiture. Bruno descend la vitre et lui demande, si elle veut qu'on la ramène à la maison, ajoutant qu'il n'était pas prudent de se promener seule, la nuit, sur une route déserte. La jeune fille ne répond pas. Bruno sort alors de la voiture et lui propose de prendre place sur le siège arrière. La jeune fille s'exécute. La voiture redémarre. Au bout d'un quart d'heure, les jeunes sportifs arrivent dans leur village. Faut-il préciser que Sylvain et Bruno sont deux garçons sérieux qui ont à cœur de ramener la jeune saine et sauve. Chacun d'eux a une sœur, donc ils se sentent responsables. Aussi, Bruno se retourne vers la passagère pour lui demander où elle habite. Mais il n'y a plus personne sur la banquette arrière. La jeune fille s'est "évaporée, envolée"… On imagine le choc des deux jeunes. …
Après avoir ramené Bruno à son domicile, Sylvain rentre à son tour. En sortant de la voiture, il jette un coup d'œil sur la banquette, comme pour vérifier si la jeune fille était "revenue"… et constate, stupéfait, qu'elle avait oublié son caban. Il le ramasse. Ensuite, il va se coucher.
Le lendemain matin, Sylvain retrouve le caban posé sur le dossier du canapé. Intrigué, il pense que ce vêtement devait manquer à la jeune fille. Mais comment faire sans savoir où elle habite, puisqu'elle n'a pas dit un seul mot durant tout le trajet? Il fouille les poches et découvre un bout de papier avec une adresse inscrite. Serait-ce son domicile?
En fin de matinée, les deux amis se retrouvent pour déjeuner ensemble. Sylvain raconte l'histoire du caban et de l'adresse à Bruno. Les deux décident alors de rapporter le vêtement. Ils se rendent dans le village indiqué sur le papier, puis s'arrêtent devant la maison.
Ils sonnent. Une femme d'une quarantaine d'années ouvre la porte.
- "C'est à quel sujet", - demande-t-elle?
- "Bonjour Madame, nous avons pris en charge une jeune fille hier soir sur la route de Pézenas. Elle est partie, laissant le caban sur la banquette arrière de la voiture. Dans une des poches, nous avons trouvé une adresse sur un papier." -
La femme blêmit, puis défaillit. Les garçons ont juste le temps de la rattraper avant qu'elle ne tombe. Il l'accompagnent dans la maison, la font asseoir sur une chaise, à la cuisine et lui font boire de l'eau. Peu à peu, la femme reprend ses esprits. Elle explique alors que ce caban était bien celui de sa fille. …. Mais que Elodie, son enfant chérie, était décédée, cinq ans auparavant, sur cette même route, où les jeunes l'ont rencontrée, tuée par un chauffard
AN EXCERPT FROM THE LATEST NOVEL
BY AWARD WINNING AUTHOR
P.C. DARKCLIFF
“A mighty race of hunters once roamed our woods, but Pandemia wiped them out. Tired from her gruesome work, Pandemia is sleeping. If you ever rouse her, she won’t rest until she brings doom to mankind.”
A Celtic legend.
You can see more information about the book at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BHV9T1Q
CHAPTER ONE
Rawena didn’t know about the invasion. She sang to the chirping of sparrows as she left her town to mine opals and amber. Although she only wore a linen underdress like every common Celtic woman, the midday sun made her sweat, so she jumped off the stone path into the shade of the woods. Her hammer, pick, and wedge rattled in her shoulder bag as she landed. Dead leaves crunched under her bare feet.
She followed the fringe of a ravine where ferns and grass sprouted among mossy boulders. Pines, spruces, oaks, and beech trees towered above her, and tiny yellow flowers grew everywhere she looked. Their smell reminded her of honey and made her skip with joy. Then a raven croaked three times from a treetop above her.
Rawena’s violet eyes filled with dread, for she knew it was a bad omen. As she rushed forward, she recalled seeing rats scurry through her dreams last night. She would have to ask the druidess if that also meant an impending disaster.
Anxiety made her chew her tongue until it bled. The apprehension and the taste of blood followed her to a wide merchant road. She was about to cross the road and walk on to the quarry when the sound of male voices stopped her in her tracks.
Rawena ducked and peered through the bushes. The thick foliage blocked her view of the men, who had stopped on the crossroads as if to discuss whether to turn for her town or continue north along the merchant road. Although she couldn’t make out the words, she realized the intonation wasn’t that of her tribe.
The merchant road ran from the North Sea down to the Roman Empire, with Rawena’s town standing roughly half-way. She assumed the men were southern merchants, who spoke a dialect of Gaulish or some other Celtic language she largely comprehended. When she listened closely, though, she realized she didn’t understand a word. Their language wasn’t the harmonious Greek or Latin she occasionally heard on the road. Harsh and guttural, it could only be Germanic.
She froze when she realized what it meant.
For four centuries, this land had belonged to the Celtic tribes of the Boii. The Romans even called it Boiohaemum, or Bohemia, the home of the Boii, but many Celts had returned to their native Gaul, yielding to the pressure of the Marcomanni, Quadi, Hermunduri, and other Germanic tribes that encircled the land. Rawena’s tribe was one of the few that remained.
Eight years ago, a group of twenty traders, including Rawena’s father, had failed to return from a trading expedition. It was rumored they had fallen victim to the Marcomanni that had invaded the east of Bohemia.
The Marcomanni had threatened to take over the entire land for years. And now they were here in the northwest.
The voices quieted, and the pounding of hoofs reached her ears and matched the thudding of her heart. The men were getting closer. They hadn’t turned for her town, but they could spot her at any moment.
Rawena’s instincts screamed at her to run home. Instead, she lay flat behind a raspberry bush that sprawled between her and the merchant road. Fright clenched her soul when the cavalry came into sight. The sun glistened on their helmets and breastplates; swords dangled from their belts. The earth shuddered under the hoofs of their giant warhorses.
The beasts snorted when they caught her scent, and Rawena wished she could burrow under the ground like a rainworm. Although she feared the men would spot her checkered underdress, they rode by without glancing her way.
As their figures diminished, her thoughts and worries flew to her beloved Garux, who was hunting in the northern woods. Her guts twisted when she imagined what the soldiers would do to him if he crossed their path. She grabbed a lock of her auburn hair and pulled it in despair.
“My lover, please be safe,” she whispered as if Garux were beside her.
The thud of hoofs faded. Hundreds of men marched behind the cavalry, armed with spears, maces, swords, and bows. Fresh scars crisscrossed their skin, and gore stained their short tunics: they must have massacred a Celtic tribe in the south. Were they going to hide in the woods and march onto her town tonight?
Five or six bullocks passed her, dragging large wagons. More infantrymen brought up the rear, some of them with guard dogs. The dogs pulled on their leashes to sniff around the raspberry bush. One of them stuck its nose among the prickly twigs, so close to her she heard it pant. She clawed at her forearm, scratching off old scabs in her fright and making herself bleed.
Rawena’s head spun with relief when the men yanked on the dogs’ leashes and made them walk on, as they probably thought the dogs had sniffed a hare. When they disappeared behind a bend, she rose and crept out onto the road, wondering whether she should follow them or run home and raise the alarm.
Would her tribespeople take her seriously, though? She knew that everyone thought she was strange . . . or mad.
She decided to look for Garux and warn him, when the ominous shing of swords being drawn hacked into her spine. She turned around, her heart fluttering, and found herself face to face with three Marcomannic stragglers. They leered at her and licked their lips.
“Please, leave me alone,” Rawena begged, although she knew they wouldn’t understand her.
One of them spoke in that guttural language, and the others grinned. They stepped toward her.
A long dagger hung from her belt, but she knew they would kill her as soon as she reached for it. She swung her shoulder bag and threw it at the nearest man. As he grunted and cursed, she turned and ran.
* * *
Rawena dashed across the road and into the woods. The men’s footsteps crunched behind her.
She slid down a grassy slope that led to a creek. Her town was upstream, but she ran the other way so as not to lead the enemy to her doorstep. She crossed the creek, hoping the men’s boots would get drenched and slow them.
As she rushed on along the muddy bank, Rawena glanced over her shoulder. The soldiers had crossed to her side of the creek, but their boots sank into the mud, and they fell back. Still, she ran as fast as she could, propelled by fear of what they would do to her if they caught her. They would probably kill her, but first…
Her mind screeched with memories of the night when she was about five and her uncle had lain on top of her and pressed his hand over her mouth. Mother had pulled him off at the last moment, and the druidess had condemned him to a burning death, but Rawena still avoided men, and her strange ways made them avoid her. Although she had a lean body, a stunning mane of wild auburn hair, and large eyes that looked like a pair of agates, she was still a virgin in her late twenties.
Garux was the only man she would give her purity. The soldiers could soon finish Uncle’s filthy work, though, and she might never see Garux again.
The men chased her far beyond her tribe’s territory, into woods she had never explored. She ran until sweat gushed into her eyes, her calves throbbed, and her lungs burned. The men pursued her like three wolves.
As she plowed through thorny undergrowth, a putrid stench scurried up her nostrils and brought sickness to her stomach. When she crashed out of the undergrowth and glanced at the creek, Rawena gasped: the water had turned yellow.
Filthy fog wallowed along the banks, shrouding dead bushes. Fallen, decaying trees stretched their leafless branches up toward her as if they wanted to coil around her legs and trip her. Yellowish steam rose from the creek in the leprous air. A waterfall hissed ahead.
Rawena paused, her eyes darting through the fog for a way to run, and the men gained on her. Dead branches snapped under their feet just behind her. Despair drove her into the creek and toward the edge of the waterfall. She hoped the filthy water would discourage them from pursuing her.
The claws of a current grabbed her by her ankles and swept her down the waterfall. She swallowed putrid water, and she retched and vomited when she poked her head above the surface. Her head spun; her stomach felt on fire.
The current dragged her away from the waterfall. She struggled against it, but it kept forcing her forward like an invisible ghoul. When she already thought she would drown, the current ceased, and her feet found the bottom.
Rawena stood waist-deep in yellowish sludge. The creek and the woods had disappeared, and the swamp sprawled as far as she could see through masses of filthy steam that wallowed around her.
Although she would expect to hear the buzzing of flies, only the hiss of the faraway waterfall broke the silence. No breeze glided over her wet clothes; not a sunray rushed to dry her hair. It was as if only fog thrived in this dreadful realm.
The men hadn’t followed her here, but as the fear of their swords faded, the dread of the supernatural scurried into her mind. A wave of panic made her scream.
Her voice rolled through the stench of the swamp. Something splashed in the sludge, and a light smudge moved toward her. Rawena screamed again. As she waded back toward the waterfall, she spotted a boulder. She scaled it, sat on its flat top, and peered down.
To her relief, the thing she had seen was just a white rat with a golden spot on the top of its head. The rat swam to the boulder and climbed it.
Rawena cringed and shifted to the edge of the boulder, as far from the rat as she could. The rat shook off the drops of the slough… and turned into a woman with white skin and short, golden hair.
Rawena wanted to slide off, but astonishment glued her to the boulder. When the rat-woman squatted, sludge ran down her bare body and pooled at her large feet. Her arms were as long as her legs; her beady black eyes were set far apart. A cleft in the middle of her upper lip revealed a pair of big yellow teeth. Her nose was long and pointed.
She leaned toward Rawena and sniffed, making Rawena recoil. The woman raised her hand to scratch her small ear, and Rawena noticed she had only four fingers, armed with nails that resembled daggers.
The woman opened her mouth and made a series of high-pitched cries. To her surprise, Rawena understood them, as if magic had turned the chittering into Gaulish. She was sure the woman had said, “What was all that screaming about?”
Fear squeezed Rawena’s throat, and she didn’t answer. Her tribe’s legends teemed with supernatural beings that assumed the form of animals, but few were benevolent.
The rat-woman yawned and rubbed her eyes. She squeaked and chittered, and again, Rawena understood: “I slept for a long time. Perhaps, if you didn’t scream, I would never wake up, so I guess I should thank you, darling.” She giggled and added, “So, thank you, darling!”
Although the woman seemed friendly, Rawena couldn’t banish her fear.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked.
The woman scratched her nose and said, “My name is Pandemia.”
P.C. DARKCLIFF is a multi-award-winning author who has written two standalone novels, Deception of the Damned and The Priest of Orpagus. His latest project, Celts and the Mad Goddess, is the first installment of The Deathless Chronicle.
You can learn more about him on FACEBOOK at https://www.facebook.com/pcdwrites
or on his WEBSITE at https://pcdarkcliff.wordpress.com/
Click the covers below for details of his other books
You can learn more about him on FACEBOOK at https://www.facebook.com/pcdwrites
or on his WEBSITE at https://pcdarkcliff.wordpress.com/
Click the covers below for details of his other books
Hrot is a tribesman fighting for his soul; Jasmin is a reporter running for her life. Although they should have never met, a magical portal and an incredible twist of fate throw them together in a ruined castle in Central Europe. |
When he moves to Turkey, Braze stops a suicide and falls for a local girl—two mistakes with horrific consequences.
As they plunge into a spiral of madness and depravity, Braze and the beautiful Mehpare understand why that man wanted to kill himself. |
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It’s 1977. John, Martin’s boss, remembers an incident involving Martin and the phone that took place in 1974...
Martin hadn’t been working there for long. John had been delayed that morning and needed to tell Martin. He phoned the office, got through to Sue, and asked to be transferred to Martin. The standard procedure would have been for Sue to simply put the call through to Martin’s extension so that, when he picked up the phone, he’d hear John straight away. But Sue had had previous problems with Martin and phone calls. He never seemed to answer his phone. Of course, he might have been away from his desk each time there was a call, but that possibility seemed unlikely as he was always there when she looked.
So she tried a different method. John heard about this later from Sue. She went over to Martin, who as always was sitting at his desk, and said, “Call for you on line 2.” Then she waited until Martin had lifted the receiver and pressed the button for line 2 before returning to her room.
He didn’t say a word after connecting, but John heard breathing. Very fast, jerky breathing. So he said, “Martin?”
Still no sound came back to John, apart from the breathing.
John needed to find a way to advance this call. “Okay, I’m assuming you’re there. I have to go to the dentist this morning, so I’ll be late for our meeting. I should be in at about eleven and we can talk then. All right?”
John couldn’t understand it. The guy only had to say, “Yes.” One measly little word. How difficult could that be? Apart from the breathing and a crackle or two, absolute silence reigned.
“Okay. See you around eleven. Bye.”
John didn’t discuss the phone incident with Martin. His instinct told him it wouldn’t help and could only damage their relationship – what there was of it. From that day, he and Sue and the rest of the office knew that Martin didn’t talk on the phone and they never tried to force him to use that instrument of communication.
Of course, John had discussed Martin with Ian. Their conversations always ended the same way.
“John, I realise Martin is frustrating. What do you want me to do? Dismiss him?”
John shook his head. “You’d need to take on a whole team of programmers to replace him. They would spend their time debugging, checking, correcting and adding more mistakes in a process that would lead to more debugging, checking, correcting… You know how it goes.”
“In other words, Martin isn’t quite the idiot you portray.”
“He’s a genius and we all know it.”
“That’s good to hear. Because sometimes I think you forget that little fact.”
No, John used to reflect, he didn’t forget it. But Ian had the good fortune not to come into daily contact with Martin. Martin hardly ever needed to occupy the padded chair in Ian’s office, and John suspected that Ian, despite all he heard from John and others, didn’t really know what Martin was like.
Miriam Drori click for her author page click to view book on Amazon
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Later in the novel, you can find out how Martin’s telephonobia came about. You can also find out how he begins to overcome it.
More Information on Telephonobia
I didn’t make up this word. Well… I did, but when I looked it up, I found I wasn’t the first.
A fear of telephones rates quite high in the long list of phobias shared by people who have social anxiety.
Actually, the term is probably a bit out of date. Telephones have moved on from the primitive versions of our youth. These days, you can do many things with a phone, and telephonobia refers to just one of them: talking on the phone.
How does telephonobia begin?
It could begin because other people listen in and criticise, either during the conversation or after it.
It could begin with past traumas, like tricks that use the phone’s visual anonymity – people who pretend to be others. The traumas themselves could be long forgotten, yet their effects can last a lifetime.
What’s the problem?
Sufferers of telephonobia worry they’ll sound weird over the phone. They’re afraid of stumbling over words or being unable to express themselves. They’re afraid of what the person at the other end or those listening in will think of their poor performance.
And that’s why telephonobia is often a part of social anxiety: it’s another fear of judgement. Some sufferers of social anxiety avoid talking on the phone altogether. Some never answer when it rings.
What about me?
I remember tricks played on me as a child, but it didn’t put me off using the phone. As an adult, though, I have worried about the way I come across. And now that there are other ways of communicating, I use the phone a lot less for talking, probably less than I should. Lack of experience creates more fear.
What about you?
Do let me know, in the comments box below, how you feel about talking on the phone, or anything else my extract has aroused
Martin hadn’t been working there for long. John had been delayed that morning and needed to tell Martin. He phoned the office, got through to Sue, and asked to be transferred to Martin. The standard procedure would have been for Sue to simply put the call through to Martin’s extension so that, when he picked up the phone, he’d hear John straight away. But Sue had had previous problems with Martin and phone calls. He never seemed to answer his phone. Of course, he might have been away from his desk each time there was a call, but that possibility seemed unlikely as he was always there when she looked.
So she tried a different method. John heard about this later from Sue. She went over to Martin, who as always was sitting at his desk, and said, “Call for you on line 2.” Then she waited until Martin had lifted the receiver and pressed the button for line 2 before returning to her room.
He didn’t say a word after connecting, but John heard breathing. Very fast, jerky breathing. So he said, “Martin?”
Still no sound came back to John, apart from the breathing.
John needed to find a way to advance this call. “Okay, I’m assuming you’re there. I have to go to the dentist this morning, so I’ll be late for our meeting. I should be in at about eleven and we can talk then. All right?”
John couldn’t understand it. The guy only had to say, “Yes.” One measly little word. How difficult could that be? Apart from the breathing and a crackle or two, absolute silence reigned.
“Okay. See you around eleven. Bye.”
John didn’t discuss the phone incident with Martin. His instinct told him it wouldn’t help and could only damage their relationship – what there was of it. From that day, he and Sue and the rest of the office knew that Martin didn’t talk on the phone and they never tried to force him to use that instrument of communication.
Of course, John had discussed Martin with Ian. Their conversations always ended the same way.
“John, I realise Martin is frustrating. What do you want me to do? Dismiss him?”
John shook his head. “You’d need to take on a whole team of programmers to replace him. They would spend their time debugging, checking, correcting and adding more mistakes in a process that would lead to more debugging, checking, correcting… You know how it goes.”
“In other words, Martin isn’t quite the idiot you portray.”
“He’s a genius and we all know it.”
“That’s good to hear. Because sometimes I think you forget that little fact.”
No, John used to reflect, he didn’t forget it. But Ian had the good fortune not to come into daily contact with Martin. Martin hardly ever needed to occupy the padded chair in Ian’s office, and John suspected that Ian, despite all he heard from John and others, didn’t really know what Martin was like.
Miriam Drori click for her author page click to view book on Amazon
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Later in the novel, you can find out how Martin’s telephonobia came about. You can also find out how he begins to overcome it.
More Information on Telephonobia
I didn’t make up this word. Well… I did, but when I looked it up, I found I wasn’t the first.
A fear of telephones rates quite high in the long list of phobias shared by people who have social anxiety.
Actually, the term is probably a bit out of date. Telephones have moved on from the primitive versions of our youth. These days, you can do many things with a phone, and telephonobia refers to just one of them: talking on the phone.
How does telephonobia begin?
It could begin because other people listen in and criticise, either during the conversation or after it.
It could begin with past traumas, like tricks that use the phone’s visual anonymity – people who pretend to be others. The traumas themselves could be long forgotten, yet their effects can last a lifetime.
What’s the problem?
Sufferers of telephonobia worry they’ll sound weird over the phone. They’re afraid of stumbling over words or being unable to express themselves. They’re afraid of what the person at the other end or those listening in will think of their poor performance.
And that’s why telephonobia is often a part of social anxiety: it’s another fear of judgement. Some sufferers of social anxiety avoid talking on the phone altogether. Some never answer when it rings.
What about me?
I remember tricks played on me as a child, but it didn’t put me off using the phone. As an adult, though, I have worried about the way I come across. And now that there are other ways of communicating, I use the phone a lot less for talking, probably less than I should. Lack of experience creates more fear.
What about you?
Do let me know, in the comments box below, how you feel about talking on the phone, or anything else my extract has aroused
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Julian Lamon is the author of ‘Terry Williams and the Soldiers of the Emperor Qin’
click here for his website |
Waking up with a start in his dusty room, Thierry looked around him, his eyes empty, still lost in the recollections of his unmentionable nightmare.
He is drenched; dripping in sweat; cold one moment, freezing the next. After a moment, he begins to come round a little, dries his face with a still trembling hand, then turns his head slowly towards the window, which was always kept closed.
Thierry rushes to get up and open the window wide, in an attempt to rid the room of the nauseating smell that hung over it. Outside, it is still pitch black. The street lights bathe the town in a yellow halo and he can still make out the sound of traffic in the town centre.
Leaning against the window frame, Thierry takes a deep breath, his mind racing. “What is this shit?” he asks himself. He knows, for he has been having the same dream for several nights. It’s 3:40, as it’s almost every time he woke from this terrible nightmare. He moves around the room, still groggy. On the improvised bedside table, a half-broken brick, he finds his notebook and a pen. The notebook, also improvised, is no more just a pile of pages stuck together.
He takes the notebook, notes the date and then the details of the nightmare itself.
Vevey, 22nd August 2078, 03:43
The same dream, over and over. Almost to the last comma, the same events, the same voices, the same faces, the same places. It’s driving me mad.
In my dream, I wake up, soaked in sweat as in after a nightmare. I get up and look at what I’m seeing. The wooden window frame is rotting and there is no pane of glass. It lets in the cold air; it’s the beginning of winter. However, when I look at myself, I’m naked and yet I’m not even cold. Outside, chaos. The town in ruins. In the distance, I can see the well-known places where I go all the time. The little Starbucks on the street corner with its pretty outdoor sitting space. Except that in my dream it had been ripped apart, plundered, burnt out. A little further on I can make the shopping centre with the Migros at its heart. There also, just like the local cafe, everything is ruined, pillaged and burnt. It’s as if the town has suffered a cataclysm in which the few remaining survivors are searching for food and clothing.
In spite of the apocalyptic scene, I am totally calm. As if I am used to this. I go down into the street after putting on a t-shirt, a pullover and tweed trousers. When I get to the main door, it’s also missing, and I see that outside it’s raining. A very fine snow that isn’t going to soak me. The streets are covered with a light coat of white wintry powder, which has not yet completely disappeared. I run into Stacy, a rather pretty addict. Blonde with brown eyes. A very clear brown, almost transparent. Her hair pushed to one side, she lights a fag. I wonder where she got hold of it in the midst of this destruction. But for he ‘me’ in my dream this all appears normal. I give her a polite kiss and begin the same bizarre conversation.
“Hi, Stacy.”
« Hi,Yank. How’s it going?”
“OK, thanks. But why are you calling me ‘Yank’, I’m not an American? Besides, you’re the foreigner. A Brit”
“I don’t know. I like to wind you up. And it’s Miss Britannia to you,” she answers me back, with a wink. “See you!”
« See you!”
I go off on a wander around the streets with exceptional courage and confidence, although I’m not really brave in real life. The little streets take me towards what looks like the Nestle factory, it also in ruins. The big buildings are nothing like what they are in the real world. They seem to have been abandoned for dozens of years. The grass, the bushes and trees in front of the building have been transformed into a small forest. Many of the windows have been broken, in particular those in the glazed doors of the main entrance through which I enter. Inside, I hear the click-clack of drops of water passing through the numerous holes in the ceiling. The lifts have been out of action for years, so I take the stairs up to the 4th floor and go into my office. The place where I work day in and day out, if I’m to believe the ‘me’ of my dream. I open the heavy wooden door and rush straight to the old wooden chair. The chair turns round suddenly of its own accord, and I see that someone has already claimed ownership of the director’s armchair. It’s ….
Waking up with a start in his dusty room, Thierry looks around him, his eyes empty, still lost in the recollections of his unmentionable nightmare.
He is drenched; dripping in sweat; cold one moment, freezing the next. After a moment, he begins to come round a little, dries his face with a still trembling hand, then turns his head slowly towards the window. “What is this shit?” he asks himself. He knows, for he has been having the same dream for several nights. A dream in which he wakes up in a dusty apartment, but where the window is intact, where the town is lit up by street lights and where people are living quietly. His bed is a real bed, not a pile of cardboard boxes.
Thierry struggles to get out of bed, his muscles still hurting. He goes over to the dilapidated window and looked out. The sun came up several hours ago and the tiny flakes of snow are falling. The street is covered in a thin white coat, with the grey of cement and the black of tar showing through it. He sees the pretty girl below, smoking and waiting for him. Cigarette in her mouth, hair nicely done, with an expression as cold as this early winter morning. He turns his head towards the brick he has placed beside his improvised bed. A beautiful red brick taken from a ruined building. On top of it, there’s his arm, a black pistol, loaded with 15 bullets, together with a metal water bottle. He lifts up both of them and goes down into the street to join his blonde partner.
Copyright © Julien Lamon, 2018 translated by James Gault
He is drenched; dripping in sweat; cold one moment, freezing the next. After a moment, he begins to come round a little, dries his face with a still trembling hand, then turns his head slowly towards the window, which was always kept closed.
Thierry rushes to get up and open the window wide, in an attempt to rid the room of the nauseating smell that hung over it. Outside, it is still pitch black. The street lights bathe the town in a yellow halo and he can still make out the sound of traffic in the town centre.
Leaning against the window frame, Thierry takes a deep breath, his mind racing. “What is this shit?” he asks himself. He knows, for he has been having the same dream for several nights. It’s 3:40, as it’s almost every time he woke from this terrible nightmare. He moves around the room, still groggy. On the improvised bedside table, a half-broken brick, he finds his notebook and a pen. The notebook, also improvised, is no more just a pile of pages stuck together.
He takes the notebook, notes the date and then the details of the nightmare itself.
Vevey, 22nd August 2078, 03:43
The same dream, over and over. Almost to the last comma, the same events, the same voices, the same faces, the same places. It’s driving me mad.
In my dream, I wake up, soaked in sweat as in after a nightmare. I get up and look at what I’m seeing. The wooden window frame is rotting and there is no pane of glass. It lets in the cold air; it’s the beginning of winter. However, when I look at myself, I’m naked and yet I’m not even cold. Outside, chaos. The town in ruins. In the distance, I can see the well-known places where I go all the time. The little Starbucks on the street corner with its pretty outdoor sitting space. Except that in my dream it had been ripped apart, plundered, burnt out. A little further on I can make the shopping centre with the Migros at its heart. There also, just like the local cafe, everything is ruined, pillaged and burnt. It’s as if the town has suffered a cataclysm in which the few remaining survivors are searching for food and clothing.
In spite of the apocalyptic scene, I am totally calm. As if I am used to this. I go down into the street after putting on a t-shirt, a pullover and tweed trousers. When I get to the main door, it’s also missing, and I see that outside it’s raining. A very fine snow that isn’t going to soak me. The streets are covered with a light coat of white wintry powder, which has not yet completely disappeared. I run into Stacy, a rather pretty addict. Blonde with brown eyes. A very clear brown, almost transparent. Her hair pushed to one side, she lights a fag. I wonder where she got hold of it in the midst of this destruction. But for he ‘me’ in my dream this all appears normal. I give her a polite kiss and begin the same bizarre conversation.
“Hi, Stacy.”
« Hi,Yank. How’s it going?”
“OK, thanks. But why are you calling me ‘Yank’, I’m not an American? Besides, you’re the foreigner. A Brit”
“I don’t know. I like to wind you up. And it’s Miss Britannia to you,” she answers me back, with a wink. “See you!”
« See you!”
I go off on a wander around the streets with exceptional courage and confidence, although I’m not really brave in real life. The little streets take me towards what looks like the Nestle factory, it also in ruins. The big buildings are nothing like what they are in the real world. They seem to have been abandoned for dozens of years. The grass, the bushes and trees in front of the building have been transformed into a small forest. Many of the windows have been broken, in particular those in the glazed doors of the main entrance through which I enter. Inside, I hear the click-clack of drops of water passing through the numerous holes in the ceiling. The lifts have been out of action for years, so I take the stairs up to the 4th floor and go into my office. The place where I work day in and day out, if I’m to believe the ‘me’ of my dream. I open the heavy wooden door and rush straight to the old wooden chair. The chair turns round suddenly of its own accord, and I see that someone has already claimed ownership of the director’s armchair. It’s ….
Waking up with a start in his dusty room, Thierry looks around him, his eyes empty, still lost in the recollections of his unmentionable nightmare.
He is drenched; dripping in sweat; cold one moment, freezing the next. After a moment, he begins to come round a little, dries his face with a still trembling hand, then turns his head slowly towards the window. “What is this shit?” he asks himself. He knows, for he has been having the same dream for several nights. A dream in which he wakes up in a dusty apartment, but where the window is intact, where the town is lit up by street lights and where people are living quietly. His bed is a real bed, not a pile of cardboard boxes.
Thierry struggles to get out of bed, his muscles still hurting. He goes over to the dilapidated window and looked out. The sun came up several hours ago and the tiny flakes of snow are falling. The street is covered in a thin white coat, with the grey of cement and the black of tar showing through it. He sees the pretty girl below, smoking and waiting for him. Cigarette in her mouth, hair nicely done, with an expression as cold as this early winter morning. He turns his head towards the brick he has placed beside his improvised bed. A beautiful red brick taken from a ruined building. On top of it, there’s his arm, a black pistol, loaded with 15 bullets, together with a metal water bottle. He lifts up both of them and goes down into the street to join his blonde partner.
Copyright © Julien Lamon, 2018 translated by James Gault
La Version française de Somnĭum
Réveillé en sursaut dans la chambre de son appartement poisseux, Thierry regarde autour de lui, les yeux vides, encore perdu dans les pensées de ce cauchemar sans nom.
Il est en nage, dégoulinant de sueur, et il a chaud et soif. Revenant peu à peu à lui, il s’essuie le visage d’une main encore tremblante, puis tourne lentement la tête en direction de la fenêtre. Elle n’est ouverte qu’en imposte.
Thierry s’empresse alors de se lever et d’ouvrir la fenêtre en grand pour aérer cette pièce aux odeurs de renfermé nauséabond. Dehors, il fait encore nuit noire. Les lumières de la ville éclairent les rues d’un halo jaunâtre et l’on peut entendre les quelques voitures circulant au centreville.
Appuyé contre le rebord de la fenêtre, Thierry respire un bon coup, ses pensées vont à toute vitesse. « Qu’est-ce que c’était que cette merde ? », se demande-t-il intérieurement. Il le sait, car cela fait plusieurs nuits qu’il subit le même rêve. Il est 03h40, comme presque à chaque fois qu’il se réveille après ce terrible cauchemar. Il se déplace encore groggy. Sur la table de chevet improvisée, une brique à moitié cassée, se trouvent son carnet et un stylo. Carnet, lui aussi improvisé. Il s’agit plutôt d’un tas de feuilles regroupées ensemble.
Il prend le carnet, note la date, l’heure et le cauchemar en lui-même.
Vevey, 22 août 2078, 03h43
Le même rêve, encore et encore. Presque à la virgule près, les mêmes événements, les mêmes voix, les mêmes gestes, les mêmes visages, les mêmes lieux. C’est à en devenir fou.
Dans mon rêve, je me réveille en nage, comme après un cauchemar. Je me lève et vais contempler la vue. Le cadre en bois de la fenêtre est en train de pourrir et il n’y a plus de vitre. L’air frais passe à travers, on est au début de l’hiver. Pourtant, quand je me regarde, je suis torse nu et n’ai même pas froid. Dehors, c’est le chaos, la ville est en ruines. J’aperçois au loin quelques coins connus où je vais souvent. Le petit Starbucks du coin de rue avec sa jolie terrasse. Sauf que dans mon rêve il a été éventré, pillé, brûlé. Un peu plus loin je peux apercevoir le centre commercial avec en son sein la Migros. Là aussi, tout comme le café du coin, tout est éventré, pillé,brûlé. La ville a comme subi un cataclysme dans lequel les rares survivants cherchent de quoi se nourrir et se vêtir.
Malgré cette vue apocalyptique, je suis calme. Comme si j’y étais habitué. Je descends dans la rue après avoir enfilé un t-shirt, un pull et un pantalon tweed. Arrivé à la porte d’entrée, qui est aussi manquante, je vois qu’il neigeote dehors. Une neige très fine qui ne risque pas de me mouiller. Les rues sont recouvertes d’un léger manteau de cette poudre blanche hivernale, sans toutefois avoir complètement disparues. Je croise une certaine Stacy, une toxico plutôt jolie. Une blonde aux yeux bruns. Un brun très clair, presque transparent. Ses cheveux sont rabattus d’un côté, elle s’allume une clope. D’où elle l’a trouvé, je me pose la question dans ce monde détruit. Mais pour mon « moi » du rêve, cela lui parait normal. Je lui fais la bise et s’entame alors la même conversation bizarre.
- Salut Stacy.
- Salut le Ricain, comment vas-tu ?
- Bien merci. Pourquoi tu m’appelles toujours le Ricain ? Je ne suis pas américain.
En plus, c’est toi l’étrangère. La Brit.
- Je ne sais pas, j’aime bien t’embêter. Et c’est Miss Britania pour toi, me lance-telle
avec un clin d’oeil tout en s’en allant, à tout à l’heure !
- À tout à l’heure.
Je m’enfonce ensuite dans un dédale de rues avec une bravoure et une dextérité assez hors du commun, moi qui ne suis pas vraiment courageux dans la réalité. Les ruelles m’emmènent vers ce qui ressemble à l’entreprise Nestlé, détruite elle aussi.
Les grands bâtiments ne sont plus ce qu’ils sont par rapport au monde éveillé. Ils semblent n’avoir plus été entretenus depuis plusieurs dizaines d’années. L’herbe, les buissons et les arbres qui se trouvent devant le bâtiment se sont transformés en une petite forêt. De nombreuses vitres sont cassées, notamment celles des portes vitrées de l’entrée principale par laquelle je m’engouffre. À l’intérieur, j’entends le cliquetis des gouttes qui passent à travers le plafond percé de toutes parts. Les ascenseurs ne fonctionnant plus depuis bien des années, je prends les escaliers et, arrivé au 4e étage, je me rends directement dans mon bureau. Celui où je travaille habituellement, à en croire le « moi » dans le rêve. J’ouvre la porte de bois renforcé du bureau, et me rends d’un pas rapide et direct vers le vieux siège en cuir. Le siège se tourne soudainement seul sur lui-même, je m’arrête et vois que
quelqu’un a déjà pris possession du fauteuil directorial. Je le reconnais tout de suite, c’est …
Réveillé en sursaut dans la chambre de son appartement poisseux, Thierry regarde autour de lui, les yeux vides, encore perdu dans les pensées de ce cauchemar sans nom. Il est en nage, dégoulinant de sueur, et il a chaud et soif. Revenant peu
à peu à lui, il s’essuie le visage d’une main encore tremblante, puis tourne lentement la tête en direction de la fenêtre. « Qu’est-ce que c’était que cette merde ? », se demande-t-il intérieurement. Il le sait, étrangement, car cela fait plusieurs nuits qu’il subit le même rêve. Un rêve dans lequel il se réveille dans un appartement poisseux, mais où la vitre est intacte, où la ville est éclairée par des lampadaires et où les gens y vivent tranquillement. Son lit est un vrai lit, pas un tas de cartons empilés.
Thierry se lève avec peine, les muscles encore endoloris. Il s’approche de la fenêtre en bois délabrée et regarde à l’extérieur. Dehors, le jour s’est levé depuis quelques heures déjà et la neige tombe en fins flocons. La rue est couverte d’un mince manteau blanc, laissant encore apparaitre le gris du béton et le noir de l’asphalte. Il voit la jolie fumeuse en train de l’attendre en bas. La cigarette à la bouche, les cheveux attachés, et le regard aussi froid que ce début d’hiver. Il tourne alors la tête et son regard se dirige vers la brique qu’il a placée à côté de son lit improvisé. Une belle brique rouge intacte, prise d’un vieux bâtiment délabré. Dessus se trouve son arme, un pistolet noir chargé avec 15 balles, ainsi qu’une bouteille d’eau en métal. Il prend les deux et descend dans la rue rejoindre sa compagne blonde.
Copyright © Julien Lamon, 2018
Réveillé en sursaut dans la chambre de son appartement poisseux, Thierry regarde autour de lui, les yeux vides, encore perdu dans les pensées de ce cauchemar sans nom.
Il est en nage, dégoulinant de sueur, et il a chaud et soif. Revenant peu à peu à lui, il s’essuie le visage d’une main encore tremblante, puis tourne lentement la tête en direction de la fenêtre. Elle n’est ouverte qu’en imposte.
Thierry s’empresse alors de se lever et d’ouvrir la fenêtre en grand pour aérer cette pièce aux odeurs de renfermé nauséabond. Dehors, il fait encore nuit noire. Les lumières de la ville éclairent les rues d’un halo jaunâtre et l’on peut entendre les quelques voitures circulant au centreville.
Appuyé contre le rebord de la fenêtre, Thierry respire un bon coup, ses pensées vont à toute vitesse. « Qu’est-ce que c’était que cette merde ? », se demande-t-il intérieurement. Il le sait, car cela fait plusieurs nuits qu’il subit le même rêve. Il est 03h40, comme presque à chaque fois qu’il se réveille après ce terrible cauchemar. Il se déplace encore groggy. Sur la table de chevet improvisée, une brique à moitié cassée, se trouvent son carnet et un stylo. Carnet, lui aussi improvisé. Il s’agit plutôt d’un tas de feuilles regroupées ensemble.
Il prend le carnet, note la date, l’heure et le cauchemar en lui-même.
Vevey, 22 août 2078, 03h43
Le même rêve, encore et encore. Presque à la virgule près, les mêmes événements, les mêmes voix, les mêmes gestes, les mêmes visages, les mêmes lieux. C’est à en devenir fou.
Dans mon rêve, je me réveille en nage, comme après un cauchemar. Je me lève et vais contempler la vue. Le cadre en bois de la fenêtre est en train de pourrir et il n’y a plus de vitre. L’air frais passe à travers, on est au début de l’hiver. Pourtant, quand je me regarde, je suis torse nu et n’ai même pas froid. Dehors, c’est le chaos, la ville est en ruines. J’aperçois au loin quelques coins connus où je vais souvent. Le petit Starbucks du coin de rue avec sa jolie terrasse. Sauf que dans mon rêve il a été éventré, pillé, brûlé. Un peu plus loin je peux apercevoir le centre commercial avec en son sein la Migros. Là aussi, tout comme le café du coin, tout est éventré, pillé,brûlé. La ville a comme subi un cataclysme dans lequel les rares survivants cherchent de quoi se nourrir et se vêtir.
Malgré cette vue apocalyptique, je suis calme. Comme si j’y étais habitué. Je descends dans la rue après avoir enfilé un t-shirt, un pull et un pantalon tweed. Arrivé à la porte d’entrée, qui est aussi manquante, je vois qu’il neigeote dehors. Une neige très fine qui ne risque pas de me mouiller. Les rues sont recouvertes d’un léger manteau de cette poudre blanche hivernale, sans toutefois avoir complètement disparues. Je croise une certaine Stacy, une toxico plutôt jolie. Une blonde aux yeux bruns. Un brun très clair, presque transparent. Ses cheveux sont rabattus d’un côté, elle s’allume une clope. D’où elle l’a trouvé, je me pose la question dans ce monde détruit. Mais pour mon « moi » du rêve, cela lui parait normal. Je lui fais la bise et s’entame alors la même conversation bizarre.
- Salut Stacy.
- Salut le Ricain, comment vas-tu ?
- Bien merci. Pourquoi tu m’appelles toujours le Ricain ? Je ne suis pas américain.
En plus, c’est toi l’étrangère. La Brit.
- Je ne sais pas, j’aime bien t’embêter. Et c’est Miss Britania pour toi, me lance-telle
avec un clin d’oeil tout en s’en allant, à tout à l’heure !
- À tout à l’heure.
Je m’enfonce ensuite dans un dédale de rues avec une bravoure et une dextérité assez hors du commun, moi qui ne suis pas vraiment courageux dans la réalité. Les ruelles m’emmènent vers ce qui ressemble à l’entreprise Nestlé, détruite elle aussi.
Les grands bâtiments ne sont plus ce qu’ils sont par rapport au monde éveillé. Ils semblent n’avoir plus été entretenus depuis plusieurs dizaines d’années. L’herbe, les buissons et les arbres qui se trouvent devant le bâtiment se sont transformés en une petite forêt. De nombreuses vitres sont cassées, notamment celles des portes vitrées de l’entrée principale par laquelle je m’engouffre. À l’intérieur, j’entends le cliquetis des gouttes qui passent à travers le plafond percé de toutes parts. Les ascenseurs ne fonctionnant plus depuis bien des années, je prends les escaliers et, arrivé au 4e étage, je me rends directement dans mon bureau. Celui où je travaille habituellement, à en croire le « moi » dans le rêve. J’ouvre la porte de bois renforcé du bureau, et me rends d’un pas rapide et direct vers le vieux siège en cuir. Le siège se tourne soudainement seul sur lui-même, je m’arrête et vois que
quelqu’un a déjà pris possession du fauteuil directorial. Je le reconnais tout de suite, c’est …
Réveillé en sursaut dans la chambre de son appartement poisseux, Thierry regarde autour de lui, les yeux vides, encore perdu dans les pensées de ce cauchemar sans nom. Il est en nage, dégoulinant de sueur, et il a chaud et soif. Revenant peu
à peu à lui, il s’essuie le visage d’une main encore tremblante, puis tourne lentement la tête en direction de la fenêtre. « Qu’est-ce que c’était que cette merde ? », se demande-t-il intérieurement. Il le sait, étrangement, car cela fait plusieurs nuits qu’il subit le même rêve. Un rêve dans lequel il se réveille dans un appartement poisseux, mais où la vitre est intacte, où la ville est éclairée par des lampadaires et où les gens y vivent tranquillement. Son lit est un vrai lit, pas un tas de cartons empilés.
Thierry se lève avec peine, les muscles encore endoloris. Il s’approche de la fenêtre en bois délabrée et regarde à l’extérieur. Dehors, le jour s’est levé depuis quelques heures déjà et la neige tombe en fins flocons. La rue est couverte d’un mince manteau blanc, laissant encore apparaitre le gris du béton et le noir de l’asphalte. Il voit la jolie fumeuse en train de l’attendre en bas. La cigarette à la bouche, les cheveux attachés, et le regard aussi froid que ce début d’hiver. Il tourne alors la tête et son regard se dirige vers la brique qu’il a placée à côté de son lit improvisé. Une belle brique rouge intacte, prise d’un vieux bâtiment délabré. Dessus se trouve son arme, un pistolet noir chargé avec 15 balles, ainsi qu’une bouteille d’eau en métal. Il prend les deux et descend dans la rue rejoindre sa compagne blonde.
Copyright © Julien Lamon, 2018
AN EXCERPT FROM SHATTERING TRUTHS
by
Kyrian Lyndon
CHAPTER TWO
It might have been a glorious beach day.
Horned larks looked happy among the plum and bayberry shrubs, yellow sunflowers, and purple roses. The blue waters of the Long Island Sound were as beguiling as the landscape. Young men were perched on railings that glistened under the glare of the sun—ogling, whistling, and confessing their undying love. I witnessed this phenomenon whenever I walked to and from the bus stop in my school uniform, and came to realize I could easily disrupt traffic and possibly cause a collision.
I had never achieved a placid familiarity with the horn-honking and people clamoring for my attention. I had spent many years feeling like the ugly duckling muddling haplessly through the dark green marsh. If I had advanced from there at all, it was to become the tiniest winged critter, never able to keep up with the flock, and never certain I wanted to.
My metamorphosis was magical. I had the same golden brown hair—by then almost waist length—the same hazel eyes, coveted high cheekbones, enviable skin, and ravishing lips as before, but it had all become relevant! I believed I had willed and constructed this change. More accurately, I’d grown into my beauty, and my painstaking efforts to straighten my thick, wavy tresses made no difference. People looked mostly at my chest. I was a busty girl of five-foot-four who kept herself trim and toned with exercise.
Pain hindered my walking that day.
“We should rent a summer beach house here—or a cabin,” Farran said. “You met those two older guys here the other day, didn’t you? The ones you made a date with?”
“Yeah, one of them was thirty,” my cousin Angie chimed in. “The other guy was twenty-nine.” Her angelic voice was a touch above a whisper.
“Well, they knew you were both sixteen, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they knew,” I replied.
Mental images intruded—gold crucifix chains upon masculine chests. I had noticed those chains from the moment the men approached us on the beach. Perhaps I had an ingrained trust in that sacred symbol. I shouldn’t have. People wore things for different reasons. We adorned our arms with plastic jelly bracelets in neon colors because Madonna wore them, and she was the most fussed-about pop star. She also wore crucifix chains, which Angie and I had displayed with devotion since childhood.
We spread out our blankets in the middle of the beach. All eyes were on me when I stripped down to my halter-style swim top. In light of the ensuing commotion, I decided to keep the shorts on.
“With you around, I get no respect for my B-cup,” Farran complained. I saw the twinkle in her electric blue eyes when she smiled. Her high-cut one-piece elongated her pretty legs and flattered her figure. She was taller than me, with a nice head of light brown, shoulder-length hair that she often wore in a ponytail or chignon.
“What about me? I have nothing,” Angie lamented. She left her shorts on as well, with a skimpy bandeau top.
Angie and I had grown up together in Glastonbury. We’d been in the same classes since kindergarten. In a couple of weeks, we’d be seniors at the same high school. She was an inch shorter than I was, and always in sneakers, jellies, or flip-flops. Her dark hair was past shoulder length, framing a heart-shaped face and prominent brown eyes.
All three of us wanted admiration and, yes, adoration—from males, especially. When it became uncomfortable, I figured I wasn’t used to it. At the same time, I preferred being uncomfortable to being ridiculed and shamed.
I don’t recall which of the two men that day had asked what country I was from, insisting he detected a trace of European, and possibly Latin, in my New England accent. This extravagant attention to every detail did more than flatter me—I felt like it validated my existence. I’m certain I had blushed when I assured him I was a Connecticut native from Glastonbury.
“The whole thing was a nightmare,” I blurted out, as if Farran and Angie had been following my thoughts.
“A nightmare! Why?” Farran looked at Angie, probably to gauge her reaction. “Wait, I thought it was a date you all went on yesterday? I mean, you were both there, right? Angie said she liked the guy.”
Yes, Angie had liked Phil, the muscular, tattooed one with the mustache and short blond curls. When she’d unexpectedly begun kissing him, I had wanted to pull her away and shout, “What the hell has gotten into you?” She had always been painfully shy, but while surrendering to Phil’s embrace, there were moans coming out of that girl that she would not likely have emitted in private, let alone in a room with three other people.
I remembered how horrified we’d both been in seventh grade when a group of boys from our class began following girls to the bus stop. They would wait for an opportunity to grab a girl, and then pull her into the bushes or woods. They did whatever they could get away with before she broke free. Angie and I had had to walk, sometimes run, in a different direction, and wait until they were gone before we could return to our bus stop. They never caught us. When I told my brothers, they made it stop.
Angie and I had clung to our perception of that sacrosanct bequest—being “saved” for the right person. Our parents had never talked to us about defiled reputations or unwanted pregnancies, but in school, there were proclamations that only bad girls welcomed attention from boys. I didn’t think Angie had intended to go beyond kissing, but these men could not have known that. She had this tranquilizing humility, and though she kept her composure now, I could see a trace of fear in her large, haunted eyes. Could Farran not see it, or was I wrong about that, too?
“It was supposed to be a date, just to Pleasure Beach,” I explained. We sat on the blanket. I used some of Angie’s lotion on my already bronzed skin.
Farran applied sunblock. “Pleasure Beach … my parents used to go there back in the fifties.”
Things came to me in shadowy flashes. Phil had carried Angie away, and I was alone with the other guy. Sergio was his name. Though I did think he was cute with his close-cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and pencil-thin mustache, I was not attracted to him. I had felt dizzy trying to stand. The room spun, and I fell back on the sofa with only a blurred impression of the room. Sergio’s voice sounded like it was a distance away. I couldn’t see his face.
“They told us they’d forgotten their camera and wanted to stop and get it, since it wasn’t far,” I explained. “It might have been one of the beach cottages on Long Beach West. I had to fight them …”
Yet I remembered them driving us home. Angie was in the front seat, talking to Phil, who was driving. She appeared to be okay. Sergio was in the back with me. I had slept most of the time, with my head resting on his shoulder. We’d gone over that rickety bridge.
“Come on, Dani!” Farran’s smile was ingenuous. “Sounds like you had some wild experience that maybe got out of control, and you’re feeling guilty. You shouldn’t. Guys would be celebrating! I mean, you can’t take it back. It sounds like that’s what you’re trying to do. Maybe it’s time you grew up. I’m serious! Don’t be such a baby!” She laughed.
Farran was generous with smiles and laughter, right down to the wrinkling of her nose and an occasional wink. I imagined those eyes would shine until her dying day, and she would forever be as lovable and sweet as she was. I adored her. With her self-deprecating humor, people liked her in an instant. I expected boys to be falling all over her. What I didn’t understand was their interest in me. My assets were merely the luck of the draw.
“It was horrible,” I insisted. “I thought about going to the police.”
She looked dumbfounded, and that solidified for me the idea that going to the police would be futile.
I looked to Angie, and she didn’t avert her eyes. Those dark pools were now an ocean, with depths I couldn’t fathom. I saw her concern for me. Farran seemed to latch onto how Angie hadn’t confirmed any of it, but she ignored that Angie never denied it. Still, I backed down. My sense of reality had been undermined, but I didn’t doubt what I’d recalled, not for a moment.
Farran grabbed her radio, reminding me of how she and I would sing at the beach. When she turned up the volume, I looked away.
I thought about my family.
My dad had liked this beach when we were kids. It was Hammonasset in Madison, a two-mile stretch from Tom Creek on the western end to the Hammonasset River and Clinton Harbor on the east. He used to take us to West Beach. We were on East Beach now, which we preferred. It was quieter, with fewer kids.
The waves were no more than one or two feet, and I liked the gentle breeze. I loved watching the birds—osprey, piping plovers, sandpipers, willets, snowy egrets, and all the amazing herons. Birds resonated with me.
Innocent singing on the beach was a pleasant memory, as were family days when we searched for shells and copper scraps, marveling at starfish. Joey liked big-clawed hermit crabs and breaking rocks on the pier to find garnets. Uncle Dom usually brought a kite to fly—Angie’s favorite thing. Joey and Robbie played Frisbee. There were coolers with food and drinks. When the adults had had enough sun, we packed up and moved over to a picnic table in the shade. We could spend hours at the beach and still not want to go home—until Robbie had about had it with the stinging black flies that came up from the marshes. By his reaction, you would have thought they targeted him alone.
“Are you okay, Dani?” Angie was searching my eyes.
“She’s fine,” Farran assured her.
I held back tears. “They keep calling me. They called me five times when I got back from the so-called date and a few more times this morning.”
“Well, tell ‘em to call me,” Farran quipped.
“I don’t want them calling!”
“Dani?” Angie called out.
“I’m okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Her wide-stretched lips eased into a smile, endearing her to me, as always.
Farran, however, was off on another tangent. “Hey, we’re not far from Marauders Cove. It’s about twenty minutes from here. Isn’t that where your brother, Joey, hangs out? And doesn’t he live only two blocks from there?”
“He hangs out with bikers,” I reminded her.
“I know.” She beamed.
“Besides, you have to be twenty-one.”
“Well, Joey’s not twenty-one.”
“He will be in a couple of months.”
She waved if off, flashing an ear-to-ear grin. “Danielle, Marauders Cove is an old-fashioned pub owned by the McGrath family. I practically grew up with them.”
Yes, and the McGrath family included Mike McGrath, my first and only love—someone I had always been able to trust. The mention of his name now evoked a twinge of melancholia that fanned the flames of my anguish.
“I’m sure your brother will be looking after you anyway, and so will his friends,” she went on. “I can get us phony proof. Hey, I’m starting college in the fall! It’s a rite of passage!”
This behavior was typical of Farran. She thought nothing of suggesting we hitchhike to the beach if we didn’t have a ride. Thankfully, a neighbor of hers had given us a ride that day. The plan was to meet up with the woman by three-thirty at Joshua Rock, just to the east of the park entrance.
“I’m not sure we should be barhopping,” I said.
“Oh, please.” She lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled. “You are always so uptight, Dani. You have to live a little.”
I wanted to address the absurdity of that second statement, but I didn’t know where to begin.
“School starts in a couple of weeks. It’s probably our last beach day. We gotta do something for excitement—like meet up with people. Maybe if I were a total knockout, I could sit home and wait for them to beat down my door, but that ain’t gonna happen.” She laughed. “Hey, I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of your car magazines. Still looking for a Nissan?” She was making nice, I could see, piling on the sugar.
“Yeah. I’m hoping by my birthday I will finally pass the road test.”
“Third time’s the charm, right?”
Angie laughed, a gentle laughter, but I saw the change in her. She looked more fragile to me.
It might have been a glorious beach day.
Horned larks looked happy among the plum and bayberry shrubs, yellow sunflowers, and purple roses. The blue waters of the Long Island Sound were as beguiling as the landscape. Young men were perched on railings that glistened under the glare of the sun—ogling, whistling, and confessing their undying love. I witnessed this phenomenon whenever I walked to and from the bus stop in my school uniform, and came to realize I could easily disrupt traffic and possibly cause a collision.
I had never achieved a placid familiarity with the horn-honking and people clamoring for my attention. I had spent many years feeling like the ugly duckling muddling haplessly through the dark green marsh. If I had advanced from there at all, it was to become the tiniest winged critter, never able to keep up with the flock, and never certain I wanted to.
My metamorphosis was magical. I had the same golden brown hair—by then almost waist length—the same hazel eyes, coveted high cheekbones, enviable skin, and ravishing lips as before, but it had all become relevant! I believed I had willed and constructed this change. More accurately, I’d grown into my beauty, and my painstaking efforts to straighten my thick, wavy tresses made no difference. People looked mostly at my chest. I was a busty girl of five-foot-four who kept herself trim and toned with exercise.
Pain hindered my walking that day.
“We should rent a summer beach house here—or a cabin,” Farran said. “You met those two older guys here the other day, didn’t you? The ones you made a date with?”
“Yeah, one of them was thirty,” my cousin Angie chimed in. “The other guy was twenty-nine.” Her angelic voice was a touch above a whisper.
“Well, they knew you were both sixteen, didn’t they?”
“Yes, they knew,” I replied.
Mental images intruded—gold crucifix chains upon masculine chests. I had noticed those chains from the moment the men approached us on the beach. Perhaps I had an ingrained trust in that sacred symbol. I shouldn’t have. People wore things for different reasons. We adorned our arms with plastic jelly bracelets in neon colors because Madonna wore them, and she was the most fussed-about pop star. She also wore crucifix chains, which Angie and I had displayed with devotion since childhood.
We spread out our blankets in the middle of the beach. All eyes were on me when I stripped down to my halter-style swim top. In light of the ensuing commotion, I decided to keep the shorts on.
“With you around, I get no respect for my B-cup,” Farran complained. I saw the twinkle in her electric blue eyes when she smiled. Her high-cut one-piece elongated her pretty legs and flattered her figure. She was taller than me, with a nice head of light brown, shoulder-length hair that she often wore in a ponytail or chignon.
“What about me? I have nothing,” Angie lamented. She left her shorts on as well, with a skimpy bandeau top.
Angie and I had grown up together in Glastonbury. We’d been in the same classes since kindergarten. In a couple of weeks, we’d be seniors at the same high school. She was an inch shorter than I was, and always in sneakers, jellies, or flip-flops. Her dark hair was past shoulder length, framing a heart-shaped face and prominent brown eyes.
All three of us wanted admiration and, yes, adoration—from males, especially. When it became uncomfortable, I figured I wasn’t used to it. At the same time, I preferred being uncomfortable to being ridiculed and shamed.
I don’t recall which of the two men that day had asked what country I was from, insisting he detected a trace of European, and possibly Latin, in my New England accent. This extravagant attention to every detail did more than flatter me—I felt like it validated my existence. I’m certain I had blushed when I assured him I was a Connecticut native from Glastonbury.
“The whole thing was a nightmare,” I blurted out, as if Farran and Angie had been following my thoughts.
“A nightmare! Why?” Farran looked at Angie, probably to gauge her reaction. “Wait, I thought it was a date you all went on yesterday? I mean, you were both there, right? Angie said she liked the guy.”
Yes, Angie had liked Phil, the muscular, tattooed one with the mustache and short blond curls. When she’d unexpectedly begun kissing him, I had wanted to pull her away and shout, “What the hell has gotten into you?” She had always been painfully shy, but while surrendering to Phil’s embrace, there were moans coming out of that girl that she would not likely have emitted in private, let alone in a room with three other people.
I remembered how horrified we’d both been in seventh grade when a group of boys from our class began following girls to the bus stop. They would wait for an opportunity to grab a girl, and then pull her into the bushes or woods. They did whatever they could get away with before she broke free. Angie and I had had to walk, sometimes run, in a different direction, and wait until they were gone before we could return to our bus stop. They never caught us. When I told my brothers, they made it stop.
Angie and I had clung to our perception of that sacrosanct bequest—being “saved” for the right person. Our parents had never talked to us about defiled reputations or unwanted pregnancies, but in school, there were proclamations that only bad girls welcomed attention from boys. I didn’t think Angie had intended to go beyond kissing, but these men could not have known that. She had this tranquilizing humility, and though she kept her composure now, I could see a trace of fear in her large, haunted eyes. Could Farran not see it, or was I wrong about that, too?
“It was supposed to be a date, just to Pleasure Beach,” I explained. We sat on the blanket. I used some of Angie’s lotion on my already bronzed skin.
Farran applied sunblock. “Pleasure Beach … my parents used to go there back in the fifties.”
Things came to me in shadowy flashes. Phil had carried Angie away, and I was alone with the other guy. Sergio was his name. Though I did think he was cute with his close-cropped brown hair, brown eyes, and pencil-thin mustache, I was not attracted to him. I had felt dizzy trying to stand. The room spun, and I fell back on the sofa with only a blurred impression of the room. Sergio’s voice sounded like it was a distance away. I couldn’t see his face.
“They told us they’d forgotten their camera and wanted to stop and get it, since it wasn’t far,” I explained. “It might have been one of the beach cottages on Long Beach West. I had to fight them …”
Yet I remembered them driving us home. Angie was in the front seat, talking to Phil, who was driving. She appeared to be okay. Sergio was in the back with me. I had slept most of the time, with my head resting on his shoulder. We’d gone over that rickety bridge.
“Come on, Dani!” Farran’s smile was ingenuous. “Sounds like you had some wild experience that maybe got out of control, and you’re feeling guilty. You shouldn’t. Guys would be celebrating! I mean, you can’t take it back. It sounds like that’s what you’re trying to do. Maybe it’s time you grew up. I’m serious! Don’t be such a baby!” She laughed.
Farran was generous with smiles and laughter, right down to the wrinkling of her nose and an occasional wink. I imagined those eyes would shine until her dying day, and she would forever be as lovable and sweet as she was. I adored her. With her self-deprecating humor, people liked her in an instant. I expected boys to be falling all over her. What I didn’t understand was their interest in me. My assets were merely the luck of the draw.
“It was horrible,” I insisted. “I thought about going to the police.”
She looked dumbfounded, and that solidified for me the idea that going to the police would be futile.
I looked to Angie, and she didn’t avert her eyes. Those dark pools were now an ocean, with depths I couldn’t fathom. I saw her concern for me. Farran seemed to latch onto how Angie hadn’t confirmed any of it, but she ignored that Angie never denied it. Still, I backed down. My sense of reality had been undermined, but I didn’t doubt what I’d recalled, not for a moment.
Farran grabbed her radio, reminding me of how she and I would sing at the beach. When she turned up the volume, I looked away.
I thought about my family.
My dad had liked this beach when we were kids. It was Hammonasset in Madison, a two-mile stretch from Tom Creek on the western end to the Hammonasset River and Clinton Harbor on the east. He used to take us to West Beach. We were on East Beach now, which we preferred. It was quieter, with fewer kids.
The waves were no more than one or two feet, and I liked the gentle breeze. I loved watching the birds—osprey, piping plovers, sandpipers, willets, snowy egrets, and all the amazing herons. Birds resonated with me.
Innocent singing on the beach was a pleasant memory, as were family days when we searched for shells and copper scraps, marveling at starfish. Joey liked big-clawed hermit crabs and breaking rocks on the pier to find garnets. Uncle Dom usually brought a kite to fly—Angie’s favorite thing. Joey and Robbie played Frisbee. There were coolers with food and drinks. When the adults had had enough sun, we packed up and moved over to a picnic table in the shade. We could spend hours at the beach and still not want to go home—until Robbie had about had it with the stinging black flies that came up from the marshes. By his reaction, you would have thought they targeted him alone.
“Are you okay, Dani?” Angie was searching my eyes.
“She’s fine,” Farran assured her.
I held back tears. “They keep calling me. They called me five times when I got back from the so-called date and a few more times this morning.”
“Well, tell ‘em to call me,” Farran quipped.
“I don’t want them calling!”
“Dani?” Angie called out.
“I’m okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Her wide-stretched lips eased into a smile, endearing her to me, as always.
Farran, however, was off on another tangent. “Hey, we’re not far from Marauders Cove. It’s about twenty minutes from here. Isn’t that where your brother, Joey, hangs out? And doesn’t he live only two blocks from there?”
“He hangs out with bikers,” I reminded her.
“I know.” She beamed.
“Besides, you have to be twenty-one.”
“Well, Joey’s not twenty-one.”
“He will be in a couple of months.”
She waved if off, flashing an ear-to-ear grin. “Danielle, Marauders Cove is an old-fashioned pub owned by the McGrath family. I practically grew up with them.”
Yes, and the McGrath family included Mike McGrath, my first and only love—someone I had always been able to trust. The mention of his name now evoked a twinge of melancholia that fanned the flames of my anguish.
“I’m sure your brother will be looking after you anyway, and so will his friends,” she went on. “I can get us phony proof. Hey, I’m starting college in the fall! It’s a rite of passage!”
This behavior was typical of Farran. She thought nothing of suggesting we hitchhike to the beach if we didn’t have a ride. Thankfully, a neighbor of hers had given us a ride that day. The plan was to meet up with the woman by three-thirty at Joshua Rock, just to the east of the park entrance.
“I’m not sure we should be barhopping,” I said.
“Oh, please.” She lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled. “You are always so uptight, Dani. You have to live a little.”
I wanted to address the absurdity of that second statement, but I didn’t know where to begin.
“School starts in a couple of weeks. It’s probably our last beach day. We gotta do something for excitement—like meet up with people. Maybe if I were a total knockout, I could sit home and wait for them to beat down my door, but that ain’t gonna happen.” She laughed. “Hey, I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of your car magazines. Still looking for a Nissan?” She was making nice, I could see, piling on the sugar.
“Yeah. I’m hoping by my birthday I will finally pass the road test.”
“Third time’s the charm, right?”
Angie laughed, a gentle laughter, but I saw the change in her. She looked more fragile to me.
Some truths can be deadly.
Danielle isn’t mopey or filled with teenage angst. Danielle and her cousin were abducted, drugged, and raped. But her cousin doesn’t remember, and her best friend won’t believe her. Now, her predators have returned, stalking her, harassing her at every turn. Nightmares plague her sleep, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion. Isolated, terrified, and grief-stricken, Danielle is paralyzed, unable to face the unmerciful world around her.
Can she awaken her spirit and blossom into a woman of defiance and courage before the darkness eclipses her sanity?
Shattering Truths, the first volume in the Deadly Veils series, is a haunting and heartbreaking coming of age story. In the tradition of Judy Blume, and following in the footsteps of Thirteen Reasons Why, author Kyrian Lyndon doesn’t shy away from exploring the darker side of life that every teenage girl fears. Filled with suspense, a heart wrenching emotional journey, and twists that will leave you breathless, Shattering Truths will take hold of you on page one and never let go.
“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love
“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner
“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books
“…a startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon
Danielle isn’t mopey or filled with teenage angst. Danielle and her cousin were abducted, drugged, and raped. But her cousin doesn’t remember, and her best friend won’t believe her. Now, her predators have returned, stalking her, harassing her at every turn. Nightmares plague her sleep, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion. Isolated, terrified, and grief-stricken, Danielle is paralyzed, unable to face the unmerciful world around her.
Can she awaken her spirit and blossom into a woman of defiance and courage before the darkness eclipses her sanity?
Shattering Truths, the first volume in the Deadly Veils series, is a haunting and heartbreaking coming of age story. In the tradition of Judy Blume, and following in the footsteps of Thirteen Reasons Why, author Kyrian Lyndon doesn’t shy away from exploring the darker side of life that every teenage girl fears. Filled with suspense, a heart wrenching emotional journey, and twists that will leave you breathless, Shattering Truths will take hold of you on page one and never let go.
“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love
“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner
“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books
“…a startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon
OLD TOM
A short story by James Gault
The whole village would agree that old Tom isn't the man he used to be. In the past he strode purposely; nowadays he shuffles. The military-style cane he now leans on used to be tucked proudly under his right arm. As he approached you, straight-backed, held head high, his eyes would challenge you to pay attention and he would greet you with a formal nod and a good morning. Now his eyes are fixed on his toes, and is greetings undecipherable murmurings if they are anything at all. No one knows this for sure, but he is reputed to have been a sergeant-major during the war. And everyone knew him for certain as a hard but fair foreman in the local mines after it. But the respect his reputation had earned him had now been replaced by a sorrowful pity that overwhelms the villagers whenever they see him.
The previous Old Tom was a man who knew everything, a man whose unquestioning certainty gave him an internal confidence which proved impermeable to any attempts to separate him from his opinions. These opinions held sway in the village pub, every Thursday afternoon, between two and four, when Tom met his cronies for a weekly pint and a blether. A lot of blethering, in fact! The landlord called it the 'pub philosophy club'. Every topic was covered, every problem solved. No crisis was too catastrophic, no trauma too troublesome, no situation too sensitive, for Tom's deep and wide knowledge and cool and calm logic to resolve. If only the great and the good had taken the time to listen in, how much better a place would the the world be now!
But that was before Bill moved into the village. An enterprising developer had bought up a row of derelict miners' cottages and refitted them in the modern traditional style, and Bill was swept in with a load of artists, antique dealers and university lecturers. Like Tom, Bill was retired, but from what no one has been able to find out. The popular hypothesis is that he was some kind of teacher, but some locals with a wilder imagination propagated the legend that he had unsavoury connections with the secret services. There was certainly something clandestine about Bill. Most people say more than they know, but Bill gave the distinct impression of always knowing more than he was saying. When he spoke, he restricted himself to the question form, so that after a conversation with him you felt as if you had been thoroughly interrogated. These, together with being an outsider of unknown origins, meant that the villagers just didn't take to him at all. So when the members of the 'pub philosophy pub' began to put it about that Bill was the cause of Old Tom's troubles, the village was only too ready to believe it. And to be honest, there was an element of truth in the rumour. The facts of the matter are these.
Soon after he moved in, Bill took to visiting the pub every afternoon where he allowed himself one glass of gin and tonic. Anyone who drinks gin and tonic in a working class mining village can hardly be said to be making an effort to fit in, but whether Bill did it out of ignorance, defiance or just plain cussedness was just one more of the enigmatic mysteries that surrounded him. In any case, his choice of refreshment left him pretty isolated in the bar, and if he wanted a bit of company he would have to take the initiative himself. So, one Thursday afternoon, having noted on his previous Thursday visits the animated discussions going on in the back of the room, Bill asked the landlord,
"What's going on over there?"
"That's just the pub philosophy club," he was told.
So Bill shuffled over to the table, because he was interested in philosophy, because he hoped to pick up at bit of information for his spymasters, or just because he wanted a bit of company, who can tell?
"May I join you?" he asked, sitting down before anyone could refuse. The others looked at him for a minute, then carried on talking as if he wasn't there. But Bill sat on, and this was how he managed to acquire the status of an associate, never a full, member of the pub philosophy club.
For the first few Thursdays, Bill contented himself with listening. The membership began to acknowledge his presence with a grunt, without ever addressing him directly. Acceptance into small communities never comes quickly. Eventually, Bill began to impose himself in the conversations in his usual manner, by injecting troublesome questions at inopportune moments. "Why is the British interest more important than those of other nations?" "What makes you think that women should have the same rights as men?" "Isn't it sometimes necessary to have a dictatorship?" These sort of questions always got right up Old Tom's nose. In his view, a lot of things were self-evident and to question them was to reveal yourself as either an idiot or, worse still, a traitor to Britain and the great British culture. Old Tom tended to treat Bill's questions with the contempt he felt they deserved, either by ignoring them completely or fixing the enquirer with a hostile stare before moving on to the next part of his argument. The others, of course, followed his lead, but the lack of response never seemed to damp Bill's enthusiasm and the questions kept coming.
Things came to a head one Thursday when the group seemed a little stuck for a topic to discuss. It was the football close season, parliament was in recess and no politicians, or even celebrities, had been up to any noteworthy mischief. The group were sitting in silence when Bill sidled over with his gin and tonic. So, to break the ice, he asked,
"What if the world wasn't the way it is, but was completely different?"
Well, this was just too much for Old Tom. I mean, how much stupidity could a man be expected to tolerate? Silence, or even a frosty look, was a completely inadequate response to such an inane thought.
"If the world wasn't the way it was," he muttered, angrily, "it wouldn't be the world, would it? It would be something else."
Tom's acolytes smiled. Old Tom certainly had the unwanted interloper there. But Bill wasn't finished.
"Why would the world not be the world if it was a bit different?" he added.
Tom resorted to his cold stare, and initiated a discussion on the oil price, the economy and how the vested interests of the rich and powerful always overcame the needs and rights of the working man. It seemed as if normal service had been resumed, but, as Old Tom's disciples were to discover, they had just witnessed the beginning of the end.
Old Tom appeared for the meeting on the next Thursday, but took no active part. The main agenda seemed to be the role of Britain in maintaining world peace, a subject on which Tom was known to have strong views, as he did on everything. But he sat there in silence, listening to his old friends putting forward their opinions, which were in fact his opinions recycled second-hand. The landlord, looking over from the bar, noticed that Old Tom seemed mostly uninterested in the proceedings, his eyes coming alive only when Bill interjected one of his previously unwanted and senseless questions. These questions were, of course, dealt with by the group as before, by being ignored, the old members following Old Tom's unofficial but unchallenged guidelines, and each time Tom' eyes sank back into a disappointed disinterest. According to the landlord's testimony, Tom was slumped when he came into the pub that Thursday, but was slumped even more when he left.
These then are the public facts of the matter, which wafted around the village with the usual distortions and additions that rumours accumulate in their travels. But in itself this public knowledge doesn't solve the mystery. The reasons for the changes in Old Tom are private, behind the closed doors of Tom's home, and in the secret recesses of his mind.
"Why would the world not be the world if it was a bit different?" Although Old Tom had dismissed this question in his usual offhand way when Bill had raised it, it came back to bother him again and again during following week. It kept him awake at night, demanding, so it seemed, some kind of answer. It made him think about himself. As a child he had been 'little Tom', in the army 'young Tom'. Down the mines he had been 'Mr Tom' to his subordinates, and now he was 'Old Tom'. So many Toms, and, when he thought about it, all so different. And yet, he was sure, they were fundamentally the same Tom, he still was who he was. He wasn't someone else because he had changed over time. He went for his usual walks along the river, stopping at the bank and gazing into the water. This river had been there for centuries, much, much longer than when the mines had been sunk below the ground and the houses built above it. Yet, watching a floating leaf speed downstream, it struck him that the actual water in any part of the river changed very few seconds. So was it the same river or a constant procession of new rivers? Once you start questioning, everything seems so uncertain.
By the end of that week, poor Old Tom didn't have an opinion left. He could no longer be certain about anything. He was distracted, so deep in thought trying to find answers that he was oblivious to the rest of the world. And he was depressed as the answers refused to come. Quite simply, to those how knew him he had just suddenly 'lost it'.
It's been a few months since these events took place, and I'm pleased to report that Old Tom seems to be improving a little. Now he occasionally notices people when they pass him. He didn't say anything at the "pub philosophy club's" meetings for months, but now, once or twice during the afternoon, his voice can be heard. But only ever to ask an occasional question.
James Gault
June 2012 (Previously published in Oxford University CE Philosophy Review )
The previous Old Tom was a man who knew everything, a man whose unquestioning certainty gave him an internal confidence which proved impermeable to any attempts to separate him from his opinions. These opinions held sway in the village pub, every Thursday afternoon, between two and four, when Tom met his cronies for a weekly pint and a blether. A lot of blethering, in fact! The landlord called it the 'pub philosophy club'. Every topic was covered, every problem solved. No crisis was too catastrophic, no trauma too troublesome, no situation too sensitive, for Tom's deep and wide knowledge and cool and calm logic to resolve. If only the great and the good had taken the time to listen in, how much better a place would the the world be now!
But that was before Bill moved into the village. An enterprising developer had bought up a row of derelict miners' cottages and refitted them in the modern traditional style, and Bill was swept in with a load of artists, antique dealers and university lecturers. Like Tom, Bill was retired, but from what no one has been able to find out. The popular hypothesis is that he was some kind of teacher, but some locals with a wilder imagination propagated the legend that he had unsavoury connections with the secret services. There was certainly something clandestine about Bill. Most people say more than they know, but Bill gave the distinct impression of always knowing more than he was saying. When he spoke, he restricted himself to the question form, so that after a conversation with him you felt as if you had been thoroughly interrogated. These, together with being an outsider of unknown origins, meant that the villagers just didn't take to him at all. So when the members of the 'pub philosophy pub' began to put it about that Bill was the cause of Old Tom's troubles, the village was only too ready to believe it. And to be honest, there was an element of truth in the rumour. The facts of the matter are these.
Soon after he moved in, Bill took to visiting the pub every afternoon where he allowed himself one glass of gin and tonic. Anyone who drinks gin and tonic in a working class mining village can hardly be said to be making an effort to fit in, but whether Bill did it out of ignorance, defiance or just plain cussedness was just one more of the enigmatic mysteries that surrounded him. In any case, his choice of refreshment left him pretty isolated in the bar, and if he wanted a bit of company he would have to take the initiative himself. So, one Thursday afternoon, having noted on his previous Thursday visits the animated discussions going on in the back of the room, Bill asked the landlord,
"What's going on over there?"
"That's just the pub philosophy club," he was told.
So Bill shuffled over to the table, because he was interested in philosophy, because he hoped to pick up at bit of information for his spymasters, or just because he wanted a bit of company, who can tell?
"May I join you?" he asked, sitting down before anyone could refuse. The others looked at him for a minute, then carried on talking as if he wasn't there. But Bill sat on, and this was how he managed to acquire the status of an associate, never a full, member of the pub philosophy club.
For the first few Thursdays, Bill contented himself with listening. The membership began to acknowledge his presence with a grunt, without ever addressing him directly. Acceptance into small communities never comes quickly. Eventually, Bill began to impose himself in the conversations in his usual manner, by injecting troublesome questions at inopportune moments. "Why is the British interest more important than those of other nations?" "What makes you think that women should have the same rights as men?" "Isn't it sometimes necessary to have a dictatorship?" These sort of questions always got right up Old Tom's nose. In his view, a lot of things were self-evident and to question them was to reveal yourself as either an idiot or, worse still, a traitor to Britain and the great British culture. Old Tom tended to treat Bill's questions with the contempt he felt they deserved, either by ignoring them completely or fixing the enquirer with a hostile stare before moving on to the next part of his argument. The others, of course, followed his lead, but the lack of response never seemed to damp Bill's enthusiasm and the questions kept coming.
Things came to a head one Thursday when the group seemed a little stuck for a topic to discuss. It was the football close season, parliament was in recess and no politicians, or even celebrities, had been up to any noteworthy mischief. The group were sitting in silence when Bill sidled over with his gin and tonic. So, to break the ice, he asked,
"What if the world wasn't the way it is, but was completely different?"
Well, this was just too much for Old Tom. I mean, how much stupidity could a man be expected to tolerate? Silence, or even a frosty look, was a completely inadequate response to such an inane thought.
"If the world wasn't the way it was," he muttered, angrily, "it wouldn't be the world, would it? It would be something else."
Tom's acolytes smiled. Old Tom certainly had the unwanted interloper there. But Bill wasn't finished.
"Why would the world not be the world if it was a bit different?" he added.
Tom resorted to his cold stare, and initiated a discussion on the oil price, the economy and how the vested interests of the rich and powerful always overcame the needs and rights of the working man. It seemed as if normal service had been resumed, but, as Old Tom's disciples were to discover, they had just witnessed the beginning of the end.
Old Tom appeared for the meeting on the next Thursday, but took no active part. The main agenda seemed to be the role of Britain in maintaining world peace, a subject on which Tom was known to have strong views, as he did on everything. But he sat there in silence, listening to his old friends putting forward their opinions, which were in fact his opinions recycled second-hand. The landlord, looking over from the bar, noticed that Old Tom seemed mostly uninterested in the proceedings, his eyes coming alive only when Bill interjected one of his previously unwanted and senseless questions. These questions were, of course, dealt with by the group as before, by being ignored, the old members following Old Tom's unofficial but unchallenged guidelines, and each time Tom' eyes sank back into a disappointed disinterest. According to the landlord's testimony, Tom was slumped when he came into the pub that Thursday, but was slumped even more when he left.
These then are the public facts of the matter, which wafted around the village with the usual distortions and additions that rumours accumulate in their travels. But in itself this public knowledge doesn't solve the mystery. The reasons for the changes in Old Tom are private, behind the closed doors of Tom's home, and in the secret recesses of his mind.
"Why would the world not be the world if it was a bit different?" Although Old Tom had dismissed this question in his usual offhand way when Bill had raised it, it came back to bother him again and again during following week. It kept him awake at night, demanding, so it seemed, some kind of answer. It made him think about himself. As a child he had been 'little Tom', in the army 'young Tom'. Down the mines he had been 'Mr Tom' to his subordinates, and now he was 'Old Tom'. So many Toms, and, when he thought about it, all so different. And yet, he was sure, they were fundamentally the same Tom, he still was who he was. He wasn't someone else because he had changed over time. He went for his usual walks along the river, stopping at the bank and gazing into the water. This river had been there for centuries, much, much longer than when the mines had been sunk below the ground and the houses built above it. Yet, watching a floating leaf speed downstream, it struck him that the actual water in any part of the river changed very few seconds. So was it the same river or a constant procession of new rivers? Once you start questioning, everything seems so uncertain.
By the end of that week, poor Old Tom didn't have an opinion left. He could no longer be certain about anything. He was distracted, so deep in thought trying to find answers that he was oblivious to the rest of the world. And he was depressed as the answers refused to come. Quite simply, to those how knew him he had just suddenly 'lost it'.
It's been a few months since these events took place, and I'm pleased to report that Old Tom seems to be improving a little. Now he occasionally notices people when they pass him. He didn't say anything at the "pub philosophy club's" meetings for months, but now, once or twice during the afternoon, his voice can be heard. But only ever to ask an occasional question.
James Gault
June 2012 (Previously published in Oxford University CE Philosophy Review )
THE MYSTERIOUS MURDER ON 55TH AVENUE
by Nmesoma Okechukwu
CHAPTER ONE
The night was as pitch black as any night could get; the killers had chosen a night when the storm was thick and there were less cars and eyes about, which meant less spectators. The storm had gone on for at least an hour; heavy drops of unforgiving rain was blocking out the night sounds, when a grey van pulled into 53rd avenue. They had been driving around Works avenue for at least four times. Not that you would have noticed if you happened to be spying from your window, yes, they circled the 50 to 55th avenue about four times but even the most observable eye would have missed it. The first time they circled the selected avenues, it was on a red shiny sedan booming loud music into the night air in a sort of careless provocation. No one would have thought to suspect such a harmless car, probably filled with teenagers who didn’t care what time of night it was as they blasted their speakers in full volume through the chilled night air. The second time they circled, they were driving an average sized delivery truck quietly stream-rolling through the night; that of course was not a cause for alarm.
But this time they stopped at 53rd avenue, their first stop at the avenue that one night, most of the residents of the avenue, if not all, were already asleep. Two houses down was their mark, but they were in no hurry to complete their mission, they were not principled murderers, they were just really good ones. The car stood on the blindside of the brick red building they were packed beside; no one in the windows would have seen anything in the dreary wet night. For a while, they talked in hushed tones, and seemingly argued a bit before they moved on past 55th and zoomed on to the highway.
A seventh car appeared coming into the avenue, that is if you were counting, but that was not in the least bit abnormal in a night in the mostly quiet neighborhood. This seventh car was blue, long, easily looked like a Chevrolet brand, though the branding was not clear even in the blinding light of the street lights. That was it; the blinding light meant every thief and crook steered clear of the avenue. Not one robbery, pilfering or even a simple burglary had been noted in this one avenue for straight thirty years. That was all mostly thanks to the grand house of the Humphries looming large at 55th avenue. Truly no sane creature, living or dead, would think to do harm to the avenue, let alone the 55th as the Humphries were a bunch of high classed individuals. People believed that just thinking to attempt a break-in at the Humphries was in itself a suicidal one. Indeed it was, the security surrounding the building could only be rivaled by one around a nuclear bomb site, but that was what the five men cooped up in the blue car were preparing to go up against.
Finally, the car stopped at the large gate leading into 55th avenue. Four of the men had been there, one way or another, in the name of one thing or the other, in the past six months pretending to bring business, but really just examining and digging up as much information as they could about the place. A job this dangerous required patience leading to longsuffering; nothing was rushed, nothing was compromised, everything was a fact, and not one thing was theorized. The gate was electromagnetically powered and encrypted; only the head security could open it, or any of the Humphries cars, apart from the encrypted key, any other method to open the gate was nothing but Hail Mary. Motion cameras, sensors, alarms lined the entire place and each night, the wires curling the top of the walls were supercharged with electricity so that it would easily fry anyone who dared to make it that far. The doors leading into the mansion might be as easy to crack as an alien portal would be. Let’s not count the number of security men on hand at night, or their qualifications; it was indeed nuclear bomb site security.
Encrypted keys had a weakness, they send signals, and anything that could tune into their frequency can get the encryption. Of course, it took a well-experienced hacker working around the clock for more than two weeks to be able to design and code a device that could tap into the key’s frequency and receive the signal just as the gate does. After that, they might as well make millions of keys to open the gate and sell it on the black market if they so wished. The encryption code changing each week didn’t help much, because each time it changed, the little device they planted near the compound would pick up the new code and adjust their key accordingly. That meant that the gate was as good as open.
One snag that could have meant that their efforts to get the key to the door was nothing more than an effort was the 24-hour security men positioned at the gate. An unusual car would have meant the security men would raise their eyebrows about how they were able to open the gate, and that would have meant the police seizing them before they were even thoroughly driven into the compound- that is, if the security men didn’t feel like attacking themselves. But of course, all their time and patience didn’t resolve around them getting caught at the gate. The blue Chevrolet looked thoroughly like that driven by Kentucky Humphrey, so whatever misgivings the security men may have were already settled; the storm would hide any irregularities. Kentucky Humphrey mostly stayed out till 2 o’clock a.m. There was but one hour before the real Humphrey found his way back home and raised eyebrows, but they’d be gone long before that. They took their time to plan and they knew the accuracy of their plans, just as much as they believed in the accuracy of its results.
The large gold-encrusted gate opened fluidly as the car approached it. The car drove into the well-lit over 2 acres compound packing beside the over-imposing house.
“We’re ready, yeah?” One of the men, the only one in a red leather jacket, asked.
“You think the devil asked that of his renegade angels when they launched an attack on God?” the driver joked, he had a well-shaven mustache and a thick English accent.
The rest of them laughed, except the one in red. He kept observing the building as if it would suddenly start moving and smash into their car killing them all. Anyone that saw him then might think his crinkled brows meant he was scared of going into the building or maybe was having second thoughts, but his advanced mind left no space for qualms of such manners.
“What is it, Yej, not experiencing the first fear of your life tonight are you?” another one asked the one in red, Yej, tapping him playfully on his leather jacket and laughing heartily. To anyone around that saw the men, it would look like they were getting ready to order ice-cream rather than planning to murder one of the most powerful men in the world.
“I’ve taken up arms against worse and graced it thoughtlessly” Yej sniffed a short laugh, “this is like dropping a bomb in Libya compared to my other endeavors. Jeremy, Paul, let’s go. Mr. Cordon Humphrey invited the devil to his home, and the devil aint leaving without making a mess, especially if you poked him”
“We’re with you Yej, he deserves everything we’ve got coming to him” Paul said, throwing the door open carelessly. The only black one in the group was Paul, and no one could move around as stealthily as he could. He’d done spy work for some government agencies at a certain time but it felt to him that his talents were being wasted on the mundane missions he was assigned. He loved the mysterious, dangerous and peculiar missions; and it seemed those types of missions only happened at the wrong end of the law and that was where he eventually saw himself. The more difficult a mission was, the simpler it was for his brain to unravel.
“Let’s make some chaos” Jeremy said, stepping out with Paul. Jeremy was a weapon’s expert as Yej, but no one could beat him at chess either; he could make play with a dangerous mission involving a thousand outcomes as he would walking down the street with about a dozen cars zooming past him.
Yej stepped out from the front passenger seat covering his head with his hooded jacket, and the three of them marched into the building.
The last two would stay back and report on anything they see from the cameras they’ve got planted inside the building at the places they deemed as the most important corners through their communication earpieces; this would only send signals instead of actual words, in case the police managed to pick it up somehow. Staying at a base outside the building and carrying out the surveillance operation was impossible. The house was built like a black box, no frequency could penetrate or escape it, except unless they were connected to the big antenna built into the compound. Every other signal was interrupted and jumbled. Every server in the building was connected to the antenna and was heavily encrypted by the best anti-hacking companies there were. Mr. Cordon Humphrey was not an ordinary man neither was he one that should be toyed with, though he frequently toyed with people.
Yej and his accomplices approached the door, knowing not to touch the door which was DNA coded with the DNA information of the workers and of course, the Humphrey family members or other trusted frequent visitor. One touch at the door would have it read your DNA, and if your data was not recorded in its data system, it would yell intruder in a very loud and angry voice. Jeremy had witnessed the yelling on a day when he was delivering mail to the family. It happened to a former housekeeper whom Liliana Humphrey took into her pretty little head to fire the day before; claiming the housekeeper was not doing a very good job of arranging her closet. And since she had access to the building’s computer system, went ahead and deleted the woman’s data and history of work in the household. Well, let’s say the woman went into a shock when the door started crying because she touched it. For a paranoid weapons-manufacturer, Mr. Cordon Humphrey really outdid himself in designing and planning the house’s security. Robbing hell might have been an easier feat for anybody.
This would seem the hardest part of their mission but it was indeed the most simple. Mr. Humphrey had built the system to be lax since he had wayward children who didn’t care much about his strict rules and protective methods. The lax was that the system was so sensitive, it could read DNA off of gloves; that way the billionaire’s children wouldn’t need to strip their gloves just to get into their father’s house. Not everyone knew about the system’s by-function, and they wouldn’t have known if junior Humphrey, Kentucky, hadn’t told that to a girl they sent as a snitch in one of his drunken episodes at a night club.
‘Well, that was the singular failure of the entire well-structured system’ Yej thought as he pushed his newly gloved hand on the door. The three of them watched the door open majestically, revealing the stunning and breath-taking interior. Yej had always admired the place when he worked for Mr. Humphrey, right until the man fired him and took his research, claiming that their contract allowed him such authority. He wasn’t admiring the house then though, his eyes were fixed on the upper rooms.
Mr. Humphrey didn’t think that Yej was worth anything, but actually he was his arch nemesis. Whatever Mr. Humphrey’s brain raveled, Yej’s unraveled. It usually found him at cross-roads with Mr. Humphrey who never wants his brilliance challenged. Where Mr. Humphrey saw the strong points of a security system, Yej saw its weaknesses. Yej was the last person Mr. Humphrey should have messed with, but instead, he had taken Yej’s project and patented it, making millions off of it while not giving Yej, the project’s creator, even a damaged coin.
Before they came into the dimly lit living space, Paul and Jeremy had covered their heads with hoods as well. The three of them went into the room with heads turned to the floor. Yej often wondered why security cameras were always placed on top while they could be placed at a convenient place on the floor and it might have served its purpose better. Not that any camera position would have helped them though. Their heads were down because of the man at the camera room, not necessarily because of the cameras.
They reached the first landing, and with a courteous nod, they parted ways with Paul who went down the hallway while Yej and Jeremy ascended the next flight of stairs.
Yej and Jeremy stopped in front of Mr. Humphrey’s door. This was the toughest part of their mission, if they stepped close enough to the door, it would read their DNA and not finding a match with the one in its system, it would not only activate an alarm but activate lasers hot enough to melt even the most thick-skinned man to the ground in microseconds. Not even a glove would fool this particular door. Yej nodded at Jeremy without looking at him, and Jeremy departed down the right side of the corridor wordlessly.
Yej stood staring at the door as if the door represented all that he had been fighting his whole life. He glanced once at his watch unhurriedly and continued to stare at the door. He knew everything he needed to know about the security system embedded in the door, he knew he couldn’t bypass it without having to trip the alarm; that is if he didn’t trip the laser first. The world had had enough of wealthy filths who use their money to oppress others; one less wealthy jerk would make the world rejoice, so really, this was more of a community service than murder.
Yej was thinking back to the last time he saw Mr. Humphrey; his mind could remember every detail of the events that occurred that day and everything the multi-billionaire said to him, word to word. He remembered how the man had laughed off his threats of dragging him to court for stealing his project and converting it into his. Mr. Humphrey had clearly told him, in the manner a lion would use to talk to a cornered prey, that he should not bother with a law court, because none on earth could offer him justice. He said those words and more, before he fired him, had his men drag him out and made sure his ugly mug was not to be seen several meters from the company building. Well, Yej had taken his advice and hadn’t wasted his time in a court that would clearly have denied him justice, and made some ground rules for justice by himself.
Jeremy soon returned carrying a kicking figure, heavily muffled that not even the faintest sound escaped it. As soon as they were in front of the door, Jeremy threw Mary-Ann Humphrey haphazardly at the door. The Humphrey bumped into the door with a small thud, Yej stepped beside the young lady just as the door opened. He and the lady walked in and he flung her back before the door closed. Jeremy dragged her in as he entered; otherwise, the alarm would trip and kill whoever was unlucky to be standing there at that moment.
The door closed, and they all stood in the quite dark room. A little fear flickered through Yej as he realized that this was the most uncalculated part of their plan; they could either turn on the light and find Mr. Humphrey sitting on his bed with a gun pointed at them or turn it on to find him sleeping innocently, as if he were so. This was the only variable they could not impose the order of control on. Their plan could fail or succeed, they just had to turn on the switch and find out. His hand found the switch on a wall, and with a racing heart he flicked it on. He breathed out as he saw that Mr. Humphrey and his wife Melissa were sleeping soundly in their bed, as if all was well with their world. Well, it wasn’t, not as long as Yej was in it as well.
Yej didn’t rush them; he watched them patiently as they both groggily woke up, rubbing their eyes and murmuring about the disturbance. He waited for them to fully feel awake and take in the scene playing out before them, he’d waited for more than a year, three more minutes would not kill him.
Mr. Humphrey was the first to come to, jerking into alertness as he saw his muffled crying daughter. He looked from Jeremy to Yej making no connection to who they were, a second glance at Yej brought back some recognition. And Yej knew that Mr. Humphrey had recognized him because of the way his face turned grave and pallid as he stared at him. Yej gave him a friendly smile in return for his grave face.
“Who are you, how dare you!” his wife was now barking, “I’ll call security and have done with you two”. She said getting up from the bed. Yej had withdrawn a gun from his leather jacket. A single shot from it sent a pin laced with poison flying towards Mrs. Humphrey. It embedded on her neck and sent her convulsing on the floor within a space of seconds. The gun was accurate and silent, just as Yej designed it to be.
“So…” Yej said airily, shrugging his shoulders like a toddler caught with his hand on the cookie jar would, “We see each other twice in a day boss, that’s a good sign, don’t you agree?”
Mr. Humphrey now had his hand up in surrender, his lips murmuring unintelligible pleas. For someone who built weapons that would render thousands dead in minutes, he sure loved his pretty little life.
Mary-Ann shot off from the floor where Jeremy had her kneeling as she made to run towards her mother. She fell half-way to where her mother lay convulsing still, joining in the convulsion as a pin stuck itself on her back.
Yej had the gun by his side when Mr. Humphrey looked round from Jeremy to him to see who had shot his daughter, looking as innocent as ever.
“Where were we? Sorry, they kept interrupting boss” he said with a low devilish chuckle, “I recall boss does not like being interrupted, not for anything”
“Spare my wife and daughter and I will give you anything you want, ANYTHING” Mr. Humphrey pleaded.
Yej cast a quick glance from mother to daughter, and returned his calm gaze to Mr. Humphrey. His wife and daughter were already marked for death and nothing could change that, but he wasn’t going to tell Mr. Humphrey that. He still needed the man to do quite a few things for him. “Okay, I’ll take you up on your word of anything” he said calmly, “But you better hurry as you do whatever you’re told to do, with no fish business attached or tic-toc-tic-toc, they die”.
Mr. Humphrey nodded vigorously, “I swear, I swear”, he said hurriedly.
“You’re a shady human being, so I’m guessing you have lots of money stocked in the form of Bitcoin. It’s untraceable money” Yej said.
Mr. Humphrey nodded.
“How much exactly?” Yej asked.
“Around some hundreds of millions in separate account wallets”, Mr. Humphrey replied breathlessly.
“Well? Get to transferring” Yej said, handing Mr. Humphrey a paper with five different wallet ids.
Mr. Humphrey scurried around for his laptop, turning it on hurriedly. All the while that he worked on his laptop; he kept half an eye on his wife and daughter to make sure they still exhibited signs of life. Yej knew they wouldn’t be dead, not at least for another thirty minutes, and for that he wasn’t bothered. As long as Mr. Humphrey thought they were alive and there was still a way to save them, he was still in the clear. He did keep a close eye on Mr. Humphrey though, to make sure he didn’t try to over-smart himself.
After Yej watched the transactions pull through, he raised the gun and pointed it at its target.
“There, you have it. It’s done, you’re rich, now give them the antidote, please. If you want to take a life, take mine, I’m the…” a pin embedded in his forehead and he fell forward from the chair he sat on, starting to convulse on the ground like his wife and daughter.
Yej had shot him because he was trying to reveal too much. He would have rather wanted to add a few more words of his own, some parting brief or something like that but then the cops would pick a clue, the right clue. They would have a lot of clues of course; they were happy to provide them with those, with plenty of those. He turned to Jeremy and they exchanged a triumphant nod wordlessly.
Yej went around collecting the pins from the bodies of the convulsing family, taking great care not to touch the tip; the poisonous fluid smeared on it was still potent enough to take care of about a hundred people. Each one he plucked from the vibrating bodies, he deposited on a plastic bag he had with him. When he was done, he safely tucked the plastic bag into the pocket of his leather jacket.
He went over to where Mary-Ann lay convulsing and picked her up, he was sorry she had to die for the sins of her father, but there was no way around it. They had rigged the game to make sure the cops picked up all the wrong cards and mercy was not a part of the rules they laid down. Pulling the dying girl wordlessly, he gently touched her body to the door and it opened. He walked out with her and flung her back carelessly as the door made to close. Jeremy picked her up and dragged her body out again, and flung her back into the room to die with the rest of her dying family before the door finally closed.
They went down the stairs and met up with Paul who gave them a single nod before they all turned and walked out.
CHAPTER TWO
Bailey had to show her security badge three times before she could get into the compound, and now she stood on the threshold of the building waiting for one of the security men at the door to confirm that she indeed had a right to be there. It took a while before the security men nodded her in. The building she found herself in was daunting, but the situation did not call for admiration whatsoever. A powerful man had just been murdered, and what’s worse, in his very own home. Rumors had already filtered through the precinct and had spread like wildfire through the entire nation. Some theories stated that it was an attack from an enemy nation seeking front-line knowledge on the nation’s weapon systems or at least they were looking to take out the major player in the design and formulation of weapons. Conspiracy theories were abound and there must have been a hundred different theories already, if one decided to listen to the chit-chatter.
She straightened the jacket of her navy blue suit as she made her way up the spiral tessellated stairs. Every agent or officer who knew how to dig up their own bone was present, all that was missing was the Salvation Army and its Calvary. Some rooms were strictly cordoned off from most of the police force present, only the top heads could go into those restricted sections. She waved at the S.O as she made her way to the second flight of stairs.
She didn’t know what she expected, but she could not have expected what she found. The army were around, stationed at every corner, on uniform and no nonsense mood. She was wrong, the Salvation Army did come. She warily climbed the last stairs and provided her badge to no one in particular. They didn’t look at her badge before one of them pointed at a room and waved her in. She nodded and entered.
She didn’t know why the Director had requested her presence there; she was not a special agent of any sort. She was a desk-junkie, an ordinary CSI; she was rarely in the field, at least not after THAT incidence. Remembering the unfortunate trial incidence made her flinch as she stepped into the room, though she managed to change the expression to a calm smile as heads swung round to her direction. Most of the people in the room went back to their tasks not minding her. Director Dan waved her over. He was seated on a stool watching something on the flat monitor he held in his hand, a large monitor stood in front of him playing something in mono-color. Five officers stood around him, eyes concentrated on the large monitor as they scanned the video, probably for any clue as to the identity of the murderers.
She came up to them and stood next to Fred, their criminal behaviorist. She gave him a small nod, which he probably didn’t notice because his eyes never left the monitor with his face crinkled in concentration. She turned her attention to the large monitor in front of her; the video feed was probably from three different cameras in three different angles. It displayed five men heading up the stairs, their heads down, hoods covering the color of their hair or any identifiable thing that could have helped in pinpointing the criminals. They all wore long-sleeved shirts of varying colors; blue, red, green, green, white. It was not the proper criminal etiquette, Bailey noted but she dared not voice her opinion on the account of looking remarkably stupid. She knew most criminals wore a color code, mostly shaded in grey or the black spectrum, probably their attempt to decrease visibility if anyone were to see them in their dark arts. These criminals defiled rules, they didn’t only wear unconventional colors but bright bold colors; it was like they were making a statement. But what statement exactly?
She took a peek at the monitor Director Dan had clutched in his hand, and could tell that it was the same video feed on the large monitor, but probably through night vision cameras because they were brighter and layered in greenish tint. Her second observation watching the video through the monitor in the Director’s hands was that their T-shirts were all checked, must be for some uniformity, she conceded. She remembered a class she had in criminal analysis that explained the instinct in criminals to have something that proved them as a team; might be the way they choose to hang their key chains, or wore their colors, and millions of other stuffs like that. This gang’s uniformity came in checked T-shirts.
“Okay, so according to the video, they all went into the room at the same time” Director Dan finally spoke.
Fred screwed his eyes at the video as was his wont whenever his brain-wheels were turning, “yes, but the clues from the murder and that of the video feed are inconclusive”
“Are you saying the video is wrong or that the murder analyst missed something?” George asked.
“Might be both or none, my point is that there’s a huge piece of the puzzle that’s still missing” Fred pointed out.
“Can someone fill in Miss Tennyson on the facts so far?” Director Dan asked.
Fred looked at her, and conceded, unhappily, to be the one to do the explaining. “As you might have heard; Mr. Humphrey, his wife Melissa and youngest daughter Mary-Ann were murdered last night in Mr. Humphrey’s room at approximately 1:30 to 2 o’clock of the morning. Weapon of murder seems to be poison-dart but till the result from the lab is back, the fact is inconclusive”
“How did we guess it was poison?” Bailey asked. She had been trying to run an image of the incidence in her head and compare it with the images from the cameras planted around the house; something was amiss, even if her mind couldn’t tell her what.
“All three of them had a little prick that could have been made by a pin in their body leading us to conclude they were injected with a poisonous chemical; back, neck and forehead” Fred replied plaintively.
“Am guessing Mr. Humphrey had the head shot?” she asked.
“You guess correctly” Director Dan said, “what are all your theories, I want to hear them”
“This is not a day thing, and obviously the attack was carried out by trained professionals, I’m suspecting this must take years for the planning” one of the men at their circle said. Bailey didn’t recognize him but she noted he had on a blue tie.
“Obviously” Director Dan said as if what the man had done was explain how bright the sun was shining.
“Our data is largely inconclusive, nothing fits. The security men say that the only car that drove into the compound at the time of the attack was that of Kentucky Humphrey, which puts him up as a suspect. Then let’s say he truly is a suspect, the camera in the garden only showed us three men coming out of his car the first time he drove in, but inside the house the cameras reveal they were in fact five. And let’s say the other two were workers here and were already inside, it still does not explain what Mary-Ann was doing in her parents’ room at the time of attack and how she was caught in the line of fire. It’s still inconclusive if we factor in the intentions of the murderers; was it a crime on the national level or was it carried out by a highly trained operative organization. And lastly, what was it that they gained from Mr. Humphrey’s murder, that is if they were aiming at murder. If some of these questions are answered, it might help point us at least to a definable direction as to who the murderers might be” Fred stated.
Director Dan breathed in through his mouth and shook his head slowly, “Wouldn’t it be great if the answers to those questions just magically dropped down from heaven?” he murmured, “In the meantime, you’re right. We need conclusive data. Fred, take Bailey with you and head into the crime scene. Gather as much information as you can, the rest of us will try to pick up any hints left to us by the camera feed” he said waving them away and pointing at the room next to the one they were in.
She and Fred exchanged looks but did not question the order they were given as they both turned and walked out of the room. Bailey was trying to think up what they were going to say to the soldiers in front of Mr. Humphrey’s room when they approached the men. They didn’t say anything, Fred produced his ID and they were nodded in.
When Bailey entered, the sight of the three color-drained corpses were what she first saw. The sight that left her sick was that of little Miss Mary-Ann, the nineteen year old Humphrey. She remembered her smiling face on a television interview she took part in about a month ago, when she announced that she and her siblings were going to stay over at their dad’s for this Christmas holiday. Well, a red Christmas holiday has turned into a black nightmarish mourning. The world was such a cruel place, she thought as she followed Fred over to one of the four men photographing every nook and cranny of the crime scene.
“Hi, I’m Fred. I’m with NYPD; I’d love to ask some questions on any information regarding the crime scene” Fred said, producing his badge.
“Wait a while, I’m almost done and I’d have time to talk to you” the man said. He was plainly dressed in white and wore sparkling white gloves.
Fred nodded and he and Bailey retreated to a corner. From there, Bailey could hear half the words that were spoken in the room. From what she could hear, they had Kentucky Humphrey under arrest and he was being questioned at that particular time. Some people were averse to the thought that Kentucky could have been behind the murder of some of his family members, some people were all for it, stating he clearly had motives and stating the fact that it would take someone really close, who knew every security strengths and weaknesses, to try to pull off an attack on a place this heavily guarded and secured; both technically and manually.
Some rejected the notion by saying that if it the murder was carried out by Kentucky, he wouldn’t risk bringing in the murderers with his car. But for the meantime, there were no clues to go on but Kentucky so no theory could talk him out of the crime for now.
Bailey knew it could not be Kentucky since no one would steal an apple and still raise it up for the world to see; no matter how dumb Kentucky might be, he certainly couldn’t be that dumb. But she couldn’t say she despised the arrest, Kentucky was the only clue they had to go on with.
The camera man seemed to be done with his pictures and headed towards them. Fred extended a handshake but the man rejected it by putting up his white gloved hands and shaking his head.
“I’m Lucas, I’m with the army” the man quickly said, “So what do you want to know?”
“How about everything you know so far?” Bailey asked.
Lucas nodded, “They were five, wore colored clothes and a hood and came in with Kentucky’s car, or at least something that looked like it. It was raining so no one could have known for sure”
“But there’s a tough electronic security in the gate that no one could by-pass as I am led to believe, making it that the gate can either be opened with a special key or by the security men. The gate was opened by a special key, hence the fact that they must have used Kentucky’s car, the real one, and yet he said his car was not stolen that night, that it couldn’t have been” Fred stated.
“Or someone found a way to beat the security at the gate, come on, computers can be beaten” Lucas pointed out.
Fred wasn’t about to give into that theory, “That easily, wasn’t there a backup system to the gate that meant if someone tried to meddle with it let alone hack it, it would go offline and report the threat”.
“And? It’s still that same computer that has to report the threat when hacked. Anyway, I don’t understand computers that much but what I understand so far is that they can all be beaten by lines of code” Lucas said.
“Come on, it was designed by the best minds in the country” Fred insisted.
“It was probably hacked by the best of a foreign country” Lucas stated quietly.
Fred’s eyebrows pricked a bit before he resumed his demure expression. Bailey felt that Fred had played on the man to try to get information he knew the army may know and yet not want to disclose. “What do you mean by that?” Fred asked, trying to feign little interest in the subject.
Lucas shrugged but said nothing more. Bailey knew that was it, the man was after all with the army and the army knew their business; more than the CIA, it seemed.
“Do you think this might be an international attack?” Fred pressed.
“Those are simply speculations” Lucas muttered.
Bailey guessed that the army was probably on to something more than speculations, but for now, that’s for the army to know and everyone else to guess at.
“Anyway, continuing with the crime scene, there’s been a sweep and no DNA was found, so there’s that for that” Lucas said.
“What about the door, how did they get it to open, was it forced entry?” Bailey asked.
“Forced entry on a 6ft rod iron door with an electronic system, not to mention a DNA matching system” Fred hurriedly explained with the expression of someone that had to respond to an extremely stupid question.
“DNA matching system?” Bailey asked.
“Yes, the door does not open for you if your DNA or that of someone with you does not match any in the system, it’s not operated by key or any…” and then he stopped with a short gasp, “how did they get through the door?”
“I know this puts Kentucky further in the line of offense but…” Lucas started.
“It was with Kentucky’s DNA, wasn’t it?” Fred concluded.
“Yes, but Kentucky said the system had a minor flaw, that it was really sensitive it could have read his DNA off his clothing” Lucas said, “which have been tested and proven by the police more than a couple times already”
“Okay, which of his other children were at home at the time of the crime?” Bailey asked.
“Liliana was in, Benjamin was also in, Marilyn is somewhere in Germany and was the only one of his children not at home for the holidays. Kentucky and Davis were not back by that time” Lucas answered.
“Hey, hey everyone listen to this!” someone in the room called and everyone diverted their attention to the man. He had something in his hand, “you see, Mr. Humphrey didn’t have a camera in his room, but he had a recorder” he said and pressed a button and a distorted high-pitched noise spilled across the room, some people held onto their ears. “Sorry, sorry” the man called again and turned a dial on the device he held, something came bursting forth from the speakers.
Fred’s face broke into a broad smile as the first words burst out from the speakers.
“Who are you, how dare you! I’ll call security and have done with you two”, it was probably from Melissa Humphrey.
A little swish in the air, magnified by the loudness of the speakers, was heard. The next sound was a thud. Everyone imagined it was Melissa falling.
“So…” the voice was deep and inhuman and brought questioning looks from the listening people, “we see each other twice in a day boss, that’s a good sign, don’t you agree?”
A groan was heard, some thumping feet followed by a thud, and there falls Mary-Ann in everybody’s mind.
“Where were we? Sorry, they kept interrupting boss” the voice boomed out again, again it sounded awkward and wrong; like it was vibrated a couple hundred times before being recorded, “I recall boss does not like being interrupted, not for anything”
“Spare my wife and daughter and I will give you anything you want, ANYTHING” Mr. Humphrey pleaded.
“Okay, I’ll take you up on your word of anything” the distorted voice said, “But you better hurry as you do whatever you’re told to do, with no fish business attached or tic-toc-tic-toc, they die”.
“I swear, I swear”, Mr. Humphrey said hurriedly.
“You’re a shady human being, so I’m guessing you have lots of money stocked in the form of Bitcoin. It’s untraceable money”
Silence.
“How much exactly?”
“Around some hundreds of millions in separate account wallets”, Mr. Humphrey replied breathlessly.
“Well? Get to transferring”
“That’s bullshit, what’s wrong with the voice?” Fred asked, immediately the silent break in the record started.
“I’m guessing it’s Toot, a children’s toy. Children use it to distort their voices and make it sound funny just as a kaleidoscope distorts colors. I know, the world’s best technology was beaten by a kid’s toy” a plump man in a black suit, with wild mustache said.
Mr. Humphrey’s voice sounded again, “There, you have it. It’s done, you’re rich, now give them the antidote, please. If you want to take a life, take mine, I’m the…”
“He’s the what?” a lady asked, exasperated.
“I’m sorry but that’s all the noise from the time of the attack, the murderers weren’t very chatty” the man with the control remote said.
“He knows them” Fred said in an undertone that Bailey barely heard. “You’re rich, you’re rich…” he repeated continuously as he thought, “He knows them; he knows they want his money, so international attack is ruled out. This attack is either by someone who works for him in the company, in the mansion, or even someone who’s family”
“Or someone who’s got a beef with him” Bailey added.
“Probably” Fred nodded, “this narrows it down. The murderers are as good as caught, I believe this clue will lead us right to them”.
The air in the room had already changed to that of a positive mood, everyone believed that the recorder gave them enough information to start searching for the people who murdered Mr. Humphrey, one of the country’s leading men in defense technology. If those murderers escaped without punishment, it would be a terrible blow to the nation; and anyone who was in the force would try everything to the last of their strength to bring the criminals to justice, and they wouldn’t give up. But even as Bailey heard the recording, even as hope peaked for the other officers on the message of the recording, hers was a complete loss of hope. The criminals were smart; if they distorted their voice, they knew there was a recorder. They didn’t call out their wallet ID because they were sure of the recorder and if they knew about the recorder, it could only mean that everything they heard were what the criminals wanted them to hear. This was nothing but a clue planted by the murderers to lead them off the true scent of their path. But she saw no other scent they could follow, all she could do was hope that they would take the false paths and somehow use it to step on the right ones. But she knew the probability of that happening were about a million to one, there was still that chance of one. All it needed was someone who could see beyond ordinary sense, go beyond the lines of the crime scene and come out with at least a shoe or a lace; that detective was just not her.
Contributed by Nmesoma Okechukwu
Nmesoma is a musician and short story writer from Nigeria.
The night was as pitch black as any night could get; the killers had chosen a night when the storm was thick and there were less cars and eyes about, which meant less spectators. The storm had gone on for at least an hour; heavy drops of unforgiving rain was blocking out the night sounds, when a grey van pulled into 53rd avenue. They had been driving around Works avenue for at least four times. Not that you would have noticed if you happened to be spying from your window, yes, they circled the 50 to 55th avenue about four times but even the most observable eye would have missed it. The first time they circled the selected avenues, it was on a red shiny sedan booming loud music into the night air in a sort of careless provocation. No one would have thought to suspect such a harmless car, probably filled with teenagers who didn’t care what time of night it was as they blasted their speakers in full volume through the chilled night air. The second time they circled, they were driving an average sized delivery truck quietly stream-rolling through the night; that of course was not a cause for alarm.
But this time they stopped at 53rd avenue, their first stop at the avenue that one night, most of the residents of the avenue, if not all, were already asleep. Two houses down was their mark, but they were in no hurry to complete their mission, they were not principled murderers, they were just really good ones. The car stood on the blindside of the brick red building they were packed beside; no one in the windows would have seen anything in the dreary wet night. For a while, they talked in hushed tones, and seemingly argued a bit before they moved on past 55th and zoomed on to the highway.
A seventh car appeared coming into the avenue, that is if you were counting, but that was not in the least bit abnormal in a night in the mostly quiet neighborhood. This seventh car was blue, long, easily looked like a Chevrolet brand, though the branding was not clear even in the blinding light of the street lights. That was it; the blinding light meant every thief and crook steered clear of the avenue. Not one robbery, pilfering or even a simple burglary had been noted in this one avenue for straight thirty years. That was all mostly thanks to the grand house of the Humphries looming large at 55th avenue. Truly no sane creature, living or dead, would think to do harm to the avenue, let alone the 55th as the Humphries were a bunch of high classed individuals. People believed that just thinking to attempt a break-in at the Humphries was in itself a suicidal one. Indeed it was, the security surrounding the building could only be rivaled by one around a nuclear bomb site, but that was what the five men cooped up in the blue car were preparing to go up against.
Finally, the car stopped at the large gate leading into 55th avenue. Four of the men had been there, one way or another, in the name of one thing or the other, in the past six months pretending to bring business, but really just examining and digging up as much information as they could about the place. A job this dangerous required patience leading to longsuffering; nothing was rushed, nothing was compromised, everything was a fact, and not one thing was theorized. The gate was electromagnetically powered and encrypted; only the head security could open it, or any of the Humphries cars, apart from the encrypted key, any other method to open the gate was nothing but Hail Mary. Motion cameras, sensors, alarms lined the entire place and each night, the wires curling the top of the walls were supercharged with electricity so that it would easily fry anyone who dared to make it that far. The doors leading into the mansion might be as easy to crack as an alien portal would be. Let’s not count the number of security men on hand at night, or their qualifications; it was indeed nuclear bomb site security.
Encrypted keys had a weakness, they send signals, and anything that could tune into their frequency can get the encryption. Of course, it took a well-experienced hacker working around the clock for more than two weeks to be able to design and code a device that could tap into the key’s frequency and receive the signal just as the gate does. After that, they might as well make millions of keys to open the gate and sell it on the black market if they so wished. The encryption code changing each week didn’t help much, because each time it changed, the little device they planted near the compound would pick up the new code and adjust their key accordingly. That meant that the gate was as good as open.
One snag that could have meant that their efforts to get the key to the door was nothing more than an effort was the 24-hour security men positioned at the gate. An unusual car would have meant the security men would raise their eyebrows about how they were able to open the gate, and that would have meant the police seizing them before they were even thoroughly driven into the compound- that is, if the security men didn’t feel like attacking themselves. But of course, all their time and patience didn’t resolve around them getting caught at the gate. The blue Chevrolet looked thoroughly like that driven by Kentucky Humphrey, so whatever misgivings the security men may have were already settled; the storm would hide any irregularities. Kentucky Humphrey mostly stayed out till 2 o’clock a.m. There was but one hour before the real Humphrey found his way back home and raised eyebrows, but they’d be gone long before that. They took their time to plan and they knew the accuracy of their plans, just as much as they believed in the accuracy of its results.
The large gold-encrusted gate opened fluidly as the car approached it. The car drove into the well-lit over 2 acres compound packing beside the over-imposing house.
“We’re ready, yeah?” One of the men, the only one in a red leather jacket, asked.
“You think the devil asked that of his renegade angels when they launched an attack on God?” the driver joked, he had a well-shaven mustache and a thick English accent.
The rest of them laughed, except the one in red. He kept observing the building as if it would suddenly start moving and smash into their car killing them all. Anyone that saw him then might think his crinkled brows meant he was scared of going into the building or maybe was having second thoughts, but his advanced mind left no space for qualms of such manners.
“What is it, Yej, not experiencing the first fear of your life tonight are you?” another one asked the one in red, Yej, tapping him playfully on his leather jacket and laughing heartily. To anyone around that saw the men, it would look like they were getting ready to order ice-cream rather than planning to murder one of the most powerful men in the world.
“I’ve taken up arms against worse and graced it thoughtlessly” Yej sniffed a short laugh, “this is like dropping a bomb in Libya compared to my other endeavors. Jeremy, Paul, let’s go. Mr. Cordon Humphrey invited the devil to his home, and the devil aint leaving without making a mess, especially if you poked him”
“We’re with you Yej, he deserves everything we’ve got coming to him” Paul said, throwing the door open carelessly. The only black one in the group was Paul, and no one could move around as stealthily as he could. He’d done spy work for some government agencies at a certain time but it felt to him that his talents were being wasted on the mundane missions he was assigned. He loved the mysterious, dangerous and peculiar missions; and it seemed those types of missions only happened at the wrong end of the law and that was where he eventually saw himself. The more difficult a mission was, the simpler it was for his brain to unravel.
“Let’s make some chaos” Jeremy said, stepping out with Paul. Jeremy was a weapon’s expert as Yej, but no one could beat him at chess either; he could make play with a dangerous mission involving a thousand outcomes as he would walking down the street with about a dozen cars zooming past him.
Yej stepped out from the front passenger seat covering his head with his hooded jacket, and the three of them marched into the building.
The last two would stay back and report on anything they see from the cameras they’ve got planted inside the building at the places they deemed as the most important corners through their communication earpieces; this would only send signals instead of actual words, in case the police managed to pick it up somehow. Staying at a base outside the building and carrying out the surveillance operation was impossible. The house was built like a black box, no frequency could penetrate or escape it, except unless they were connected to the big antenna built into the compound. Every other signal was interrupted and jumbled. Every server in the building was connected to the antenna and was heavily encrypted by the best anti-hacking companies there were. Mr. Cordon Humphrey was not an ordinary man neither was he one that should be toyed with, though he frequently toyed with people.
Yej and his accomplices approached the door, knowing not to touch the door which was DNA coded with the DNA information of the workers and of course, the Humphrey family members or other trusted frequent visitor. One touch at the door would have it read your DNA, and if your data was not recorded in its data system, it would yell intruder in a very loud and angry voice. Jeremy had witnessed the yelling on a day when he was delivering mail to the family. It happened to a former housekeeper whom Liliana Humphrey took into her pretty little head to fire the day before; claiming the housekeeper was not doing a very good job of arranging her closet. And since she had access to the building’s computer system, went ahead and deleted the woman’s data and history of work in the household. Well, let’s say the woman went into a shock when the door started crying because she touched it. For a paranoid weapons-manufacturer, Mr. Cordon Humphrey really outdid himself in designing and planning the house’s security. Robbing hell might have been an easier feat for anybody.
This would seem the hardest part of their mission but it was indeed the most simple. Mr. Humphrey had built the system to be lax since he had wayward children who didn’t care much about his strict rules and protective methods. The lax was that the system was so sensitive, it could read DNA off of gloves; that way the billionaire’s children wouldn’t need to strip their gloves just to get into their father’s house. Not everyone knew about the system’s by-function, and they wouldn’t have known if junior Humphrey, Kentucky, hadn’t told that to a girl they sent as a snitch in one of his drunken episodes at a night club.
‘Well, that was the singular failure of the entire well-structured system’ Yej thought as he pushed his newly gloved hand on the door. The three of them watched the door open majestically, revealing the stunning and breath-taking interior. Yej had always admired the place when he worked for Mr. Humphrey, right until the man fired him and took his research, claiming that their contract allowed him such authority. He wasn’t admiring the house then though, his eyes were fixed on the upper rooms.
Mr. Humphrey didn’t think that Yej was worth anything, but actually he was his arch nemesis. Whatever Mr. Humphrey’s brain raveled, Yej’s unraveled. It usually found him at cross-roads with Mr. Humphrey who never wants his brilliance challenged. Where Mr. Humphrey saw the strong points of a security system, Yej saw its weaknesses. Yej was the last person Mr. Humphrey should have messed with, but instead, he had taken Yej’s project and patented it, making millions off of it while not giving Yej, the project’s creator, even a damaged coin.
Before they came into the dimly lit living space, Paul and Jeremy had covered their heads with hoods as well. The three of them went into the room with heads turned to the floor. Yej often wondered why security cameras were always placed on top while they could be placed at a convenient place on the floor and it might have served its purpose better. Not that any camera position would have helped them though. Their heads were down because of the man at the camera room, not necessarily because of the cameras.
They reached the first landing, and with a courteous nod, they parted ways with Paul who went down the hallway while Yej and Jeremy ascended the next flight of stairs.
Yej and Jeremy stopped in front of Mr. Humphrey’s door. This was the toughest part of their mission, if they stepped close enough to the door, it would read their DNA and not finding a match with the one in its system, it would not only activate an alarm but activate lasers hot enough to melt even the most thick-skinned man to the ground in microseconds. Not even a glove would fool this particular door. Yej nodded at Jeremy without looking at him, and Jeremy departed down the right side of the corridor wordlessly.
Yej stood staring at the door as if the door represented all that he had been fighting his whole life. He glanced once at his watch unhurriedly and continued to stare at the door. He knew everything he needed to know about the security system embedded in the door, he knew he couldn’t bypass it without having to trip the alarm; that is if he didn’t trip the laser first. The world had had enough of wealthy filths who use their money to oppress others; one less wealthy jerk would make the world rejoice, so really, this was more of a community service than murder.
Yej was thinking back to the last time he saw Mr. Humphrey; his mind could remember every detail of the events that occurred that day and everything the multi-billionaire said to him, word to word. He remembered how the man had laughed off his threats of dragging him to court for stealing his project and converting it into his. Mr. Humphrey had clearly told him, in the manner a lion would use to talk to a cornered prey, that he should not bother with a law court, because none on earth could offer him justice. He said those words and more, before he fired him, had his men drag him out and made sure his ugly mug was not to be seen several meters from the company building. Well, Yej had taken his advice and hadn’t wasted his time in a court that would clearly have denied him justice, and made some ground rules for justice by himself.
Jeremy soon returned carrying a kicking figure, heavily muffled that not even the faintest sound escaped it. As soon as they were in front of the door, Jeremy threw Mary-Ann Humphrey haphazardly at the door. The Humphrey bumped into the door with a small thud, Yej stepped beside the young lady just as the door opened. He and the lady walked in and he flung her back before the door closed. Jeremy dragged her in as he entered; otherwise, the alarm would trip and kill whoever was unlucky to be standing there at that moment.
The door closed, and they all stood in the quite dark room. A little fear flickered through Yej as he realized that this was the most uncalculated part of their plan; they could either turn on the light and find Mr. Humphrey sitting on his bed with a gun pointed at them or turn it on to find him sleeping innocently, as if he were so. This was the only variable they could not impose the order of control on. Their plan could fail or succeed, they just had to turn on the switch and find out. His hand found the switch on a wall, and with a racing heart he flicked it on. He breathed out as he saw that Mr. Humphrey and his wife Melissa were sleeping soundly in their bed, as if all was well with their world. Well, it wasn’t, not as long as Yej was in it as well.
Yej didn’t rush them; he watched them patiently as they both groggily woke up, rubbing their eyes and murmuring about the disturbance. He waited for them to fully feel awake and take in the scene playing out before them, he’d waited for more than a year, three more minutes would not kill him.
Mr. Humphrey was the first to come to, jerking into alertness as he saw his muffled crying daughter. He looked from Jeremy to Yej making no connection to who they were, a second glance at Yej brought back some recognition. And Yej knew that Mr. Humphrey had recognized him because of the way his face turned grave and pallid as he stared at him. Yej gave him a friendly smile in return for his grave face.
“Who are you, how dare you!” his wife was now barking, “I’ll call security and have done with you two”. She said getting up from the bed. Yej had withdrawn a gun from his leather jacket. A single shot from it sent a pin laced with poison flying towards Mrs. Humphrey. It embedded on her neck and sent her convulsing on the floor within a space of seconds. The gun was accurate and silent, just as Yej designed it to be.
“So…” Yej said airily, shrugging his shoulders like a toddler caught with his hand on the cookie jar would, “We see each other twice in a day boss, that’s a good sign, don’t you agree?”
Mr. Humphrey now had his hand up in surrender, his lips murmuring unintelligible pleas. For someone who built weapons that would render thousands dead in minutes, he sure loved his pretty little life.
Mary-Ann shot off from the floor where Jeremy had her kneeling as she made to run towards her mother. She fell half-way to where her mother lay convulsing still, joining in the convulsion as a pin stuck itself on her back.
Yej had the gun by his side when Mr. Humphrey looked round from Jeremy to him to see who had shot his daughter, looking as innocent as ever.
“Where were we? Sorry, they kept interrupting boss” he said with a low devilish chuckle, “I recall boss does not like being interrupted, not for anything”
“Spare my wife and daughter and I will give you anything you want, ANYTHING” Mr. Humphrey pleaded.
Yej cast a quick glance from mother to daughter, and returned his calm gaze to Mr. Humphrey. His wife and daughter were already marked for death and nothing could change that, but he wasn’t going to tell Mr. Humphrey that. He still needed the man to do quite a few things for him. “Okay, I’ll take you up on your word of anything” he said calmly, “But you better hurry as you do whatever you’re told to do, with no fish business attached or tic-toc-tic-toc, they die”.
Mr. Humphrey nodded vigorously, “I swear, I swear”, he said hurriedly.
“You’re a shady human being, so I’m guessing you have lots of money stocked in the form of Bitcoin. It’s untraceable money” Yej said.
Mr. Humphrey nodded.
“How much exactly?” Yej asked.
“Around some hundreds of millions in separate account wallets”, Mr. Humphrey replied breathlessly.
“Well? Get to transferring” Yej said, handing Mr. Humphrey a paper with five different wallet ids.
Mr. Humphrey scurried around for his laptop, turning it on hurriedly. All the while that he worked on his laptop; he kept half an eye on his wife and daughter to make sure they still exhibited signs of life. Yej knew they wouldn’t be dead, not at least for another thirty minutes, and for that he wasn’t bothered. As long as Mr. Humphrey thought they were alive and there was still a way to save them, he was still in the clear. He did keep a close eye on Mr. Humphrey though, to make sure he didn’t try to over-smart himself.
After Yej watched the transactions pull through, he raised the gun and pointed it at its target.
“There, you have it. It’s done, you’re rich, now give them the antidote, please. If you want to take a life, take mine, I’m the…” a pin embedded in his forehead and he fell forward from the chair he sat on, starting to convulse on the ground like his wife and daughter.
Yej had shot him because he was trying to reveal too much. He would have rather wanted to add a few more words of his own, some parting brief or something like that but then the cops would pick a clue, the right clue. They would have a lot of clues of course; they were happy to provide them with those, with plenty of those. He turned to Jeremy and they exchanged a triumphant nod wordlessly.
Yej went around collecting the pins from the bodies of the convulsing family, taking great care not to touch the tip; the poisonous fluid smeared on it was still potent enough to take care of about a hundred people. Each one he plucked from the vibrating bodies, he deposited on a plastic bag he had with him. When he was done, he safely tucked the plastic bag into the pocket of his leather jacket.
He went over to where Mary-Ann lay convulsing and picked her up, he was sorry she had to die for the sins of her father, but there was no way around it. They had rigged the game to make sure the cops picked up all the wrong cards and mercy was not a part of the rules they laid down. Pulling the dying girl wordlessly, he gently touched her body to the door and it opened. He walked out with her and flung her back carelessly as the door made to close. Jeremy picked her up and dragged her body out again, and flung her back into the room to die with the rest of her dying family before the door finally closed.
They went down the stairs and met up with Paul who gave them a single nod before they all turned and walked out.
CHAPTER TWO
Bailey had to show her security badge three times before she could get into the compound, and now she stood on the threshold of the building waiting for one of the security men at the door to confirm that she indeed had a right to be there. It took a while before the security men nodded her in. The building she found herself in was daunting, but the situation did not call for admiration whatsoever. A powerful man had just been murdered, and what’s worse, in his very own home. Rumors had already filtered through the precinct and had spread like wildfire through the entire nation. Some theories stated that it was an attack from an enemy nation seeking front-line knowledge on the nation’s weapon systems or at least they were looking to take out the major player in the design and formulation of weapons. Conspiracy theories were abound and there must have been a hundred different theories already, if one decided to listen to the chit-chatter.
She straightened the jacket of her navy blue suit as she made her way up the spiral tessellated stairs. Every agent or officer who knew how to dig up their own bone was present, all that was missing was the Salvation Army and its Calvary. Some rooms were strictly cordoned off from most of the police force present, only the top heads could go into those restricted sections. She waved at the S.O as she made her way to the second flight of stairs.
She didn’t know what she expected, but she could not have expected what she found. The army were around, stationed at every corner, on uniform and no nonsense mood. She was wrong, the Salvation Army did come. She warily climbed the last stairs and provided her badge to no one in particular. They didn’t look at her badge before one of them pointed at a room and waved her in. She nodded and entered.
She didn’t know why the Director had requested her presence there; she was not a special agent of any sort. She was a desk-junkie, an ordinary CSI; she was rarely in the field, at least not after THAT incidence. Remembering the unfortunate trial incidence made her flinch as she stepped into the room, though she managed to change the expression to a calm smile as heads swung round to her direction. Most of the people in the room went back to their tasks not minding her. Director Dan waved her over. He was seated on a stool watching something on the flat monitor he held in his hand, a large monitor stood in front of him playing something in mono-color. Five officers stood around him, eyes concentrated on the large monitor as they scanned the video, probably for any clue as to the identity of the murderers.
She came up to them and stood next to Fred, their criminal behaviorist. She gave him a small nod, which he probably didn’t notice because his eyes never left the monitor with his face crinkled in concentration. She turned her attention to the large monitor in front of her; the video feed was probably from three different cameras in three different angles. It displayed five men heading up the stairs, their heads down, hoods covering the color of their hair or any identifiable thing that could have helped in pinpointing the criminals. They all wore long-sleeved shirts of varying colors; blue, red, green, green, white. It was not the proper criminal etiquette, Bailey noted but she dared not voice her opinion on the account of looking remarkably stupid. She knew most criminals wore a color code, mostly shaded in grey or the black spectrum, probably their attempt to decrease visibility if anyone were to see them in their dark arts. These criminals defiled rules, they didn’t only wear unconventional colors but bright bold colors; it was like they were making a statement. But what statement exactly?
She took a peek at the monitor Director Dan had clutched in his hand, and could tell that it was the same video feed on the large monitor, but probably through night vision cameras because they were brighter and layered in greenish tint. Her second observation watching the video through the monitor in the Director’s hands was that their T-shirts were all checked, must be for some uniformity, she conceded. She remembered a class she had in criminal analysis that explained the instinct in criminals to have something that proved them as a team; might be the way they choose to hang their key chains, or wore their colors, and millions of other stuffs like that. This gang’s uniformity came in checked T-shirts.
“Okay, so according to the video, they all went into the room at the same time” Director Dan finally spoke.
Fred screwed his eyes at the video as was his wont whenever his brain-wheels were turning, “yes, but the clues from the murder and that of the video feed are inconclusive”
“Are you saying the video is wrong or that the murder analyst missed something?” George asked.
“Might be both or none, my point is that there’s a huge piece of the puzzle that’s still missing” Fred pointed out.
“Can someone fill in Miss Tennyson on the facts so far?” Director Dan asked.
Fred looked at her, and conceded, unhappily, to be the one to do the explaining. “As you might have heard; Mr. Humphrey, his wife Melissa and youngest daughter Mary-Ann were murdered last night in Mr. Humphrey’s room at approximately 1:30 to 2 o’clock of the morning. Weapon of murder seems to be poison-dart but till the result from the lab is back, the fact is inconclusive”
“How did we guess it was poison?” Bailey asked. She had been trying to run an image of the incidence in her head and compare it with the images from the cameras planted around the house; something was amiss, even if her mind couldn’t tell her what.
“All three of them had a little prick that could have been made by a pin in their body leading us to conclude they were injected with a poisonous chemical; back, neck and forehead” Fred replied plaintively.
“Am guessing Mr. Humphrey had the head shot?” she asked.
“You guess correctly” Director Dan said, “what are all your theories, I want to hear them”
“This is not a day thing, and obviously the attack was carried out by trained professionals, I’m suspecting this must take years for the planning” one of the men at their circle said. Bailey didn’t recognize him but she noted he had on a blue tie.
“Obviously” Director Dan said as if what the man had done was explain how bright the sun was shining.
“Our data is largely inconclusive, nothing fits. The security men say that the only car that drove into the compound at the time of the attack was that of Kentucky Humphrey, which puts him up as a suspect. Then let’s say he truly is a suspect, the camera in the garden only showed us three men coming out of his car the first time he drove in, but inside the house the cameras reveal they were in fact five. And let’s say the other two were workers here and were already inside, it still does not explain what Mary-Ann was doing in her parents’ room at the time of attack and how she was caught in the line of fire. It’s still inconclusive if we factor in the intentions of the murderers; was it a crime on the national level or was it carried out by a highly trained operative organization. And lastly, what was it that they gained from Mr. Humphrey’s murder, that is if they were aiming at murder. If some of these questions are answered, it might help point us at least to a definable direction as to who the murderers might be” Fred stated.
Director Dan breathed in through his mouth and shook his head slowly, “Wouldn’t it be great if the answers to those questions just magically dropped down from heaven?” he murmured, “In the meantime, you’re right. We need conclusive data. Fred, take Bailey with you and head into the crime scene. Gather as much information as you can, the rest of us will try to pick up any hints left to us by the camera feed” he said waving them away and pointing at the room next to the one they were in.
She and Fred exchanged looks but did not question the order they were given as they both turned and walked out of the room. Bailey was trying to think up what they were going to say to the soldiers in front of Mr. Humphrey’s room when they approached the men. They didn’t say anything, Fred produced his ID and they were nodded in.
When Bailey entered, the sight of the three color-drained corpses were what she first saw. The sight that left her sick was that of little Miss Mary-Ann, the nineteen year old Humphrey. She remembered her smiling face on a television interview she took part in about a month ago, when she announced that she and her siblings were going to stay over at their dad’s for this Christmas holiday. Well, a red Christmas holiday has turned into a black nightmarish mourning. The world was such a cruel place, she thought as she followed Fred over to one of the four men photographing every nook and cranny of the crime scene.
“Hi, I’m Fred. I’m with NYPD; I’d love to ask some questions on any information regarding the crime scene” Fred said, producing his badge.
“Wait a while, I’m almost done and I’d have time to talk to you” the man said. He was plainly dressed in white and wore sparkling white gloves.
Fred nodded and he and Bailey retreated to a corner. From there, Bailey could hear half the words that were spoken in the room. From what she could hear, they had Kentucky Humphrey under arrest and he was being questioned at that particular time. Some people were averse to the thought that Kentucky could have been behind the murder of some of his family members, some people were all for it, stating he clearly had motives and stating the fact that it would take someone really close, who knew every security strengths and weaknesses, to try to pull off an attack on a place this heavily guarded and secured; both technically and manually.
Some rejected the notion by saying that if it the murder was carried out by Kentucky, he wouldn’t risk bringing in the murderers with his car. But for the meantime, there were no clues to go on but Kentucky so no theory could talk him out of the crime for now.
Bailey knew it could not be Kentucky since no one would steal an apple and still raise it up for the world to see; no matter how dumb Kentucky might be, he certainly couldn’t be that dumb. But she couldn’t say she despised the arrest, Kentucky was the only clue they had to go on with.
The camera man seemed to be done with his pictures and headed towards them. Fred extended a handshake but the man rejected it by putting up his white gloved hands and shaking his head.
“I’m Lucas, I’m with the army” the man quickly said, “So what do you want to know?”
“How about everything you know so far?” Bailey asked.
Lucas nodded, “They were five, wore colored clothes and a hood and came in with Kentucky’s car, or at least something that looked like it. It was raining so no one could have known for sure”
“But there’s a tough electronic security in the gate that no one could by-pass as I am led to believe, making it that the gate can either be opened with a special key or by the security men. The gate was opened by a special key, hence the fact that they must have used Kentucky’s car, the real one, and yet he said his car was not stolen that night, that it couldn’t have been” Fred stated.
“Or someone found a way to beat the security at the gate, come on, computers can be beaten” Lucas pointed out.
Fred wasn’t about to give into that theory, “That easily, wasn’t there a backup system to the gate that meant if someone tried to meddle with it let alone hack it, it would go offline and report the threat”.
“And? It’s still that same computer that has to report the threat when hacked. Anyway, I don’t understand computers that much but what I understand so far is that they can all be beaten by lines of code” Lucas said.
“Come on, it was designed by the best minds in the country” Fred insisted.
“It was probably hacked by the best of a foreign country” Lucas stated quietly.
Fred’s eyebrows pricked a bit before he resumed his demure expression. Bailey felt that Fred had played on the man to try to get information he knew the army may know and yet not want to disclose. “What do you mean by that?” Fred asked, trying to feign little interest in the subject.
Lucas shrugged but said nothing more. Bailey knew that was it, the man was after all with the army and the army knew their business; more than the CIA, it seemed.
“Do you think this might be an international attack?” Fred pressed.
“Those are simply speculations” Lucas muttered.
Bailey guessed that the army was probably on to something more than speculations, but for now, that’s for the army to know and everyone else to guess at.
“Anyway, continuing with the crime scene, there’s been a sweep and no DNA was found, so there’s that for that” Lucas said.
“What about the door, how did they get it to open, was it forced entry?” Bailey asked.
“Forced entry on a 6ft rod iron door with an electronic system, not to mention a DNA matching system” Fred hurriedly explained with the expression of someone that had to respond to an extremely stupid question.
“DNA matching system?” Bailey asked.
“Yes, the door does not open for you if your DNA or that of someone with you does not match any in the system, it’s not operated by key or any…” and then he stopped with a short gasp, “how did they get through the door?”
“I know this puts Kentucky further in the line of offense but…” Lucas started.
“It was with Kentucky’s DNA, wasn’t it?” Fred concluded.
“Yes, but Kentucky said the system had a minor flaw, that it was really sensitive it could have read his DNA off his clothing” Lucas said, “which have been tested and proven by the police more than a couple times already”
“Okay, which of his other children were at home at the time of the crime?” Bailey asked.
“Liliana was in, Benjamin was also in, Marilyn is somewhere in Germany and was the only one of his children not at home for the holidays. Kentucky and Davis were not back by that time” Lucas answered.
“Hey, hey everyone listen to this!” someone in the room called and everyone diverted their attention to the man. He had something in his hand, “you see, Mr. Humphrey didn’t have a camera in his room, but he had a recorder” he said and pressed a button and a distorted high-pitched noise spilled across the room, some people held onto their ears. “Sorry, sorry” the man called again and turned a dial on the device he held, something came bursting forth from the speakers.
Fred’s face broke into a broad smile as the first words burst out from the speakers.
“Who are you, how dare you! I’ll call security and have done with you two”, it was probably from Melissa Humphrey.
A little swish in the air, magnified by the loudness of the speakers, was heard. The next sound was a thud. Everyone imagined it was Melissa falling.
“So…” the voice was deep and inhuman and brought questioning looks from the listening people, “we see each other twice in a day boss, that’s a good sign, don’t you agree?”
A groan was heard, some thumping feet followed by a thud, and there falls Mary-Ann in everybody’s mind.
“Where were we? Sorry, they kept interrupting boss” the voice boomed out again, again it sounded awkward and wrong; like it was vibrated a couple hundred times before being recorded, “I recall boss does not like being interrupted, not for anything”
“Spare my wife and daughter and I will give you anything you want, ANYTHING” Mr. Humphrey pleaded.
“Okay, I’ll take you up on your word of anything” the distorted voice said, “But you better hurry as you do whatever you’re told to do, with no fish business attached or tic-toc-tic-toc, they die”.
“I swear, I swear”, Mr. Humphrey said hurriedly.
“You’re a shady human being, so I’m guessing you have lots of money stocked in the form of Bitcoin. It’s untraceable money”
Silence.
“How much exactly?”
“Around some hundreds of millions in separate account wallets”, Mr. Humphrey replied breathlessly.
“Well? Get to transferring”
“That’s bullshit, what’s wrong with the voice?” Fred asked, immediately the silent break in the record started.
“I’m guessing it’s Toot, a children’s toy. Children use it to distort their voices and make it sound funny just as a kaleidoscope distorts colors. I know, the world’s best technology was beaten by a kid’s toy” a plump man in a black suit, with wild mustache said.
Mr. Humphrey’s voice sounded again, “There, you have it. It’s done, you’re rich, now give them the antidote, please. If you want to take a life, take mine, I’m the…”
“He’s the what?” a lady asked, exasperated.
“I’m sorry but that’s all the noise from the time of the attack, the murderers weren’t very chatty” the man with the control remote said.
“He knows them” Fred said in an undertone that Bailey barely heard. “You’re rich, you’re rich…” he repeated continuously as he thought, “He knows them; he knows they want his money, so international attack is ruled out. This attack is either by someone who works for him in the company, in the mansion, or even someone who’s family”
“Or someone who’s got a beef with him” Bailey added.
“Probably” Fred nodded, “this narrows it down. The murderers are as good as caught, I believe this clue will lead us right to them”.
The air in the room had already changed to that of a positive mood, everyone believed that the recorder gave them enough information to start searching for the people who murdered Mr. Humphrey, one of the country’s leading men in defense technology. If those murderers escaped without punishment, it would be a terrible blow to the nation; and anyone who was in the force would try everything to the last of their strength to bring the criminals to justice, and they wouldn’t give up. But even as Bailey heard the recording, even as hope peaked for the other officers on the message of the recording, hers was a complete loss of hope. The criminals were smart; if they distorted their voice, they knew there was a recorder. They didn’t call out their wallet ID because they were sure of the recorder and if they knew about the recorder, it could only mean that everything they heard were what the criminals wanted them to hear. This was nothing but a clue planted by the murderers to lead them off the true scent of their path. But she saw no other scent they could follow, all she could do was hope that they would take the false paths and somehow use it to step on the right ones. But she knew the probability of that happening were about a million to one, there was still that chance of one. All it needed was someone who could see beyond ordinary sense, go beyond the lines of the crime scene and come out with at least a shoe or a lace; that detective was just not her.
Contributed by Nmesoma Okechukwu
Nmesoma is a musician and short story writer from Nigeria.
A mystery extract from Rob Burton
One of our regular contributors, Rob Burton, sent us this mysterious extract from .... he's keeping it a secret! An intriguing teaser campaign for an upcoming novel? A mystery about a mystery? What do you think?
The day before in downtown Lisbon...
Oppenheimer Hugo Junior III sat at the table outside a restaurant in a lane just off the Rua De Prata. The sun was high overhead, and he was feeling nauseous. He sloshed at the warm olive oil in the earthenware dish with a spoon. Having asked for a vegetarian soup this is what had been placed before him. The smirking waiter told him Sopa Alentejana was a local delicacy. It was hot olive oil with an egg cracked into it, a raw egg. Hugo pushed the dish away and looked once again at the puzzle in front of him.
Never in his whole career as professor of symbolism at the University of Los Angeles had he faced such an enigmatic conundrum. In a simple box in front of him was an egg, but it was no simple egg. It was an elegant bejewelled egg, unlike the mess floating in the rancid oil in front of him. This one was breathtaking. He held it in his hands, amazed he had it and even more amazing was how he had got hold of it in the first place.
One of our regular contributors, Rob Burton, sent us this mysterious extract from .... he's keeping it a secret! An intriguing teaser campaign for an upcoming novel? A mystery about a mystery? What do you think?
The day before in downtown Lisbon...
Oppenheimer Hugo Junior III sat at the table outside a restaurant in a lane just off the Rua De Prata. The sun was high overhead, and he was feeling nauseous. He sloshed at the warm olive oil in the earthenware dish with a spoon. Having asked for a vegetarian soup this is what had been placed before him. The smirking waiter told him Sopa Alentejana was a local delicacy. It was hot olive oil with an egg cracked into it, a raw egg. Hugo pushed the dish away and looked once again at the puzzle in front of him.
Never in his whole career as professor of symbolism at the University of Los Angeles had he faced such an enigmatic conundrum. In a simple box in front of him was an egg, but it was no simple egg. It was an elegant bejewelled egg, unlike the mess floating in the rancid oil in front of him. This one was breathtaking. He held it in his hands, amazed he had it and even more amazing was how he had got hold of it in the first place.
IMPORTANT ADVICE FOR SCHOOL PUPILS
from TEACHING TANIA by James Gault
Next, I come to the delicate question of homework, which of course you must always do. But there will be, inevitably, some occasions on which, through no fault of your own, you will inadvertently not have done your homework. You may, for example, have inexplicably forgotten about it. Such a thing, of course, must never happen with the homework I give you. But, for other teachers, it is a possibility, and indeed, over a long school career, practically unavoidable. So what should you do in such a case?
First of all, on your journey to school, you must dedicate your mind to finding the most convoluted and improbable explanation for not having the homework.
“As I came out of the house with my homework in my hand, a passing bird descended, grabbed it in his beak, and flew off with it. I took a taxi, at great personal expense, and we followed it to Wenceslas Square. There the bird let go of my homework and it started to float slowly down to the ground. Unfortunately, there was a delay while I paid the taxi driver a not inconsiderable sum of money, and from my own pocket too. I then started to cross the square, watching my homework descending towards a young man sitting on a bench. Suddenly this young man took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth, and then proceeded to illuminate a small cigarette lighter with his free hand. I was shocked, and not only because, as you know, I abhor smoking. My precious paper was descending towards the naked flame, and, you’ve guessed it, I arrived in front of the bench just in time to see my homework going up in smoke. But, of course, I’ll do it over again and give it to you tomorrow.”
This story will produce one of two responses. Your teacher may say, probably in a rather disgruntled sort of way,
“OK then. But don’t you dare forget it tomorrow!”
This is a perfectly satisfactory outcome for you. But some teachers are of a more suspicious or tenacious nature, and may respond by saying,
“You really don’t expect me to believe such a load of nonsense, do you?”
With such a pedagogical giant there is only one way to proceed. You must be firm, resolute and even arrogant, and say, without allowing your voice to waver,
“Do you honestly believe, sir (or miss) that I could have made up such a story if it wasn’t true?”
(You will note that you have not actually lied in this statement). Faced with such a demonstration of conviction, the teacher will wilt, and will reply weakly,
“Oh well then, do it again for tomorrow”.
from TEACHING TANIA by James Gault
Next, I come to the delicate question of homework, which of course you must always do. But there will be, inevitably, some occasions on which, through no fault of your own, you will inadvertently not have done your homework. You may, for example, have inexplicably forgotten about it. Such a thing, of course, must never happen with the homework I give you. But, for other teachers, it is a possibility, and indeed, over a long school career, practically unavoidable. So what should you do in such a case?
First of all, on your journey to school, you must dedicate your mind to finding the most convoluted and improbable explanation for not having the homework.
“As I came out of the house with my homework in my hand, a passing bird descended, grabbed it in his beak, and flew off with it. I took a taxi, at great personal expense, and we followed it to Wenceslas Square. There the bird let go of my homework and it started to float slowly down to the ground. Unfortunately, there was a delay while I paid the taxi driver a not inconsiderable sum of money, and from my own pocket too. I then started to cross the square, watching my homework descending towards a young man sitting on a bench. Suddenly this young man took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth, and then proceeded to illuminate a small cigarette lighter with his free hand. I was shocked, and not only because, as you know, I abhor smoking. My precious paper was descending towards the naked flame, and, you’ve guessed it, I arrived in front of the bench just in time to see my homework going up in smoke. But, of course, I’ll do it over again and give it to you tomorrow.”
This story will produce one of two responses. Your teacher may say, probably in a rather disgruntled sort of way,
“OK then. But don’t you dare forget it tomorrow!”
This is a perfectly satisfactory outcome for you. But some teachers are of a more suspicious or tenacious nature, and may respond by saying,
“You really don’t expect me to believe such a load of nonsense, do you?”
With such a pedagogical giant there is only one way to proceed. You must be firm, resolute and even arrogant, and say, without allowing your voice to waver,
“Do you honestly believe, sir (or miss) that I could have made up such a story if it wasn’t true?”
(You will note that you have not actually lied in this statement). Faced with such a demonstration of conviction, the teacher will wilt, and will reply weakly,
“Oh well then, do it again for tomorrow”.
It's a Miracle
by Keith Guernsey
If you visit my author page on Amazon, you will see that I have referred to our four-footed son Harley as the "King of this castle. It is as true today as it was when I wrote it five years ago.
For the first half century of my life I always thought the phrase a man's best friend was just a marketing slogan on the side of a can of dog food. But I have learned over the last decade that it is actually very true. To say he stole our hearts would rank as a colossal understatement. He came to us a rescue on a one week trial bass and has been by our side every day since. I distinctly remember calling his adoption advocate that very first night and telling her that there was no need for a trial. He was ours and we were his!
At 15 years young we faced the reality that he wouldn't be with us forever, but that didn't make almost losing him any easier. He was getting sick to his stomach, not eating and showing signs of extreme lethargy so we knew an unwanted trip to the vet was in order. We took him in early March and were informed that he was in kidney failure. He was in such bad shape that we prepared for the end. Susan even picked out a place in her garden where she would scatter his ashes. A lot of tears were shed as we hoped for a miracle and
sure enough one occurred!
Other than a change in diet (thank you freshpet.com!), we really didn't do anything different but all of a sudden he seemed to find the fountain of doggie youth! He started eating again like there was no tomorrow. We even had a reign him in as he still only weighed 10 pounds. He began to run wild like he was five instead of 15 and an amazing transformation had truly taken place.
Susan and I were so thrilled to have our little best friend back. There didn't seem to be any logical veterinary, medical explanation but it didn't matter to us one iota!
by Keith Guernsey
If you visit my author page on Amazon, you will see that I have referred to our four-footed son Harley as the "King of this castle. It is as true today as it was when I wrote it five years ago.
For the first half century of my life I always thought the phrase a man's best friend was just a marketing slogan on the side of a can of dog food. But I have learned over the last decade that it is actually very true. To say he stole our hearts would rank as a colossal understatement. He came to us a rescue on a one week trial bass and has been by our side every day since. I distinctly remember calling his adoption advocate that very first night and telling her that there was no need for a trial. He was ours and we were his!
At 15 years young we faced the reality that he wouldn't be with us forever, but that didn't make almost losing him any easier. He was getting sick to his stomach, not eating and showing signs of extreme lethargy so we knew an unwanted trip to the vet was in order. We took him in early March and were informed that he was in kidney failure. He was in such bad shape that we prepared for the end. Susan even picked out a place in her garden where she would scatter his ashes. A lot of tears were shed as we hoped for a miracle and
sure enough one occurred!
Other than a change in diet (thank you freshpet.com!), we really didn't do anything different but all of a sudden he seemed to find the fountain of doggie youth! He started eating again like there was no tomorrow. We even had a reign him in as he still only weighed 10 pounds. He began to run wild like he was five instead of 15 and an amazing transformation had truly taken place.
Susan and I were so thrilled to have our little best friend back. There didn't seem to be any logical veterinary, medical explanation but it didn't matter to us one iota!
An excerpt from PHOENIX BOUND, ‘A Hurting Heart,’ by Angie K Elliston
James and I each said, “Sure, why not.” As we told people of our decision, everyone told us not to do it. They insisted that a sixteen-year-old would be set-in-his-ways and be impossible to change or mold into our family. Friends and relatives strongly advised us not to take him into our family. Regardless of the warnings, we did not hesitate or doubt our decision.
My husband and I were prepared to take on another child at this point and had met this boy before getting the phone call to adopt him. We were prepared to handle it.
It is dangerous to adopt as a result of a loss.
Many couples adopt after years of trying to conceive or want a playmate for their only child. However, be sure that you have worked out your loss before taking on a child. A child’s needs are extensive, and your heart needs to be ready to take on that challenge. An adoptive child has had at least one loss if not multiple losses and he needs you to be there for him. If he does not get along with your other child or if he does not ‘measure up’ to what you expected, it is your heart that needs to be flexible and loving.
Research before you choose to adopt and listen to your heart.
An adoptive placement will often turn your life upside down, but it is a calling that has its rewards. It is also one way to create the change you would like to see in the world.
James and I each said, “Sure, why not.” As we told people of our decision, everyone told us not to do it. They insisted that a sixteen-year-old would be set-in-his-ways and be impossible to change or mold into our family. Friends and relatives strongly advised us not to take him into our family. Regardless of the warnings, we did not hesitate or doubt our decision.
My husband and I were prepared to take on another child at this point and had met this boy before getting the phone call to adopt him. We were prepared to handle it.
It is dangerous to adopt as a result of a loss.
Many couples adopt after years of trying to conceive or want a playmate for their only child. However, be sure that you have worked out your loss before taking on a child. A child’s needs are extensive, and your heart needs to be ready to take on that challenge. An adoptive child has had at least one loss if not multiple losses and he needs you to be there for him. If he does not get along with your other child or if he does not ‘measure up’ to what you expected, it is your heart that needs to be flexible and loving.
Research before you choose to adopt and listen to your heart.
An adoptive placement will often turn your life upside down, but it is a calling that has its rewards. It is also one way to create the change you would like to see in the world.
An extract from KYRIAN LYNDON's novel SHATTERING TRUTHS
Glastonbury, Connecticut, 1987
There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding.
Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.
Glastonbury, Connecticut, 1987
There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding.
Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.
A FREE EXCERPT FROM 'THE UNCOVERED POLICEMAN' BY TED BUN
Read it! ...Enjoy it!..Buy it! Click here..
“Charlie 1 5, Charlie 1 5.”
“Here we go,” muttered PC “Addy” Adiscombe to nobody in particular, as he lifted the radio mike off the dash in his patrol car. Addy was nearing the end of his second year in the police force. It was a job he had taken after deciding that seasickness made his life in the Navy impossible. He had enjoyed the service life. The Training Ship and his shore-based posting at Portsmouth had been great fun. His second posting to a small fisheries protection vessel had been much less so. He was seasick, horribly and continually seasick. Every time the sea got rougher than dead flat calm, Addy was hanging over the side of the ship-saying goodbye to everything he had ever eaten. In fact, after 6 months he had asked to be transferred on medical grounds. Once off the ship he discovered he was going to be made redundant, ‘Defence Cuts’.
Out of the Navy, with no pension and no plan for the future. He had not been expecting to leave the Navy for another 10 years; he did not know what to do next. Living on his dwindling redundancy money, he was aimless and bored. Addy had enjoyed the disciplined life in the Navy and found Civvy Street without a job an uncomfortable place.
One evening, heading home from the pub slightly the worse for wear, he was stopped and spoken to by a Police Constable. The PC suggested to Addy that singing about his time as ‘a wild rover’, at the top of his voice, on a residential street, at half past midnight (where had the evening gone??) was not in the public interest. That it might be best for all if Addy was to tip toe off home before singing the second verse, when a Police Sargent walked up. He took the PC to one side and requested the PC wrapped up dealing with the D and D. He had a more important job that he wanted him to help with.
“Yes, Sarg, right away Sarg.” Turning to Addy, “Ok you. Home. Quietly. Now!”
Next morning, as he sipped a strong black coffee in the kitchen of his small flat, Addy reflected on the conversation. Not what had been said to him so much as what passed between the Sargent and the Constable. The Constable was about his age, he had a responsible job, a smart uniform and was part of an organised team. He reminded Addy of Seaman Adiscombe RN in many ways. There it was. The discipline and structure he was looking for. This was going to be his new career. He was going to become a policeman! Thanking goodness that he hadn’t been arrested last night. He went to the library to look up how to apply to the police force.
That was three eventful years ago. He had been through the application process, the Assessment Centre and the Fitness Test. He had worked through the college courses and impressed during his probation period. That was now behind him and promotion, or maybe a move to CID, ahead if he worked hard and followed the rules.
“1 5, receiving. What is your message? Over.”
“1 5, we have a report of a burglary on licensed premises, can you attend?”
“1 5, mark me as attending. What is the address?”
“1 5, you are going to love this,” replied the dispatcher, breaking RT protocol. “The Club House at Eden Gardens Naturist Resort.”
“This will be fun… NOT!” Addy thought to himself. “I can see the stick I am going to get from the lads over this one.”
“1 5, Attending.” He sighed.
Eden Gardens
Eden Gardens Naturist Resort is situated on the outskirts of the urban sprawl of the once compact market town. On three sides, the houses were now very close to the fence that had been put up to screen the Resort from prying eyes.
Back in the 1950s, when it had opened as Eden Gardens Sun Club, it had been on 4 acres of largely barren wilderness surrounded by farmland. The enterprising Brigadier Weston – Hyde had retired after a career in the army that had seen him through the war and safely into peacetime. In his various postings during the war years he had served in many places, mainly in the Pacific, where he had been in charge of the Air Defence of what is now Samoa. Where he had enjoyed the freedom of swimming and sunbathing naked on the tropical beaches. On returning to the UK, he had been involved in the decommissioning of temporary headquarters and Special Services buildings that had been taken over by the War Department. Most of them were returned, in a very battered state, to their owners with hardly a word of thanks.
Measham Hall was not as lucky as some, it was in very poor condition, having been the temporary home for 4 different regiments from 3 different continents in the months leading up to D-Day. The family that had been the owners had been all but destroyed by the War. The father had been killed in the battle at Calais, defending the Dunkirk evacuation. His son was shot down and presumed killed over Hamburg in 1943; his daughter was caught in a blast from a V2 in the dying days of the war in Europe. The Mother of the family, distraught at her losses and burdened with death duties was unable to cope with the restoration of the Hall. When the damp and aged wiring finally gave up the ghost and the fire started, it was the end.
When his services were no longer required by Her Majesty, the Brigadier took his gratuity, pension and a small inheritance from his family and went in search of something new. He wasn’t sure what, but there had to be something.
Waiting for the train at Marylebone Station, he chose to idle away a few minutes looking at an estate agent’s advertisement, when a description of a derelict country house caught his eye. It was a place he had helped decommission. Beautiful surroundings, as he recalled. Later that afternoon he was back wandering around what remained of Measham Hall. The House was gone, most of the land had been rented out, but the gardens and some of the outbuildings remained.
As he wandered around, he could see that the old chauffeur’s cottage was repairable and the gardens, lawns and the formal orchards could be restored. The day was warm and as he meandered he had removed his tie, jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. As he came around the corner, into what had once been a walled garden, he discovered the disused swimming pool. The pool, along with what he had already seen, started to crystallise an idea in his mind. He sat down on his jacket and thought.
It got warmer … soon he was getting uncomfortable, so he removed the rest of his clothes and sat naked in the sun trying to make the sums work.
Slowly he did the calculations in his mind, he could afford to buy the place and his pension would cover the costs of the refurbishment of the cottage and still have enough left to live on, frugally, but enough. It was getting the grounds restored and the pool sorted out that would need more money and more help. Not a lot, but still more than he alone could afford. As the sun dropped below the trees, he dressed and started to walk back towards the station. On his way there, he passed a copse and a sudden noise made him look over the hedgerow.
What he saw filled in the missing pieces for him.
He watched as four youngsters scrambled for their towels, or the safety of their tent, as an angry farmer stormed across the field demanding they vacate his land immediately. The four young people were as naked as he himself had been just a few minutes earlier.
All he now needed was to convince his wife.
Six months later, in April 1955, the first Eden Gardens Sun Club members working party started clearing the old walled garden.
Contributed nov 2017 by Ted Bun
Read it! ...Enjoy it!..Buy it! Click here..
“Charlie 1 5, Charlie 1 5.”
“Here we go,” muttered PC “Addy” Adiscombe to nobody in particular, as he lifted the radio mike off the dash in his patrol car. Addy was nearing the end of his second year in the police force. It was a job he had taken after deciding that seasickness made his life in the Navy impossible. He had enjoyed the service life. The Training Ship and his shore-based posting at Portsmouth had been great fun. His second posting to a small fisheries protection vessel had been much less so. He was seasick, horribly and continually seasick. Every time the sea got rougher than dead flat calm, Addy was hanging over the side of the ship-saying goodbye to everything he had ever eaten. In fact, after 6 months he had asked to be transferred on medical grounds. Once off the ship he discovered he was going to be made redundant, ‘Defence Cuts’.
Out of the Navy, with no pension and no plan for the future. He had not been expecting to leave the Navy for another 10 years; he did not know what to do next. Living on his dwindling redundancy money, he was aimless and bored. Addy had enjoyed the disciplined life in the Navy and found Civvy Street without a job an uncomfortable place.
One evening, heading home from the pub slightly the worse for wear, he was stopped and spoken to by a Police Constable. The PC suggested to Addy that singing about his time as ‘a wild rover’, at the top of his voice, on a residential street, at half past midnight (where had the evening gone??) was not in the public interest. That it might be best for all if Addy was to tip toe off home before singing the second verse, when a Police Sargent walked up. He took the PC to one side and requested the PC wrapped up dealing with the D and D. He had a more important job that he wanted him to help with.
“Yes, Sarg, right away Sarg.” Turning to Addy, “Ok you. Home. Quietly. Now!”
Next morning, as he sipped a strong black coffee in the kitchen of his small flat, Addy reflected on the conversation. Not what had been said to him so much as what passed between the Sargent and the Constable. The Constable was about his age, he had a responsible job, a smart uniform and was part of an organised team. He reminded Addy of Seaman Adiscombe RN in many ways. There it was. The discipline and structure he was looking for. This was going to be his new career. He was going to become a policeman! Thanking goodness that he hadn’t been arrested last night. He went to the library to look up how to apply to the police force.
That was three eventful years ago. He had been through the application process, the Assessment Centre and the Fitness Test. He had worked through the college courses and impressed during his probation period. That was now behind him and promotion, or maybe a move to CID, ahead if he worked hard and followed the rules.
“1 5, receiving. What is your message? Over.”
“1 5, we have a report of a burglary on licensed premises, can you attend?”
“1 5, mark me as attending. What is the address?”
“1 5, you are going to love this,” replied the dispatcher, breaking RT protocol. “The Club House at Eden Gardens Naturist Resort.”
“This will be fun… NOT!” Addy thought to himself. “I can see the stick I am going to get from the lads over this one.”
“1 5, Attending.” He sighed.
Eden Gardens
Eden Gardens Naturist Resort is situated on the outskirts of the urban sprawl of the once compact market town. On three sides, the houses were now very close to the fence that had been put up to screen the Resort from prying eyes.
Back in the 1950s, when it had opened as Eden Gardens Sun Club, it had been on 4 acres of largely barren wilderness surrounded by farmland. The enterprising Brigadier Weston – Hyde had retired after a career in the army that had seen him through the war and safely into peacetime. In his various postings during the war years he had served in many places, mainly in the Pacific, where he had been in charge of the Air Defence of what is now Samoa. Where he had enjoyed the freedom of swimming and sunbathing naked on the tropical beaches. On returning to the UK, he had been involved in the decommissioning of temporary headquarters and Special Services buildings that had been taken over by the War Department. Most of them were returned, in a very battered state, to their owners with hardly a word of thanks.
Measham Hall was not as lucky as some, it was in very poor condition, having been the temporary home for 4 different regiments from 3 different continents in the months leading up to D-Day. The family that had been the owners had been all but destroyed by the War. The father had been killed in the battle at Calais, defending the Dunkirk evacuation. His son was shot down and presumed killed over Hamburg in 1943; his daughter was caught in a blast from a V2 in the dying days of the war in Europe. The Mother of the family, distraught at her losses and burdened with death duties was unable to cope with the restoration of the Hall. When the damp and aged wiring finally gave up the ghost and the fire started, it was the end.
When his services were no longer required by Her Majesty, the Brigadier took his gratuity, pension and a small inheritance from his family and went in search of something new. He wasn’t sure what, but there had to be something.
Waiting for the train at Marylebone Station, he chose to idle away a few minutes looking at an estate agent’s advertisement, when a description of a derelict country house caught his eye. It was a place he had helped decommission. Beautiful surroundings, as he recalled. Later that afternoon he was back wandering around what remained of Measham Hall. The House was gone, most of the land had been rented out, but the gardens and some of the outbuildings remained.
As he wandered around, he could see that the old chauffeur’s cottage was repairable and the gardens, lawns and the formal orchards could be restored. The day was warm and as he meandered he had removed his tie, jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. As he came around the corner, into what had once been a walled garden, he discovered the disused swimming pool. The pool, along with what he had already seen, started to crystallise an idea in his mind. He sat down on his jacket and thought.
It got warmer … soon he was getting uncomfortable, so he removed the rest of his clothes and sat naked in the sun trying to make the sums work.
Slowly he did the calculations in his mind, he could afford to buy the place and his pension would cover the costs of the refurbishment of the cottage and still have enough left to live on, frugally, but enough. It was getting the grounds restored and the pool sorted out that would need more money and more help. Not a lot, but still more than he alone could afford. As the sun dropped below the trees, he dressed and started to walk back towards the station. On his way there, he passed a copse and a sudden noise made him look over the hedgerow.
What he saw filled in the missing pieces for him.
He watched as four youngsters scrambled for their towels, or the safety of their tent, as an angry farmer stormed across the field demanding they vacate his land immediately. The four young people were as naked as he himself had been just a few minutes earlier.
All he now needed was to convince his wife.
Six months later, in April 1955, the first Eden Gardens Sun Club members working party started clearing the old walled garden.
Contributed nov 2017 by Ted Bun
When regimes sponsor prejudice.
( from The Redemption of Anna Petrovna by James Gault)
Supposedly democratic regimes often exploit popular prejudices to stay in power. Examples are xenophobia disguised as nationalism, or homophobia disguised as religion. The hate crimes which result from this are all too apparent. Here is an example from ‘The Redemption of Anna Petrovna’
In this extract Masha and Ludmila are coming back to their flat after an evening out at a club for gay people.
When the two girls got back to their apartment building and opened the lift at their floor, they were met with a commotion. They had heard these scenes before, but always from the safety of their locked and bolted flat. The guy opposite had come home drunk again, and his wife had locked him out.
“Come on, you bitch, open this fucking door!”
“Bugger off and sleep it off somewhere else, you drunken bastard! You’re not getting near me or any of the kids tonight.”
Masha could just catch the muffled female voice, and it made her sad and scared at the same time. She looked out of the lift and she could see him, now slumped on the floor, his head in his hands, his legs barring the path to their own entrance. He was a big man, fat and powerful, his face as ugly as his temper. They would have to go past him to get into their flat. She wished they could find somewhere better to live, among people who lived normal, sober lives.
Sooner or later, the alcohol would get to him and he would pass out. She’d lost count of how many mornings they had stepped over his smelly snoring body to get out to work. Should they go on, or go back out and wait until he had dropped off to sleep before coming back? She looked up at Luda. Luda would know what was best.
“Come on; let’s go home, my little one!”
They stepped out of the lift and the sound of their heels on the floor aroused the semi-comatose drunk.
“Who’s ‘at?” he mumbled, shaking his head, and his eyes turned in their direction.
“Ah-ha! It’s the perverts! Coming back to ruin our quiet little paradise with their dirty sordid practices, are you?”
He was lumbering menacingly to his feet. Ludmila squared her shoulders and put a protective arm in front of Masha.
“What you queer bitches need is a real man, and I’m just the fucking one! It’s your lucky night, girls!”
Ludmila placed herself firmly between the drunk and Masha.
“You’re disgusting. Why don’t you do what your wife tells you and slink off somewhere where nobody can see you until you’re in fit state to be part of the respectable world?”
“Don’t think you can tell me what to fucking do, you foreign dyke!”
“Drunken beast!
Then his voice sweetened, and he leered past her at Masha, cowering behind her protector.
“And what a pretty little one you’ve corrupted, you foreign perv! Don’t you worry, dear, I’ll show the real way to do things; I’ll knock all that disgusting stuff she’s been doing out of you.”
“Don’t you lay a hand on her!”
A big fist came out of nowhere and caught Ludmila full in face, knocking her onto the floor in the corner of the landing. Blood streamed from her mouth and the hallway began to spin.
“And now for you, my little beauty!”
He pushed Masha against the wall, one hand grabbing her breast and the other in her groin. His ugly face was right in hers, and the smell of his breath was overpowering. Then he was pushing his knee up against her stomach, and she felt his other hand fumbling at his flies. His smell and her fear were making her gag, and she thought she was going to throw up all over him. His face was nothing but teeth, nicotine-stained fangs of a monster hell-bent on devouring her. She tried to twist her body away, but he was strong, so very strong.
The Redemption of Anna Petrovna by James Gault
( from The Redemption of Anna Petrovna by James Gault)
Supposedly democratic regimes often exploit popular prejudices to stay in power. Examples are xenophobia disguised as nationalism, or homophobia disguised as religion. The hate crimes which result from this are all too apparent. Here is an example from ‘The Redemption of Anna Petrovna’
In this extract Masha and Ludmila are coming back to their flat after an evening out at a club for gay people.
When the two girls got back to their apartment building and opened the lift at their floor, they were met with a commotion. They had heard these scenes before, but always from the safety of their locked and bolted flat. The guy opposite had come home drunk again, and his wife had locked him out.
“Come on, you bitch, open this fucking door!”
“Bugger off and sleep it off somewhere else, you drunken bastard! You’re not getting near me or any of the kids tonight.”
Masha could just catch the muffled female voice, and it made her sad and scared at the same time. She looked out of the lift and she could see him, now slumped on the floor, his head in his hands, his legs barring the path to their own entrance. He was a big man, fat and powerful, his face as ugly as his temper. They would have to go past him to get into their flat. She wished they could find somewhere better to live, among people who lived normal, sober lives.
Sooner or later, the alcohol would get to him and he would pass out. She’d lost count of how many mornings they had stepped over his smelly snoring body to get out to work. Should they go on, or go back out and wait until he had dropped off to sleep before coming back? She looked up at Luda. Luda would know what was best.
“Come on; let’s go home, my little one!”
They stepped out of the lift and the sound of their heels on the floor aroused the semi-comatose drunk.
“Who’s ‘at?” he mumbled, shaking his head, and his eyes turned in their direction.
“Ah-ha! It’s the perverts! Coming back to ruin our quiet little paradise with their dirty sordid practices, are you?”
He was lumbering menacingly to his feet. Ludmila squared her shoulders and put a protective arm in front of Masha.
“What you queer bitches need is a real man, and I’m just the fucking one! It’s your lucky night, girls!”
Ludmila placed herself firmly between the drunk and Masha.
“You’re disgusting. Why don’t you do what your wife tells you and slink off somewhere where nobody can see you until you’re in fit state to be part of the respectable world?”
“Don’t think you can tell me what to fucking do, you foreign dyke!”
“Drunken beast!
Then his voice sweetened, and he leered past her at Masha, cowering behind her protector.
“And what a pretty little one you’ve corrupted, you foreign perv! Don’t you worry, dear, I’ll show the real way to do things; I’ll knock all that disgusting stuff she’s been doing out of you.”
“Don’t you lay a hand on her!”
A big fist came out of nowhere and caught Ludmila full in face, knocking her onto the floor in the corner of the landing. Blood streamed from her mouth and the hallway began to spin.
“And now for you, my little beauty!”
He pushed Masha against the wall, one hand grabbing her breast and the other in her groin. His ugly face was right in hers, and the smell of his breath was overpowering. Then he was pushing his knee up against her stomach, and she felt his other hand fumbling at his flies. His smell and her fear were making her gag, and she thought she was going to throw up all over him. His face was nothing but teeth, nicotine-stained fangs of a monster hell-bent on devouring her. She tried to twist her body away, but he was strong, so very strong.
The Redemption of Anna Petrovna by James Gault
EXTRACT FROM 'OGG' BY JAMES GAULT
Ogg, the time travelling Great Being, is in the s desert with his human friends Antonia (Ant) and Peregrine (Perg). They have been hanging around for days waiting for some aliens whom Perg had predicted will land there in the very near future. Perg thought they may have the answer to the imminent end of the universe.
Ogg has been using his time travelling skills to keep them supplied with food.
They were all getting tired of ice-cream and MacDonald take-aways, and Peregrine Pratt had the bad sense to suggest that some home-cooked food might be welcome, and that Antonia, being a woman, might be well employed in preparing it. Antonia pointed out that this was a sexist male-chauvinist remark and just what she would have expected from him. There was no logical reason whatever to suggest a woman would be a better cook than a man and if he could find one, she would be only too glad to prepare some tasty food for him. Peregrine Pratt agreed that she was indeed right, that in general men and women’s capability in the culinary field may well be equivalent, and that he generously conceded the argument to her. However, on a personal level, if she left him to cook, they would almost certainly be poisoned.. Antonia found herself stooping over a hot barbecue, reflecting on another of those paradoxical situations where, having won the argument, she appeared to have lost it at the same time.
It was about midday on the third day when he appeared. Antonia was lying in the sun, well-oiled for protection, having a rest from reading. She was gazing absent-mindedly into the horizon when his body appeared out of the haze He was alone There was no sign of a spacecraft.
“Someone coming!. Could be you were right after all, Perg,” she said. “No sign of a spaceship, though.”
Peregrine jumped excitedly to his feet. Ogg remained impassive. When you’ve already seen everything already an infinite number of times it’s difficult to get excited.
“Why is he walking? You’d have thought these ultra-clever aliens would have had some slick transport at their disposal.”
“Still this penchant for the exotic, Ant,” Ogg chided her.
They sat in silence watching him come nearer. Would he be friendly, or did he come with extermination on his mind. As he got closer they saw he was wearing a pair of tattered denim shorts and a loud loose shirt which might have been made, Antonia noticed with satisfaction, from old curtain material. He had a small rucksack on his back. With his dark sunglasses and his straw hat, he certainly didn’t look much like a warrior from outer space. When he came within range, he raised his arm to wave and shouted,
“Peace!”
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Antonia thought.
“Where you from, stranger?” Ogg asked. Ogg had decked himself out as a cowboy for this trip, so Antonia might have known he would adopt dialogue from old John Wayne movies. For a Great Being he was really quite predictable.
“Everywhere and nowhere.”
“What ya lookin’ for?” Ogg continued.
“Good and Evil. Peace and War Food for the body, food for the soul.”
If she had had the free choice of companions, Antonia wasn’t too sure she would have picked the ones she had been landed with. Ogg, who only asked difficult questions without answering any; Perg, whose ugliness was only matched by his stupidity. And now the mysterious stranger, whose hobby seemed to be talking in riddles. She would almost have been better off in the Maths class. Still, she had been a well brought up child, and the habit of politeness was ingrained deeply.
“Well, I’m just about to cook, so I can offer you some food for the body.”
The stranger joined his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed from his waist.
“May the spirit bless you!”
So polite and charming! And the guy had style But what did he mean.. Did he want something to eat or not? And how to ask him without appearing totally stupid?
“I’m going to barbecue some steaks Will that be all right?”
“Oh, my poor child. Not steaks! You are poisoning yourself. You are what you eat.”
“You are what you think,’ Ogg said quietly, inside Antonia’s head, “What a pratt!’
“I always eat fish, myself Fish and vegetables! Food for the soul and the body!”
They didn’t have any fish. It hadn’t been on any of Ogg’s shopping lists. She looked over at Ogg, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. She walked over and opened the cool box, and, as she expected, there was a package of freshly frozen salmon lying on the top by the time she got there. She smiled at Ogg and began to prepare the food.
The visitor bore no resemblance to Peregrine Pratt’s preconceived notions of the physical appearance of an alien However, when Perg examined his soul and found that deep down he really had no justifications for these preconceptions. It was entirely possible that the stranger might indeed be a visitor from another planet, however implausible he looked.
“Which planet are you from?” he ventured.
“I’m from a dying planet. We all are. Everywhere, everything is being destroyed. We’re killing our future.”
This last remark caught everyone’s attention. Even Ogg, for whom nothing could really be a surprise, sat up and took notice. Did this overdressed hippy have the answer they were seeking?
“Would you care to expand on that last statement?” Antonia asked.
The stranger only smiled. He had moved a few paces away from the settlement, and was kneeling, his face towards the midday sun. His open rucksack was sitting beside him, and he was taking items from it and placing them on the ground in front of him – a stained yellow fragment of cloth which may have once served as a towel, a broken plastic candlestick in the shape of the Eiffel tower, a piece of pebble painted in psychedelic colours, a tattered paperback copy of a novel by Jack Kerouac. These items were all arranged with ostentatious care. When he had finished, he leaned back on his knees and inspected them. They weren’t quite right. He squinted up at the sun, measured the length and direction of shadows. He made a few adjustments. He re-inspected, readjusted. Eventually he was satisfied. He opened the Kerouac novel He closes his eyes and began to chant in a low melodic voice.
“Because I do not hope to turn again, because I know I shall not know, because I know that time is always time, and place is always and only place, because I cannot hope to turn again,”
“Why is he reciting TS Eliot from a book by Jack Kerouac?” Antonia asked.
“Why is he reciting TS Eliot, anyway?” Peregrine Pratt added.
Ogg was about to open his mouth but Antonia caught him, and said,
“Great Philosophical Questions?”
“Not great, Ant, but interesting enough in their own way! Let’s watch and see what happens.”
The stranger’s eyes were now open, but glazed. He was rocking back and forward between his knees and his heels. And all the time they could hear the quiet snatches of Eliot’s verses.
“Because I know I shall not know, because I know that time is always time.”
“He must be on something,” Peregrine Pratt suggested.
“Not at all, my friend,” the stranger answered in a perfectly normal voice. “This is a well understood and practiced ritual which will liberate my soul for a few moments of tranquillity from the oppressive hubbub of modern city life.” And he returned to his chant.
“Hubbub of modern city life... We’re in the middle of the flaming desert!” Peregrine remarked. This elicited no response other than a continuation of
“Because I do not hope to turn again…”
The others watched him intently. At least Ogg and Peregrine Pratt did. Antonia was struggling over the cooking. She wasn’t all that good at it. Why had she let Pratt trick her into it? She was intensely interested in the stranger’s ceremony, but could only afford the occasional quick glance in his direction.
Her attention was wrenched from her cooking by a loud thump. The stranger had rolled back on his heels and right over onto his back, and was sprawling on the hot red earth. He had stopped intoning his mantra, and was lying silent and beaming, in a state of blissful oblivion.
“Are you OK?” Peregrine Pratt asked.
“Leave him!” Ogg said “He’s no longer with us. He’ll be OK later.”
They went back to their tasks. Antonia wiped her brow with her dishtowel and began to chop up some onions. Peregrine Pratt took out his computer, and began keying in a description of the stranger and trying to correlate it with other information in his database of alien sightings. Ogg returned to his frantic wanderings in search of information, and Antonia took advantage of his travels to get him to stop off somewhere and pick up a bottle of good white wine
“Grub’s up!” Antonia shouted, a few minutes later. Ogg instantaneously arranged a beautiful table set with silver cutlery, candlesticks, white linen tablecloth and crystal wine glasses. Great Beings can always pull out all the stops whenever they have guests. Antonia was a bit concerned about the guest in question, who was still comatose beside his home-made alter, but she needn’t have worried. The mention of food brought him back to life instantaneously.
They settled down to sample Antonia’s uninspired but adequate cooking. The stranger proffered suitably polite praise for her modest efforts. Peregrine Pratt, not wishing to be left out, concurred. Ogg, believing himself a true friend, didn’t feel the need for such hypocrisy.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mr….” Antonia began.
“You can call me Ogg,” the stranger replied.
What was he saying? Who did he think he was. She wasn’t having that.
“Indeed I could not. I already know an Ogg, it would be too confusing.” She looked over at her own Ogg, who hadn’t appeared to notice and was stuffing himself with over-grilled fish. “Don’t you have another name?”
“Well, my parents called me James T Wishbone, but I don’t use it much these days. Maybe you could call me ‘JT’?”
“I was interested in what you were doing earlier, JT. You couldn’t tell me a bit more about it, could you?”
“Ah, you mean the meditation?”
“I suppose so. What was it all about?”
“It’s impossible to explain. I have to show you”
‘You mean that it’s something which defies logic?”
“It certainly does!”
“Can there be anything which defies logic?” Ant asked, and looked at Ogg That just had to be one of her best and most important Great Philosophical Questions and there was bound to be some reaction from the Great Being. So why was he sitting there picking his teeth with a cocktail stick and pretending – she was certain he was pretending – that his mind was elsewhere?
“Faith defies logic,” JT informed her. She turned to Ogg for confirmation but he shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to another glassful of wine
“With faith and meditation you can transcend the mundane to the heavenly, you can pass from black and white into fully fledged Technicolor, you can cross over from silence to symphonic music.”
This was an attractive concept for Antonia. Ogg was great, but black and white seemed to describe him exactly. What this guy said had some promise. She wanted to know more. .
“What’s it like? What’s it like when you cross over?”
“It’s like an exotic journey. Light, sound, music, smells, sensations like you’ve never felt before. You are yourself and you see yourself at the same time. You know everything, suddenly, without having to learn it. It’s fantastic!”
It sounded good to Antonia. And it would certainly be a help with the history revision.
“Tell me more!”
‘Fireworks explode. Rockets roar into the sky. Cities, continents, planets, galaxies whizz by as you fly through the universe. You swim in magic rivers of unknown fluids you have never seen or smelt before. You taste exotic fruits with unexpected juices of almost unbearable sweetness. You shiver painlessly in intense cold, you melt in searing heat without feeling uncomfortable. You voyage, you travel, you journey, to the depths of your imagination and beyond. And it’s all free!”
This was how journeys with Great Beings should be. Why didn’t Ogg realize this? Antonia was convinced. She could hardly wait to get started.
“How do I get a ticket?”
“First of all you must renounce rationality.”
“Oh! Do you mean……I have to abandon all attempts at correct thinking?”
“Yes.”
“I have to stop trying to answer Great Philosophical Questions?”
“Even to stop asking them!”
Ogg had to be in a state of extreme agitation by now. She knew how he hated the idea of anyone thinking in an incorrect fashion. Yet there he was, his elbows on the table and his chin resting in his cupped hands, his head cocked a little to the side and a silly contented grin on his face. He was looking at her in a curious and seemingly disinterested manner. It had to be an act He must be boiling inside.
“And I have to stop seeking the solution to every problem?”
“Yes.”
“To give up thinking and theorising?”
“Replace thought with belief!”
“And if I do all this, I get all these transcendental benefits.”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it!”
“I hope this doesn’t upset you too much, Mr. JT, but I think I’m going to have to leave it.” Antonia heard a laugh which she could have sworn was Ogg, but when she turned her head,his face was impassive.
Ogg, the time travelling Great Being, is in the s desert with his human friends Antonia (Ant) and Peregrine (Perg). They have been hanging around for days waiting for some aliens whom Perg had predicted will land there in the very near future. Perg thought they may have the answer to the imminent end of the universe.
Ogg has been using his time travelling skills to keep them supplied with food.
They were all getting tired of ice-cream and MacDonald take-aways, and Peregrine Pratt had the bad sense to suggest that some home-cooked food might be welcome, and that Antonia, being a woman, might be well employed in preparing it. Antonia pointed out that this was a sexist male-chauvinist remark and just what she would have expected from him. There was no logical reason whatever to suggest a woman would be a better cook than a man and if he could find one, she would be only too glad to prepare some tasty food for him. Peregrine Pratt agreed that she was indeed right, that in general men and women’s capability in the culinary field may well be equivalent, and that he generously conceded the argument to her. However, on a personal level, if she left him to cook, they would almost certainly be poisoned.. Antonia found herself stooping over a hot barbecue, reflecting on another of those paradoxical situations where, having won the argument, she appeared to have lost it at the same time.
It was about midday on the third day when he appeared. Antonia was lying in the sun, well-oiled for protection, having a rest from reading. She was gazing absent-mindedly into the horizon when his body appeared out of the haze He was alone There was no sign of a spacecraft.
“Someone coming!. Could be you were right after all, Perg,” she said. “No sign of a spaceship, though.”
Peregrine jumped excitedly to his feet. Ogg remained impassive. When you’ve already seen everything already an infinite number of times it’s difficult to get excited.
“Why is he walking? You’d have thought these ultra-clever aliens would have had some slick transport at their disposal.”
“Still this penchant for the exotic, Ant,” Ogg chided her.
They sat in silence watching him come nearer. Would he be friendly, or did he come with extermination on his mind. As he got closer they saw he was wearing a pair of tattered denim shorts and a loud loose shirt which might have been made, Antonia noticed with satisfaction, from old curtain material. He had a small rucksack on his back. With his dark sunglasses and his straw hat, he certainly didn’t look much like a warrior from outer space. When he came within range, he raised his arm to wave and shouted,
“Peace!”
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Antonia thought.
“Where you from, stranger?” Ogg asked. Ogg had decked himself out as a cowboy for this trip, so Antonia might have known he would adopt dialogue from old John Wayne movies. For a Great Being he was really quite predictable.
“Everywhere and nowhere.”
“What ya lookin’ for?” Ogg continued.
“Good and Evil. Peace and War Food for the body, food for the soul.”
If she had had the free choice of companions, Antonia wasn’t too sure she would have picked the ones she had been landed with. Ogg, who only asked difficult questions without answering any; Perg, whose ugliness was only matched by his stupidity. And now the mysterious stranger, whose hobby seemed to be talking in riddles. She would almost have been better off in the Maths class. Still, she had been a well brought up child, and the habit of politeness was ingrained deeply.
“Well, I’m just about to cook, so I can offer you some food for the body.”
The stranger joined his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed from his waist.
“May the spirit bless you!”
So polite and charming! And the guy had style But what did he mean.. Did he want something to eat or not? And how to ask him without appearing totally stupid?
“I’m going to barbecue some steaks Will that be all right?”
“Oh, my poor child. Not steaks! You are poisoning yourself. You are what you eat.”
“You are what you think,’ Ogg said quietly, inside Antonia’s head, “What a pratt!’
“I always eat fish, myself Fish and vegetables! Food for the soul and the body!”
They didn’t have any fish. It hadn’t been on any of Ogg’s shopping lists. She looked over at Ogg, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. She walked over and opened the cool box, and, as she expected, there was a package of freshly frozen salmon lying on the top by the time she got there. She smiled at Ogg and began to prepare the food.
The visitor bore no resemblance to Peregrine Pratt’s preconceived notions of the physical appearance of an alien However, when Perg examined his soul and found that deep down he really had no justifications for these preconceptions. It was entirely possible that the stranger might indeed be a visitor from another planet, however implausible he looked.
“Which planet are you from?” he ventured.
“I’m from a dying planet. We all are. Everywhere, everything is being destroyed. We’re killing our future.”
This last remark caught everyone’s attention. Even Ogg, for whom nothing could really be a surprise, sat up and took notice. Did this overdressed hippy have the answer they were seeking?
“Would you care to expand on that last statement?” Antonia asked.
The stranger only smiled. He had moved a few paces away from the settlement, and was kneeling, his face towards the midday sun. His open rucksack was sitting beside him, and he was taking items from it and placing them on the ground in front of him – a stained yellow fragment of cloth which may have once served as a towel, a broken plastic candlestick in the shape of the Eiffel tower, a piece of pebble painted in psychedelic colours, a tattered paperback copy of a novel by Jack Kerouac. These items were all arranged with ostentatious care. When he had finished, he leaned back on his knees and inspected them. They weren’t quite right. He squinted up at the sun, measured the length and direction of shadows. He made a few adjustments. He re-inspected, readjusted. Eventually he was satisfied. He opened the Kerouac novel He closes his eyes and began to chant in a low melodic voice.
“Because I do not hope to turn again, because I know I shall not know, because I know that time is always time, and place is always and only place, because I cannot hope to turn again,”
“Why is he reciting TS Eliot from a book by Jack Kerouac?” Antonia asked.
“Why is he reciting TS Eliot, anyway?” Peregrine Pratt added.
Ogg was about to open his mouth but Antonia caught him, and said,
“Great Philosophical Questions?”
“Not great, Ant, but interesting enough in their own way! Let’s watch and see what happens.”
The stranger’s eyes were now open, but glazed. He was rocking back and forward between his knees and his heels. And all the time they could hear the quiet snatches of Eliot’s verses.
“Because I know I shall not know, because I know that time is always time.”
“He must be on something,” Peregrine Pratt suggested.
“Not at all, my friend,” the stranger answered in a perfectly normal voice. “This is a well understood and practiced ritual which will liberate my soul for a few moments of tranquillity from the oppressive hubbub of modern city life.” And he returned to his chant.
“Hubbub of modern city life... We’re in the middle of the flaming desert!” Peregrine remarked. This elicited no response other than a continuation of
“Because I do not hope to turn again…”
The others watched him intently. At least Ogg and Peregrine Pratt did. Antonia was struggling over the cooking. She wasn’t all that good at it. Why had she let Pratt trick her into it? She was intensely interested in the stranger’s ceremony, but could only afford the occasional quick glance in his direction.
Her attention was wrenched from her cooking by a loud thump. The stranger had rolled back on his heels and right over onto his back, and was sprawling on the hot red earth. He had stopped intoning his mantra, and was lying silent and beaming, in a state of blissful oblivion.
“Are you OK?” Peregrine Pratt asked.
“Leave him!” Ogg said “He’s no longer with us. He’ll be OK later.”
They went back to their tasks. Antonia wiped her brow with her dishtowel and began to chop up some onions. Peregrine Pratt took out his computer, and began keying in a description of the stranger and trying to correlate it with other information in his database of alien sightings. Ogg returned to his frantic wanderings in search of information, and Antonia took advantage of his travels to get him to stop off somewhere and pick up a bottle of good white wine
“Grub’s up!” Antonia shouted, a few minutes later. Ogg instantaneously arranged a beautiful table set with silver cutlery, candlesticks, white linen tablecloth and crystal wine glasses. Great Beings can always pull out all the stops whenever they have guests. Antonia was a bit concerned about the guest in question, who was still comatose beside his home-made alter, but she needn’t have worried. The mention of food brought him back to life instantaneously.
They settled down to sample Antonia’s uninspired but adequate cooking. The stranger proffered suitably polite praise for her modest efforts. Peregrine Pratt, not wishing to be left out, concurred. Ogg, believing himself a true friend, didn’t feel the need for such hypocrisy.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mr….” Antonia began.
“You can call me Ogg,” the stranger replied.
What was he saying? Who did he think he was. She wasn’t having that.
“Indeed I could not. I already know an Ogg, it would be too confusing.” She looked over at her own Ogg, who hadn’t appeared to notice and was stuffing himself with over-grilled fish. “Don’t you have another name?”
“Well, my parents called me James T Wishbone, but I don’t use it much these days. Maybe you could call me ‘JT’?”
“I was interested in what you were doing earlier, JT. You couldn’t tell me a bit more about it, could you?”
“Ah, you mean the meditation?”
“I suppose so. What was it all about?”
“It’s impossible to explain. I have to show you”
‘You mean that it’s something which defies logic?”
“It certainly does!”
“Can there be anything which defies logic?” Ant asked, and looked at Ogg That just had to be one of her best and most important Great Philosophical Questions and there was bound to be some reaction from the Great Being. So why was he sitting there picking his teeth with a cocktail stick and pretending – she was certain he was pretending – that his mind was elsewhere?
“Faith defies logic,” JT informed her. She turned to Ogg for confirmation but he shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to another glassful of wine
“With faith and meditation you can transcend the mundane to the heavenly, you can pass from black and white into fully fledged Technicolor, you can cross over from silence to symphonic music.”
This was an attractive concept for Antonia. Ogg was great, but black and white seemed to describe him exactly. What this guy said had some promise. She wanted to know more. .
“What’s it like? What’s it like when you cross over?”
“It’s like an exotic journey. Light, sound, music, smells, sensations like you’ve never felt before. You are yourself and you see yourself at the same time. You know everything, suddenly, without having to learn it. It’s fantastic!”
It sounded good to Antonia. And it would certainly be a help with the history revision.
“Tell me more!”
‘Fireworks explode. Rockets roar into the sky. Cities, continents, planets, galaxies whizz by as you fly through the universe. You swim in magic rivers of unknown fluids you have never seen or smelt before. You taste exotic fruits with unexpected juices of almost unbearable sweetness. You shiver painlessly in intense cold, you melt in searing heat without feeling uncomfortable. You voyage, you travel, you journey, to the depths of your imagination and beyond. And it’s all free!”
This was how journeys with Great Beings should be. Why didn’t Ogg realize this? Antonia was convinced. She could hardly wait to get started.
“How do I get a ticket?”
“First of all you must renounce rationality.”
“Oh! Do you mean……I have to abandon all attempts at correct thinking?”
“Yes.”
“I have to stop trying to answer Great Philosophical Questions?”
“Even to stop asking them!”
Ogg had to be in a state of extreme agitation by now. She knew how he hated the idea of anyone thinking in an incorrect fashion. Yet there he was, his elbows on the table and his chin resting in his cupped hands, his head cocked a little to the side and a silly contented grin on his face. He was looking at her in a curious and seemingly disinterested manner. It had to be an act He must be boiling inside.
“And I have to stop seeking the solution to every problem?”
“Yes.”
“To give up thinking and theorising?”
“Replace thought with belief!”
“And if I do all this, I get all these transcendental benefits.”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it!”
“I hope this doesn’t upset you too much, Mr. JT, but I think I’m going to have to leave it.” Antonia heard a laugh which she could have sworn was Ogg, but when she turned her head,his face was impassive.
OPEN NOTE A short story by Paul Johnson
I’ve been sitting here for three hours, I think it will be ok. I mean what could go wrong now? It’s funny I find, how people look at me like they don’t know me, I mean they don’t know me but...I guess I never realized how cold people could be.
Three days ago I thought I knew, I mean, when they did it all I thought I knew. Matt was so unconcerned with my well being, “You had a good run here, and put in alot of hard work” Yea, I know that, it was me that plunged my relationship into its darkest hour to work late for him, it was me that sacrificed my health and ate fast food for four years for him, it was me that worked three out of four christmases for him, It was me that tore my shoulder working late for him.
I know I “put in alot of hard work.”
It was me that went home to my girlfriend and told her, I acted like I wanted support but I was looking for a fight; a fight with Matt but I had to take it from her, she couldn’t give me a bad reference.
This is all Matt’s fault he should have said something or waited to fire me, he could have prevented this, if he hadn’t worked me so hard in the spring I wouldn’t have been injured, I wouldn’t have needed physio, and I wouldn’t have had thirty six Oxycodone in the cupboard.
She’s bound to feel terrible when she realizes what I went back into the house for.
I’ve been sitting here for three hours, I think it will be ok, I mean what could go wrong now? It’s funny I find, how people look at me like they don’t know me, I mean they don’t know me but...tomorrow at least one of them will tell somebody they saw me, I don’t look homeless which actually makes me look out of place, funny. I almost wish someone would save me now but it’s ok, it all has to end somewhere, right? Might as well end it with... you know, it’s funny I counted each of the thirty six pills... but it might as well end this way I suppose.
Of all the ways people have had to...you know, stop living, this is the best, last summer a child fell onto the tracks at this same train station, I think he was seven. No one thinks they’re gonna go that way when they’re seven, when I was seven I hadn’t really thought much about, life ending. I’m so tired and sometimes I want to puke but I don’t think I’m going to. Tomorrow people will be figuring out their life without me, next year on this day it’ll be so awkward at my parent’s house.
They’ll probably talk about my smile.
I think I’ll smile at the lady passing me, she has a kind face. I’m just so tired. I think I’ll close my eyes.
I’ve been sitting here for three hours, I think it will be ok. I mean what could go wrong now? It’s funny I find, how people look at me like they don’t know me, I mean they don’t know me but...I guess I never realized how cold people could be.
Three days ago I thought I knew, I mean, when they did it all I thought I knew. Matt was so unconcerned with my well being, “You had a good run here, and put in alot of hard work” Yea, I know that, it was me that plunged my relationship into its darkest hour to work late for him, it was me that sacrificed my health and ate fast food for four years for him, it was me that worked three out of four christmases for him, It was me that tore my shoulder working late for him.
I know I “put in alot of hard work.”
It was me that went home to my girlfriend and told her, I acted like I wanted support but I was looking for a fight; a fight with Matt but I had to take it from her, she couldn’t give me a bad reference.
This is all Matt’s fault he should have said something or waited to fire me, he could have prevented this, if he hadn’t worked me so hard in the spring I wouldn’t have been injured, I wouldn’t have needed physio, and I wouldn’t have had thirty six Oxycodone in the cupboard.
She’s bound to feel terrible when she realizes what I went back into the house for.
I’ve been sitting here for three hours, I think it will be ok, I mean what could go wrong now? It’s funny I find, how people look at me like they don’t know me, I mean they don’t know me but...tomorrow at least one of them will tell somebody they saw me, I don’t look homeless which actually makes me look out of place, funny. I almost wish someone would save me now but it’s ok, it all has to end somewhere, right? Might as well end it with... you know, it’s funny I counted each of the thirty six pills... but it might as well end this way I suppose.
Of all the ways people have had to...you know, stop living, this is the best, last summer a child fell onto the tracks at this same train station, I think he was seven. No one thinks they’re gonna go that way when they’re seven, when I was seven I hadn’t really thought much about, life ending. I’m so tired and sometimes I want to puke but I don’t think I’m going to. Tomorrow people will be figuring out their life without me, next year on this day it’ll be so awkward at my parent’s house.
They’ll probably talk about my smile.
I think I’ll smile at the lady passing me, she has a kind face. I’m just so tired. I think I’ll close my eyes.
Excerpt from Silver Lining – The Saga of an Orphan by Alieu Bundu
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, Alimu continued to live in misery in his aunt’s house. The wicked woman had become a real thorn in his life. Apart from ordering him to do all the household work, she had also started to beat him with a cane at her whim.
“Alimu, sweep and dust the whole house. Alimu, wash the dishes. Alimu, launder my clothes and those of my children,” she kept ordering him each day.
Just a week ago, she had stopped him from going to school because he delayed to mop the floor. On the day that incident took place, as Alimu was sitting on the porch, doing three assignments he had to submit the following day, Aunt Mariatu called and ordered him to get into the house.
“I have observed my room, those of my children and this sitting room. You didn’t mop them properly at all this morning before you went to school. So you have to mop them again now!” Aunt Mariatu told him, once he stepped into the sitting room.
Shafts of the afternoon sun streamed into it through the open windows. Motes of dust danced in them.
“Aunty, please let me do that later. I’m doing my assignments. Once I finish them, I will do as you ordered.”
“No way! You’ve got to do it now! If not, I will deal with you severely. I’m going to the market. Before I return, make sure you do as I said,” Aunt Mariatu said and walked out of the room with a basket.
“Hell no, I must finish my assignments before I do as she ordered. If not, I will not be able to do them, for once she returns, she’ll keep on ordering me to do one chore to another till midnight,” Alimu muttered.
Afterward, he swept his gaze across the sitting room’s floor. “Aunt Mariatu is just so wicked. The floor is not dirty at all, for I did wipe it properly this morning. She just wants me to mop it again to bully me,” he said with disgust and scuttled out of the room.
When Aunt Mariatu returned about forty minutes later, she met Alimu on the porch, where he was busy writing his third assignment, which he had almost finish.
“Have you done what I ordered you to do?” Aunt Mariatu asked as she placed the basket down. Her body was covered with a light sheen of sweat.
“No Aunty, but I…”
Aunt Mariatu shot Alimu a spiteful look. He felt a sense of dread.
“What! You dared defy my authority, right? You wait, I go show you say are bad pass orbado!” Just wait, I will show you that I’m more evil than the devil!
She grabbed a bucket of water nearby and poured its content over Alimu. He gasped, bounded onto his feet and looked at Aunt Mariatu with an open mouth and horror-stricken eyes.
“Yes, you merited that for being stubborn! Just wait, I’m going to beat the devil of stubbornness out of you!”
Aunt Mariatu dashed into the house and returned with a thick, long cane she called “Babu Bone”, which she started using on Alimu four days after his father returned.
“Now, lie down let me deal with you!” she roared, her eyes glowed of fierce anger.
Alimu didn’t move; he just stood like a pillar, looking at his aunt as an eruption of anger coursed through him. His action flared up the overwhelming rage that was boiling in his aunt’s guts like a fire somebody had just thrown a five gallon of petrol at, because she raised the cane and started to hit him on different parts of his body. Searing pains stung Alimu on the parts of his body the cane landed like a hook; he covered his face with his hands to protect it and his eyes.
After unleashing Babu Bone for over twenty times, Aunt Mariatu stopped and said at the top of her voice, “Yes, are miss you! This is just one part of the punishment you’ll undergo! You want to grow wings in this house because I let you go to school! Henceforth, you’ll never go to that school again! Once I get into the house, I will take your uniforms and lock them in my room!”
“Aunty, please don’t stop me from going to school,” Alimu whined. His voice cracked.
“No way!” She grabbed Alimu’s backpack that was lying on the porch and dashed for the entrance door. Once she banged it behind her, Alimu, whose body felt as though it was swathed with acid, lowered his knees onto the floor as tears gushed out of his eyes. A while later, the door opened with a crash and Aunt Mariatu sauntered out. She was holding Alimu’s school uniforms and backpack.
“To show you that I was serious when I told you that I wouldn’t let you go to school again, I’m going to burn your uniforms and your school bag. If I keep them, you’ll hope that I’ll change my mind and send you to school again someday. But burning them means you’ll never go to school again,” Aunt Mariatu said, glowering.
Her words struck Alimu’s heart like a hammer. “Aunty, I beg you in Allah’s name, don’t do that!” His words were lined with grief like the cry of a woman whose beloved child was massacred by a car in front of her.
Aunt Mariatu didn’t pay heed to his words. She walked out of the porch and dropped the uniforms and the bag on the ground. Once they thudded on the ground, she poured kerosene on them and set them on fire. As flames of orange and blue meandered skywards as the fire consumed Alimu’s school bag and uniforms, he felt like a hostage, who had just been informed that the person that was to pay his ransom had died in an accident. Alimu closed his eyes and for a fleeting moment he caught the image of Mr. Kamara, his English Language teacher, who rained down strings of praises at him in front of his classmates because he scored ninety eight percent in his test, a mark which Mr. Kamara said no pupil had ever got in his subject before.
Alimu’s heart shrunk with anguish. He was certain that he would not see Mr. Kamara, Mr Dumbuya, Dave, his best friend, and the other teachers that loved him so much again. He opened his mouth and howled like a lioness that was in pangs of labor.
At school, Mr Kamara’s action of praising Alimu had sparked a mixture of emotions among his classmates. Some from middle-class and rich homes, who had given him a cold shoulder since the beginning of the term, came closer to him and befriended him. On the other hand, a couple of them grew colder towards him and started calling him names. Among Alimu’s classmates who troubled him like hell, the one whose image still loomed clearly in his mind like the Bintumani Mountain, the highest peak in Sierra Leone, was Saul. Saul was a fourteen-year-old charcoal skin boy with a face like a mongrel. His father was rich; he was the manager of Rokel Commercial Bank in Freetown. Before Saul took the N.P.S.E. Exam, his father told him to sit for The International School in New England Ville, one of the best secondary schools in the municipality of Freetown, with the belief that if Saul attended it, he would secure a good grade when he took the General Certificate of Education years later that would help him gain admission in one of the grade A universities in England. When the result came out and Saul’s father learnt that his son almost failed by scoring two hundred and thirty marks, his father tried to bribe the principal of The International School then, who said that for a pupil to be admitted into his school, s/he must score two hundred and ninety marks, but his effort was fruitless. So he took Saul to the Henry Ferguson Junior Secondary School out of frustration and enrolled him there after paying a huge sum of money to the administration because he didn’t sit for it.
The moment Mr. Kamara stepped out of the classroom after teaching them that day, Saul had given Alimu an owlish look and said in a voice that was sharp with contempt, “See the pig Mr. Kamara said scored ninety eight percent in his subject!” Some of his classmates roared with laughter. Their laughter was grating and spiteful.
“That’s a bold lie! There is no way a village goat like this can score more marks than we “Freetonians”! You must have bribed Mr. Kamara!” he had added once the laughter died out.
Alimu felt mortified and sorely troubled at the same time. He gazed at Saul as all the veins in his body bulged with abhorrence. He would have engaged in a verbal war with Saul, but since he didn’t want to disappoint his aunt, who had advised him not to engage in any kind of trouble in school, he ignored him by taking one of his books after gazing at him for a while and read. But Saul didn’t stop there. When Alimu approached him and some of their classmates as they prepared to play soccer one afternoon of the same week during recess, Saul pointed at him and burst into laughter and said, “Bush boy wants to play soccer with us city guys! Do you know how to play soccer where you came from? I bet you only know how to hunt bush rats!” His face was pinched with disdain.
Saul’s words entered Alimu like a scythe. He stared at him. As anger began to seethe in his guts, he could feel his fingers trembling, so he clenched them into a tight fist. He had wanted to step forward, punch Saul right in the face and shouted at the top of his lungs that, “Of course, we do play soccer where I come from. Who knows? I might know how to play more than you.” But as he made to move, Aunt Mariatu’s words of never engaging in any trouble at school flashed into his mind. So he took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. At this, Saul’s eyes wandered at Alimu’s hands. When he saw how clenched they were, he roared with laughter. Alimu tasted bile in his throat.
“Who did you clench those hands for? Me? Then come forward and hit me,” he said once he stopped laughing.
A long, fierce silence simmered between them.
“You don’t have the nerve, right? Okay, since you can’t. I will deal with you.” He stepped forward and pushed him. Alimu staggered for a while before he kept his balance.
Saul gave him a cold smile. “You are strong! You didn’t fall down! But I assure you this time round your body will grace the ground!” Saul said before he started to step towards Alimu.
“Ah, Saul! Leave him alone! If the teachers see you, you’ll find yourself in hot waters!” one of the boys said.
Saul halted and stared at Alimu with eyes that were frosty with pure hatred. “You are lucky this time round. If you clench your hands for me next time, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!” He wheeled around and headed for the field. As he did, Alimu gave his back a cold look before he turned and made his way for his classroom. The shiny sun that was sailing across the sky burned Alimu’s nape like a branding iron. Once he stepped into the classroom, he headed for his seat, plodded into it and bowed his head on his desk. Saul’s taunting words pained him to the core. He was sick and tired of him. If only he and the others would stop bothering him, he would be very happy.
“Hello,” a soft voice said, after Alimu had bowed on his desk for a while.
Alimu lifted his head as he pushed the tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes, and looked at the person that had just greeted him. He was a plump boy that was about fifteen with thick eyelashes. He had a heart-shaped face and his skin was the color of Coco Cola’s juice. The boy, who was standing by the door, flung him a warm smile and walked up towards him.
“Hello. How are you?” Alimu returned his greeting with a forced smile.
“So so,” the boy started as he put his backpack on one of the desks. “By the way, my name is David, but you can call me Dave. I saw what transpired between you and that animal outside. So that’s why I came to have a word with you since some of my classmates always have a knack of taunting me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” David started as he sat beside Alimu. The smile on his face melted away, and the shadow of some deep sadness creased across it like a branch of a tree. “Those rascals are really a pain in my neck. They have been calling me a sissy, “woman-pikin” and other names and sometimes push or punch me in the classroom and outside since I came here three years ago, because they said I acted and talked like a girl. Though they are right, it’s not that I chose to talk or behave the way I do. In fact, when the taunting began I hated myself, so I told myself that I would do all it takes to stop talking or acting like a girl. Unfortunately, all my efforts to change myself proved futile. So I decided to accept myself the way I am,” he added with a voice that was tinged with anguish. He clumped his lips together, looked at Alimu right in the eyes and smiled at him. “But you see dear, I’m proud of myself because I never let their words and actions get the better of me. To be candid with you, when their taunting started, it used to disturb me deeply. Each time somebody called me a sissy or a woman-pikin or any of their other invented names, my heart would feel as though it was squeezed with claws. But with time, I hardened myself to it. I told myself that I’m here to learn and that no form of discrimination I faced here will let me stop coming or neglect my studies. And that had helped to keep my head above water since I’m always within the first five pupils in my class since I enrolled in the school. So I want you to do the same. Don’t pay much heed to what that animal or any other pupil for that matter say to you here and let you lose your cool. Just concentrate on your studies, okay.”
Alimu nodded as he looked at him with admiration. “I promise you, I won’t let anyone’s words or actions let me lose my focus.”
David smiled at him. “Good. But I only hope you will stand by your words and not disappoint me like Richard.”
“Who’s Richard and what do you mean he disappointed you?”
David tore his eyes from Alimu’s and stared at the blackboard. “Richard was a friend of mine in this school. Like you and me, some of his classmates used to make fun of him because he was overweight. They used to call him “Fatty-bumpie”. I can still see them clapping behind him after school, singing in Krio, “Fatty-bumpie lek lek one pound weight.” When the taunting started shortly after he came into this school in J.S.S. 2, I called him aside and told him not to let the taunting of his classmates get the better of him. He promised me, but at the end he didn’t stand by his words. Before first term ended, Richard stopped coming to school.”
David paused and looked at Alimu right in the eyes. His eyes had a glassy sheen.
“My dear, please we must not let our bullies win. If you chicken out like Richard, that good-for-nothing boy and the others will emerge as victors. So please stand by your words, okay.”
Alimu reached for David’s right hand and covered it with his. As David started explaining about his experiences in the school earlier, he felt his heart bloating with pure love for him, by the time he finished his story and started talking about Richard, he realized suddenly that despite himself a strange kinship had sprouted like an almond tree between him and David, whom before now, he had only seen occasionally in the school compound.
“Dave, don’t worry yourself about me. I’m somebody that always honors his words. I assure you, I won’t turn out like Richard, okay,” he said after a brief moment.
“I hope so.” David took a deep breath and said as he pulled his hand gently from Alimu’s, “Can we be friends?”
“Sure,” Alimu started as he held out his hand to him. “My name is Alimu. It’s nice to meet you, Dave.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” David started as he shook Alimu’s hand with a smile. His hand felt smooth and warm in Alimu’s. Then he stood up and added, “I’ve to go now because I’ve some notes to copy. But I promise you, I’ll come here once in a while to check on you, okay.”
Alimu nodded. “What’s the name of your class?”
“J.S.S. 3Blue.”
“Okay. Would you mind if I pay you a visit there once in a while?”
“Yes. You will be always welcome, okay. Have a nice day,” David said as he started for the door.
“You too,” Alimu shot at his receding back. The classroom was sharp with the smell of the Smart Perfume David wore.
Hours turned to days and days turned into weeks, Saul and the others continued to pestering him, but Alimu, who paid heed greatly to David’s advice, didn’t let their words get the better of him and fight them or lurch streams of dirty names at them. He always found a way to get away from them, no matter what. Saul and the others continued to badger Alimu until one of Alimu’s friends in his class told Mr. Dumbaya, their class teacher the taunting that he endured. Mr. Dumbuya stalked into the classroom on the day he learnt of that and looked at his pupils with eyes that glinted with fierce anger and said,
“Saul, a sober minded pupil here told me that you and few others are making life a hell for Alimu in this school! My eyes and ears are on all of you! If anyone of you dare trouble him again or anyone else, I won’t only beat that person till s/he pisses on herself/himself, but I will suspend him/her for two weeks as well. I hope you understand me clearly?”
“Yes, sir,” the class muttered.
Mr. Dumbuya shot them a crocodile smile. “Good. See you later!” He wheeled around and flounced out of the room.
Alimu looked at Saul as soon as Mr. Dumbuya stepped out, but Saul, who until now would have stared at him with disdain and called him a dirty name, tore his gaze from his and stared at the window. From that day, nobody ever badger him again. When David visited Alimu during lunch two days after Mr. Dumbuya warned Saul and the others to stop taunting him, he told him what Mr. Dumbuya had done.
“Wow! That’s great! I’m happy for you,” David said with a grin.
Alimu looked at him pointedly. “Why can’t you tell your class teacher about what you are going through in class?” His forehead was furrowed with concern.
“It’s needless, dear. My class teacher is a laisser-faire man, who doesn’t pay much attention to scolding pupils in his class received from their classmates. He called that a trivial issue. In fact, I have been called a sissy in front of him for a couple of times, but he never did anything.”
Disbelief masked Alimu’s face. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, dear friend. I’m not. Anyways, don’t worry yourself about me. I will soon get out of the claws of my classmates that taunt me, because once we take the Basic Education Certificate Examination a couple of months from now, we will head for different senior schools, okay.”
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, Alimu continued to live in misery in his aunt’s house. The wicked woman had become a real thorn in his life. Apart from ordering him to do all the household work, she had also started to beat him with a cane at her whim.
“Alimu, sweep and dust the whole house. Alimu, wash the dishes. Alimu, launder my clothes and those of my children,” she kept ordering him each day.
Just a week ago, she had stopped him from going to school because he delayed to mop the floor. On the day that incident took place, as Alimu was sitting on the porch, doing three assignments he had to submit the following day, Aunt Mariatu called and ordered him to get into the house.
“I have observed my room, those of my children and this sitting room. You didn’t mop them properly at all this morning before you went to school. So you have to mop them again now!” Aunt Mariatu told him, once he stepped into the sitting room.
Shafts of the afternoon sun streamed into it through the open windows. Motes of dust danced in them.
“Aunty, please let me do that later. I’m doing my assignments. Once I finish them, I will do as you ordered.”
“No way! You’ve got to do it now! If not, I will deal with you severely. I’m going to the market. Before I return, make sure you do as I said,” Aunt Mariatu said and walked out of the room with a basket.
“Hell no, I must finish my assignments before I do as she ordered. If not, I will not be able to do them, for once she returns, she’ll keep on ordering me to do one chore to another till midnight,” Alimu muttered.
Afterward, he swept his gaze across the sitting room’s floor. “Aunt Mariatu is just so wicked. The floor is not dirty at all, for I did wipe it properly this morning. She just wants me to mop it again to bully me,” he said with disgust and scuttled out of the room.
When Aunt Mariatu returned about forty minutes later, she met Alimu on the porch, where he was busy writing his third assignment, which he had almost finish.
“Have you done what I ordered you to do?” Aunt Mariatu asked as she placed the basket down. Her body was covered with a light sheen of sweat.
“No Aunty, but I…”
Aunt Mariatu shot Alimu a spiteful look. He felt a sense of dread.
“What! You dared defy my authority, right? You wait, I go show you say are bad pass orbado!” Just wait, I will show you that I’m more evil than the devil!
She grabbed a bucket of water nearby and poured its content over Alimu. He gasped, bounded onto his feet and looked at Aunt Mariatu with an open mouth and horror-stricken eyes.
“Yes, you merited that for being stubborn! Just wait, I’m going to beat the devil of stubbornness out of you!”
Aunt Mariatu dashed into the house and returned with a thick, long cane she called “Babu Bone”, which she started using on Alimu four days after his father returned.
“Now, lie down let me deal with you!” she roared, her eyes glowed of fierce anger.
Alimu didn’t move; he just stood like a pillar, looking at his aunt as an eruption of anger coursed through him. His action flared up the overwhelming rage that was boiling in his aunt’s guts like a fire somebody had just thrown a five gallon of petrol at, because she raised the cane and started to hit him on different parts of his body. Searing pains stung Alimu on the parts of his body the cane landed like a hook; he covered his face with his hands to protect it and his eyes.
After unleashing Babu Bone for over twenty times, Aunt Mariatu stopped and said at the top of her voice, “Yes, are miss you! This is just one part of the punishment you’ll undergo! You want to grow wings in this house because I let you go to school! Henceforth, you’ll never go to that school again! Once I get into the house, I will take your uniforms and lock them in my room!”
“Aunty, please don’t stop me from going to school,” Alimu whined. His voice cracked.
“No way!” She grabbed Alimu’s backpack that was lying on the porch and dashed for the entrance door. Once she banged it behind her, Alimu, whose body felt as though it was swathed with acid, lowered his knees onto the floor as tears gushed out of his eyes. A while later, the door opened with a crash and Aunt Mariatu sauntered out. She was holding Alimu’s school uniforms and backpack.
“To show you that I was serious when I told you that I wouldn’t let you go to school again, I’m going to burn your uniforms and your school bag. If I keep them, you’ll hope that I’ll change my mind and send you to school again someday. But burning them means you’ll never go to school again,” Aunt Mariatu said, glowering.
Her words struck Alimu’s heart like a hammer. “Aunty, I beg you in Allah’s name, don’t do that!” His words were lined with grief like the cry of a woman whose beloved child was massacred by a car in front of her.
Aunt Mariatu didn’t pay heed to his words. She walked out of the porch and dropped the uniforms and the bag on the ground. Once they thudded on the ground, she poured kerosene on them and set them on fire. As flames of orange and blue meandered skywards as the fire consumed Alimu’s school bag and uniforms, he felt like a hostage, who had just been informed that the person that was to pay his ransom had died in an accident. Alimu closed his eyes and for a fleeting moment he caught the image of Mr. Kamara, his English Language teacher, who rained down strings of praises at him in front of his classmates because he scored ninety eight percent in his test, a mark which Mr. Kamara said no pupil had ever got in his subject before.
Alimu’s heart shrunk with anguish. He was certain that he would not see Mr. Kamara, Mr Dumbuya, Dave, his best friend, and the other teachers that loved him so much again. He opened his mouth and howled like a lioness that was in pangs of labor.
At school, Mr Kamara’s action of praising Alimu had sparked a mixture of emotions among his classmates. Some from middle-class and rich homes, who had given him a cold shoulder since the beginning of the term, came closer to him and befriended him. On the other hand, a couple of them grew colder towards him and started calling him names. Among Alimu’s classmates who troubled him like hell, the one whose image still loomed clearly in his mind like the Bintumani Mountain, the highest peak in Sierra Leone, was Saul. Saul was a fourteen-year-old charcoal skin boy with a face like a mongrel. His father was rich; he was the manager of Rokel Commercial Bank in Freetown. Before Saul took the N.P.S.E. Exam, his father told him to sit for The International School in New England Ville, one of the best secondary schools in the municipality of Freetown, with the belief that if Saul attended it, he would secure a good grade when he took the General Certificate of Education years later that would help him gain admission in one of the grade A universities in England. When the result came out and Saul’s father learnt that his son almost failed by scoring two hundred and thirty marks, his father tried to bribe the principal of The International School then, who said that for a pupil to be admitted into his school, s/he must score two hundred and ninety marks, but his effort was fruitless. So he took Saul to the Henry Ferguson Junior Secondary School out of frustration and enrolled him there after paying a huge sum of money to the administration because he didn’t sit for it.
The moment Mr. Kamara stepped out of the classroom after teaching them that day, Saul had given Alimu an owlish look and said in a voice that was sharp with contempt, “See the pig Mr. Kamara said scored ninety eight percent in his subject!” Some of his classmates roared with laughter. Their laughter was grating and spiteful.
“That’s a bold lie! There is no way a village goat like this can score more marks than we “Freetonians”! You must have bribed Mr. Kamara!” he had added once the laughter died out.
Alimu felt mortified and sorely troubled at the same time. He gazed at Saul as all the veins in his body bulged with abhorrence. He would have engaged in a verbal war with Saul, but since he didn’t want to disappoint his aunt, who had advised him not to engage in any kind of trouble in school, he ignored him by taking one of his books after gazing at him for a while and read. But Saul didn’t stop there. When Alimu approached him and some of their classmates as they prepared to play soccer one afternoon of the same week during recess, Saul pointed at him and burst into laughter and said, “Bush boy wants to play soccer with us city guys! Do you know how to play soccer where you came from? I bet you only know how to hunt bush rats!” His face was pinched with disdain.
Saul’s words entered Alimu like a scythe. He stared at him. As anger began to seethe in his guts, he could feel his fingers trembling, so he clenched them into a tight fist. He had wanted to step forward, punch Saul right in the face and shouted at the top of his lungs that, “Of course, we do play soccer where I come from. Who knows? I might know how to play more than you.” But as he made to move, Aunt Mariatu’s words of never engaging in any trouble at school flashed into his mind. So he took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. At this, Saul’s eyes wandered at Alimu’s hands. When he saw how clenched they were, he roared with laughter. Alimu tasted bile in his throat.
“Who did you clench those hands for? Me? Then come forward and hit me,” he said once he stopped laughing.
A long, fierce silence simmered between them.
“You don’t have the nerve, right? Okay, since you can’t. I will deal with you.” He stepped forward and pushed him. Alimu staggered for a while before he kept his balance.
Saul gave him a cold smile. “You are strong! You didn’t fall down! But I assure you this time round your body will grace the ground!” Saul said before he started to step towards Alimu.
“Ah, Saul! Leave him alone! If the teachers see you, you’ll find yourself in hot waters!” one of the boys said.
Saul halted and stared at Alimu with eyes that were frosty with pure hatred. “You are lucky this time round. If you clench your hands for me next time, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!” He wheeled around and headed for the field. As he did, Alimu gave his back a cold look before he turned and made his way for his classroom. The shiny sun that was sailing across the sky burned Alimu’s nape like a branding iron. Once he stepped into the classroom, he headed for his seat, plodded into it and bowed his head on his desk. Saul’s taunting words pained him to the core. He was sick and tired of him. If only he and the others would stop bothering him, he would be very happy.
“Hello,” a soft voice said, after Alimu had bowed on his desk for a while.
Alimu lifted his head as he pushed the tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes, and looked at the person that had just greeted him. He was a plump boy that was about fifteen with thick eyelashes. He had a heart-shaped face and his skin was the color of Coco Cola’s juice. The boy, who was standing by the door, flung him a warm smile and walked up towards him.
“Hello. How are you?” Alimu returned his greeting with a forced smile.
“So so,” the boy started as he put his backpack on one of the desks. “By the way, my name is David, but you can call me Dave. I saw what transpired between you and that animal outside. So that’s why I came to have a word with you since some of my classmates always have a knack of taunting me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” David started as he sat beside Alimu. The smile on his face melted away, and the shadow of some deep sadness creased across it like a branch of a tree. “Those rascals are really a pain in my neck. They have been calling me a sissy, “woman-pikin” and other names and sometimes push or punch me in the classroom and outside since I came here three years ago, because they said I acted and talked like a girl. Though they are right, it’s not that I chose to talk or behave the way I do. In fact, when the taunting began I hated myself, so I told myself that I would do all it takes to stop talking or acting like a girl. Unfortunately, all my efforts to change myself proved futile. So I decided to accept myself the way I am,” he added with a voice that was tinged with anguish. He clumped his lips together, looked at Alimu right in the eyes and smiled at him. “But you see dear, I’m proud of myself because I never let their words and actions get the better of me. To be candid with you, when their taunting started, it used to disturb me deeply. Each time somebody called me a sissy or a woman-pikin or any of their other invented names, my heart would feel as though it was squeezed with claws. But with time, I hardened myself to it. I told myself that I’m here to learn and that no form of discrimination I faced here will let me stop coming or neglect my studies. And that had helped to keep my head above water since I’m always within the first five pupils in my class since I enrolled in the school. So I want you to do the same. Don’t pay much heed to what that animal or any other pupil for that matter say to you here and let you lose your cool. Just concentrate on your studies, okay.”
Alimu nodded as he looked at him with admiration. “I promise you, I won’t let anyone’s words or actions let me lose my focus.”
David smiled at him. “Good. But I only hope you will stand by your words and not disappoint me like Richard.”
“Who’s Richard and what do you mean he disappointed you?”
David tore his eyes from Alimu’s and stared at the blackboard. “Richard was a friend of mine in this school. Like you and me, some of his classmates used to make fun of him because he was overweight. They used to call him “Fatty-bumpie”. I can still see them clapping behind him after school, singing in Krio, “Fatty-bumpie lek lek one pound weight.” When the taunting started shortly after he came into this school in J.S.S. 2, I called him aside and told him not to let the taunting of his classmates get the better of him. He promised me, but at the end he didn’t stand by his words. Before first term ended, Richard stopped coming to school.”
David paused and looked at Alimu right in the eyes. His eyes had a glassy sheen.
“My dear, please we must not let our bullies win. If you chicken out like Richard, that good-for-nothing boy and the others will emerge as victors. So please stand by your words, okay.”
Alimu reached for David’s right hand and covered it with his. As David started explaining about his experiences in the school earlier, he felt his heart bloating with pure love for him, by the time he finished his story and started talking about Richard, he realized suddenly that despite himself a strange kinship had sprouted like an almond tree between him and David, whom before now, he had only seen occasionally in the school compound.
“Dave, don’t worry yourself about me. I’m somebody that always honors his words. I assure you, I won’t turn out like Richard, okay,” he said after a brief moment.
“I hope so.” David took a deep breath and said as he pulled his hand gently from Alimu’s, “Can we be friends?”
“Sure,” Alimu started as he held out his hand to him. “My name is Alimu. It’s nice to meet you, Dave.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” David started as he shook Alimu’s hand with a smile. His hand felt smooth and warm in Alimu’s. Then he stood up and added, “I’ve to go now because I’ve some notes to copy. But I promise you, I’ll come here once in a while to check on you, okay.”
Alimu nodded. “What’s the name of your class?”
“J.S.S. 3Blue.”
“Okay. Would you mind if I pay you a visit there once in a while?”
“Yes. You will be always welcome, okay. Have a nice day,” David said as he started for the door.
“You too,” Alimu shot at his receding back. The classroom was sharp with the smell of the Smart Perfume David wore.
Hours turned to days and days turned into weeks, Saul and the others continued to pestering him, but Alimu, who paid heed greatly to David’s advice, didn’t let their words get the better of him and fight them or lurch streams of dirty names at them. He always found a way to get away from them, no matter what. Saul and the others continued to badger Alimu until one of Alimu’s friends in his class told Mr. Dumbaya, their class teacher the taunting that he endured. Mr. Dumbuya stalked into the classroom on the day he learnt of that and looked at his pupils with eyes that glinted with fierce anger and said,
“Saul, a sober minded pupil here told me that you and few others are making life a hell for Alimu in this school! My eyes and ears are on all of you! If anyone of you dare trouble him again or anyone else, I won’t only beat that person till s/he pisses on herself/himself, but I will suspend him/her for two weeks as well. I hope you understand me clearly?”
“Yes, sir,” the class muttered.
Mr. Dumbuya shot them a crocodile smile. “Good. See you later!” He wheeled around and flounced out of the room.
Alimu looked at Saul as soon as Mr. Dumbuya stepped out, but Saul, who until now would have stared at him with disdain and called him a dirty name, tore his gaze from his and stared at the window. From that day, nobody ever badger him again. When David visited Alimu during lunch two days after Mr. Dumbuya warned Saul and the others to stop taunting him, he told him what Mr. Dumbuya had done.
“Wow! That’s great! I’m happy for you,” David said with a grin.
Alimu looked at him pointedly. “Why can’t you tell your class teacher about what you are going through in class?” His forehead was furrowed with concern.
“It’s needless, dear. My class teacher is a laisser-faire man, who doesn’t pay much attention to scolding pupils in his class received from their classmates. He called that a trivial issue. In fact, I have been called a sissy in front of him for a couple of times, but he never did anything.”
Disbelief masked Alimu’s face. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, dear friend. I’m not. Anyways, don’t worry yourself about me. I will soon get out of the claws of my classmates that taunt me, because once we take the Basic Education Certificate Examination a couple of months from now, we will head for different senior schools, okay.”
An extract from The Uncovered Policeman - Made for TV by Ted Bun
The e-mail that arrived from Sean Cutter piqued Rags interest even before he had read it. An e-mail from Sean was a rare event. One with a subject line “Interesting Idea” was unheard of. The body of the e-mail was almost as enigmatic.
“Hi Rags,” it read. “I have had a visit from an old neighbour of mine and Gill’s, from back in the day. A guy called Ian Francis. He works in the TV industry, something to do with making light entertainment programmes. He is looking for a venue to make a drama programme. He visited us but, after we had talked it through, we decided that we couldn’t offer consistent enough weather for making a drama over several weeks.
“Consequently, I suggested your place, in early spring, might be better. He said he would get in touch. It all seems really genuine, unlike some of the documentary programs we get asked to participate in. Give him a listen.”
Rags went in search of his wife Bea, to see what she thought about the idea. Bea was not just his wife, mother of his children, photographic model and the reason he had become the man he was. She was his business partner.
They knew that this Ian Francis guy was trying to find a venue to make a programme, a programme about naturists, or so Rags deduced from him having contacted the Cutters and the onward referral to himself.
Bea’s opinion was, that the least they could do was give the man a hearing. After all, it wouldn’t cost anything and from what she had heard there was good money in being used as a location.
The letter arrived a week later. Mr Francis, of Bluestone Productions, would like to come and discuss a business proposition with the owners of L’Abeille Nue. He understood that Mr Cutter of Eden Gardens Naturist Resort had already mentioned the project.
It was the first week in November that Mr Francis. “Please call me Ian,” arrived at L’Abeille Nue. Rags opened the door to find a fair-haired man, with a neatly trimmed beard, probably in his mid-forties, wearing a Stockman’s coat and a waxed cotton hat. A bit inappropriate for the sunshine and blue skies, Rags thought. The big Dr Martens boots that completed his ensemble spoke of it being more of a style statement. He greeted Rags, clasping his hand in both of his and shaking it firmly. As Bea followed Rags to the door, Ian proffered a large bunch of flowers, produced with a flourish from behind his bag. He was off to a good start.
Over a cup of coffee, “Strong and black please”, Bea and Rags explained the layout of L’Abeille Nue.
“If you start with the pool as the centre, our house and the three accommodation blocks make up the four sides of a square around the pool area and the bar,” Rags described the layout. “Beyond that, there is the orchard and the Wellness Centre, in the other direction the car parking area and the storage barn that Paul, Bea’s brother, uses for his classic car rental business.”
The e-mail that arrived from Sean Cutter piqued Rags interest even before he had read it. An e-mail from Sean was a rare event. One with a subject line “Interesting Idea” was unheard of. The body of the e-mail was almost as enigmatic.
“Hi Rags,” it read. “I have had a visit from an old neighbour of mine and Gill’s, from back in the day. A guy called Ian Francis. He works in the TV industry, something to do with making light entertainment programmes. He is looking for a venue to make a drama programme. He visited us but, after we had talked it through, we decided that we couldn’t offer consistent enough weather for making a drama over several weeks.
“Consequently, I suggested your place, in early spring, might be better. He said he would get in touch. It all seems really genuine, unlike some of the documentary programs we get asked to participate in. Give him a listen.”
Rags went in search of his wife Bea, to see what she thought about the idea. Bea was not just his wife, mother of his children, photographic model and the reason he had become the man he was. She was his business partner.
They knew that this Ian Francis guy was trying to find a venue to make a programme, a programme about naturists, or so Rags deduced from him having contacted the Cutters and the onward referral to himself.
Bea’s opinion was, that the least they could do was give the man a hearing. After all, it wouldn’t cost anything and from what she had heard there was good money in being used as a location.
The letter arrived a week later. Mr Francis, of Bluestone Productions, would like to come and discuss a business proposition with the owners of L’Abeille Nue. He understood that Mr Cutter of Eden Gardens Naturist Resort had already mentioned the project.
It was the first week in November that Mr Francis. “Please call me Ian,” arrived at L’Abeille Nue. Rags opened the door to find a fair-haired man, with a neatly trimmed beard, probably in his mid-forties, wearing a Stockman’s coat and a waxed cotton hat. A bit inappropriate for the sunshine and blue skies, Rags thought. The big Dr Martens boots that completed his ensemble spoke of it being more of a style statement. He greeted Rags, clasping his hand in both of his and shaking it firmly. As Bea followed Rags to the door, Ian proffered a large bunch of flowers, produced with a flourish from behind his bag. He was off to a good start.
Over a cup of coffee, “Strong and black please”, Bea and Rags explained the layout of L’Abeille Nue.
“If you start with the pool as the centre, our house and the three accommodation blocks make up the four sides of a square around the pool area and the bar,” Rags described the layout. “Beyond that, there is the orchard and the Wellness Centre, in the other direction the car parking area and the storage barn that Paul, Bea’s brother, uses for his classic car rental business.”
An extract from BEST INTELLIGENCE by James Gault
When the professor left, Charlie checked out of the hotel, leaving his overnight bag at the reception desk to be collected later. He decided to celebrate with a pint and a snack in one of the local bars before heading back to his place in Fitou. As you would expect in a resort town like Alicante, he was spoilt for choice, but he settled on a back-street bar that looked like it might be popular with British tourists. He didn’t feel up to being too experimental with Spanish food.
He bought and paid for a glass of San Miguel and some anglicised version of tapas at the counter, and sat down at a table near the entrance. There were a few magazines and newsletters spread around for the use of customers. He helped himself to a copy of ‘El Pais’. If he had to work with Spanish academics, he was going to need to improve his Spanish. A bit of reading it over lunch wouldn’t go amiss.
He buried his head in the newspaper, but his concentration was spasmodic. The professor’s proposal that he might want to sign up for a doctoral programme kept coming back to him. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Doctor Charles Best M.A. Ph.D., author and historian, sounded a lot better than Inspector Charlie Best of the Glasgow police: the cops who never got their man.
Suddenly, his thoughts were disrupted by a familiar Scottish twang he would never have expected to hear. He turned his head to see where it was coming from. Jesus! What the hell were they doing here? His mouth dried up and he gagged. What if they saw him? What if…? He slithered further down into the chair and lowered his head back into ‘El Pais’. If they noticed him at all, would they see a local out for a coffee and a morning read? For his sake, he hoped so.
He knew them. and they knew him. Big Tam Thomson, Mac the Knife and Billy the Kid. And the fourth man. My God, MacKenzie! Detective Chief Superintendent Duncan MacKenzie of Glasgow Police. He was silently mouthing the name. Was MacKenzie in with them? Was he mixed up in their dirty trade? Had to be. Jesus! This was dynamite.
They went past him laughing and joking. Charlie shivered but didn’t dare look up. He just had to hope they weren’t taking much notice of their surroundings. They’d all had a few, their loud banter filling the room. Smutty remarks about women mixed in with chit-chat about football. They were going up to Valencia later to catch the game with Barca. Big Tam was a Real Madrid man, but the policeman was praising the skills of Messi. It was all good natured banter. Nothing was being said to indicate they had clocked him when they came in.
He listened to it all with his eyes still in the newspaper, fear fighting against fury. MacKenzie was one of them! That was the real reason Big Tam could run riot, spreading misery and making Glasgow the most violent city in the civilised world. He thought back on all his cases. There were times when they could have collared Tam and his hoods. It would only have needed a court order or a search warrant to get the evidence. In every case he could remember, MacKenzie had either blocked or screwed up the application. Knowing what he knew now, he could see that. Charlie Best had never liked the man. MacKenzie had the blood of hundreds on his hands, including young Detective Wagtree. Somehow, Charlie would make him pay.
But that would have to wait for later. There was a more immediate threat. MacKenzie and Thomson couldn’t afford news of their chumminess to get back to Glasgow. And they knew only one way to solve these kind of inconveniences, as Wee Wullie Wagtree had found out. Charlie didn’t fancy being discovered in some remote Spanish rubbish tip with his throat cut. The survival instinct kicked in. He had to get out of there before they saw him. His li
When the professor left, Charlie checked out of the hotel, leaving his overnight bag at the reception desk to be collected later. He decided to celebrate with a pint and a snack in one of the local bars before heading back to his place in Fitou. As you would expect in a resort town like Alicante, he was spoilt for choice, but he settled on a back-street bar that looked like it might be popular with British tourists. He didn’t feel up to being too experimental with Spanish food.
He bought and paid for a glass of San Miguel and some anglicised version of tapas at the counter, and sat down at a table near the entrance. There were a few magazines and newsletters spread around for the use of customers. He helped himself to a copy of ‘El Pais’. If he had to work with Spanish academics, he was going to need to improve his Spanish. A bit of reading it over lunch wouldn’t go amiss.
He buried his head in the newspaper, but his concentration was spasmodic. The professor’s proposal that he might want to sign up for a doctoral programme kept coming back to him. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Doctor Charles Best M.A. Ph.D., author and historian, sounded a lot better than Inspector Charlie Best of the Glasgow police: the cops who never got their man.
Suddenly, his thoughts were disrupted by a familiar Scottish twang he would never have expected to hear. He turned his head to see where it was coming from. Jesus! What the hell were they doing here? His mouth dried up and he gagged. What if they saw him? What if…? He slithered further down into the chair and lowered his head back into ‘El Pais’. If they noticed him at all, would they see a local out for a coffee and a morning read? For his sake, he hoped so.
He knew them. and they knew him. Big Tam Thomson, Mac the Knife and Billy the Kid. And the fourth man. My God, MacKenzie! Detective Chief Superintendent Duncan MacKenzie of Glasgow Police. He was silently mouthing the name. Was MacKenzie in with them? Was he mixed up in their dirty trade? Had to be. Jesus! This was dynamite.
They went past him laughing and joking. Charlie shivered but didn’t dare look up. He just had to hope they weren’t taking much notice of their surroundings. They’d all had a few, their loud banter filling the room. Smutty remarks about women mixed in with chit-chat about football. They were going up to Valencia later to catch the game with Barca. Big Tam was a Real Madrid man, but the policeman was praising the skills of Messi. It was all good natured banter. Nothing was being said to indicate they had clocked him when they came in.
He listened to it all with his eyes still in the newspaper, fear fighting against fury. MacKenzie was one of them! That was the real reason Big Tam could run riot, spreading misery and making Glasgow the most violent city in the civilised world. He thought back on all his cases. There were times when they could have collared Tam and his hoods. It would only have needed a court order or a search warrant to get the evidence. In every case he could remember, MacKenzie had either blocked or screwed up the application. Knowing what he knew now, he could see that. Charlie Best had never liked the man. MacKenzie had the blood of hundreds on his hands, including young Detective Wagtree. Somehow, Charlie would make him pay.
But that would have to wait for later. There was a more immediate threat. MacKenzie and Thomson couldn’t afford news of their chumminess to get back to Glasgow. And they knew only one way to solve these kind of inconveniences, as Wee Wullie Wagtree had found out. Charlie didn’t fancy being discovered in some remote Spanish rubbish tip with his throat cut. The survival instinct kicked in. He had to get out of there before they saw him. His li
THE MOVE A short story by Ted Bun
Christmas Day 1998
The forecast was the temperature to set to a very respectable 70 degrees. Not bad for Cambridge if you looked at the historical records. However, in terms of recent years it was unremarkable. Mid-summer temperatures of over 80 degrees had become commonplace ever since The Move had been completed.
The Move, I’ve decided to use the name for the project, including the capital letters, that was given to the popular press. That had been a stroke of genius, the official papers had named it “National Mobilisation” which smacked of the pre-war lack of planning.
I’m getting ahead of myself, the background to The Move was the second World War and the bitter winter of 1948. The massive cost and damage to the economy of the whole of Europe caused by World War 2 cannot be overstated. Rebuilding was a slow process as industries geared to make weapons of destruction were re-aligned for peace. A huge task even under ideal conditions.
The winter of 1948 had been far from ideal. In Britain alone, the bitter cold had killed thousands. People had gone hungry. All industrial activity had ground to a halt. The economic recovery from World War 2 was set back five years in five weeks. For Britain it was a disaster, another severe winter like that could destroy everything the country had achieved.
The Government struggled to find ways to ameliorate the situation. There was no money. There was not enough coal in the right places, it was trapped at the pit heads and docksides. The food arriving from around the world was trapped in the ports and could not be moved to the shops.
What could be done? What could they do? How do they prevent the cold killing people? How could they intervene to prevent snow and ice stopping the country?
“How could the Government prevent cold and snow causing death and chaos in Britain ever again?” The challenge sent to every university, every research facility, civil and military, and every policy think-tank in the country. The prize on offer for a workable solution was huge, financially, academically and socially. Fame, fortune and status awaited the team with the right idea.
The answers came back, sadly weak on ideas and thin on detail. The civil service panel of the great and good, set up to review the ideas, rejected them all in very short order.
The panel sat was reconvened to review what resources could be applied to solving the problems caused by a severe winter.
The list was fairly short; The army, but no petrol for the tanks. The air force, but no fuel for the planes. The navy, more ships than the navy could use in peacetime. And piles, no, mountains, of unburnt coal at the mines and ports. Not a lot of useful resouces, really.
That was until the Chief Science Officer from the committee overheard a conversation in the staff canteen. One of the juniors in the Department of War was trying to impress one of the typists.
“I wish I was back in ’ve Azores. I was vere in forty-four an’ forty-five” he boasted. “Even in winter, it was never less than 65 degrees. I kid yer not! I fink they should tow us sarf to find some nice wever!”
The CSO took a few moments to decipher the strong London accent. Eventually, he had most of it translated into the King’s English.
The Azores, a group of Portuguese Islands in the Atlantic. They are about 1000 miles south of London. The climate he recalled was pretty much that, a climate rather than wever, sorry weather. The seasons saw daily temperatures vary between 65 and 80 degrees. Moderate rainfall and few real storms. A nice place to avoid the cold and snow of the UK.
“Tow us sarf… South” he thought.
“Who could he mean by “they”?” he mused. The only towing he could think of was the barges being towed up and down the Thames by tugs. Then things started to click into place in his mind.
‘Boats pulling things…’
‘More ships than the Navy could use…’
‘Lots of coal at the ports…’
It was a silly idea, a very silly idea, it would never work, or would it?
*****************
Next morning, he set his team to work on the theoretical problems.
Two weeks later the Tech Team came back with an interim discussion paper. Subject to one condition it would be possible to tow the country. It would slow to start with but the speed would build up steadily as inertia was overcome. Then the problem would be trying to stop at the right place. That would be easy to calculate on the move as all the information could be updated on a daily basis using real data rather than a mathematical model.
The one condition was, however, a real biggie. They had to overcome the forces of friction.
The weight of the country was, as the scientist doing the briefing put it, “bloody huge!”. The surface area the weight was acting over was in the region of 90,000 square miles.
Either the mass had to be reduced, the surface area changed. Both were sort of constants given this was Britain. The only other option was to somehow change the coefficient of friction.
That was going to be a tricky one.
Three weeks later a young research student at Kings College, Cambridge identified the solution. He had been looking at data about earthquakes that revealed that it wasn’t just vibration that made buildings fall down. There was an effect that caused the soil and rock around the foundation of a building to turn almost to liquid.
When this happened whole buildings would tilt and slide on their foundations. If, and it was a big ‘if’, this effect could be created underneath Britain as the moving force was applied the slide could get started. So there it was the theoretical model all in place.
All that was needed was a practical plan, the resources to make the plan reality and the political will to make the resources needed available.
The Chief Scientific Officer phoned the Cabinet Office to see if he could get a slot on the agenda for a Cabinet Meeting. He was in luck, the response to “Winter Crisis” was going to be debated in Parliament in the next week or so. The Cabinet was keen to be able to talk about interventions they were investigating. His presentation would be heard on Thursday.
As it turned out he was pushing at an open door. The Government was keen, the plan used lots of existing resources that were considered, by many, to be a waste. It offered a chance to keep unemployment down. The key political factor, always the key factor, was that the Government, this party, would be seen to be improving the lives of every person in the country. Well, pretty much every person, there would be a few who would be anti the idea.
When the announcement was made by the Prime Minister, in response to a carefully prepared question from a Government Back-Bencher the world went crazy. The Russians accused the British of trying to colonise the Atlantic. The Americans took the contrary position offering technical assistance and protection from Russian aggression. The French were delighted that the perfidious Albion would be further away. Britain’s oldest and longest established ally Portugal were gleeful that their friends would be coming closer. They even suggested establishing the St Georges trading partnership. Both England and Portugal having St George as their national saint. The name was changed under a barrage of complaints from the Scots and Welsh.
The work started before the following summer. All along the south coast of England a Wales they started sinking huge concrete and steel anchoring posts which would be used to connect the tow ropes. All over the country drilling rigs were set up and holes were drilled thousands of feet into the ground. Hundreds and hundreds of holes drilled in each county, hundreds of holes punched deep underneath each and every city.
In the dockyards of Portsmouth, Plymouth, Portland, Sheerness, Chatham and Rosyth, mothballed and decommissioned ships had their engines overhauled and serviced. Unnecessary guns, armour plate and electronics were removed. Strong reinforced towing points were fitted to the sterns and sterns of corvettes, destroyers, cruisers and battleships. Later the same teams started on lend-lease liberty ships and troop carriers. Thousands of ships capable of generating millions of horsepower.
Inland the army was placing all the war surplus explosives in the hundreds of thousands of deep, deep holes in the ground. The huge industrial complexes that had built the bombs that rained down on Germany were back in business. This time, the bombs they were building were genuine “Earthquake” bombs.
The RAF was charged with all the communications and making sure that as much weight was airborne at the critical moments. They also flew as many people as possible to assorted Commonwealth and European countries for safety and to reduce the total mass of the ships would need to get moving.
New Year’s Day, January 1953 in a modified Lancaster bomber the new Queen pressed the big blue button that gave the command to the ships to start pulling. The ships moved forward taking the slack and stretch out of the ropes and chains anchoring them to the south coast.
Sixty seconds later a light flashed and the Queen pressed the big red button that detonated the thousands of bombs and charges deep underground. The whole country shook to its foundations but because of the care and precision in the positioning of the charges, there was little damage to buildings on the surface.
It was mid-February when they were able to confirm that Britain was nine inches further south than it had been. It had worked.
Many of the islands around Scotland. the Isle of Man, the Channel Islands and a few other little islands were not part of “The Move.” The populations had been offered the choice of relocating at some stage or joining a nearby country. The Orkneys decide to become part of Norway, they always claimed that Oslo was closer than London, so that was predictable.
January 1954 saw the distance moved up to 400 yards, things were very much as normal otherwise. During 1954, the country moved over 2 miles south. By 1960, the tow-ships were moving the country south and west by over 2 miles a month. In 1965 with mainland Britain now located offshore from the Bay of Biscay moving at very nearly a mile a week. The science team had calculated that the power being applied could be reduced and the motion allowed to slow. Most of the ships were in need of maintenance a so a rotation was organised to make sure that enough power was available to keep the speed up and provide direction while the remainder were overhauled.
In the country changes in public behaviour were becoming noticeable. Drunkenness was less common. The sociologists put this down to people moving outside. Instead of sitting close to the bar indoors to keep warm people were drinking in the pub gardens and drinking less. Café life was starting to appear with youths sitting in pavement cafes over a coffee discussing the merits of playing a 4-4-3, like Chelsea, as opposed to the traditional 4-3-4 line up still favoured by Manchester United.
People were also wearing less. Jackets and ties disappeared from casual wear for men. Ladies hemlines got higher and higher. British Naturism reported that as the summers got warmer and drier, membership of Nudist Clubs increased and appealed for more nudist beaches.
As Great Britain gradually lost momentum it continued to move south and west. The south coast passing to the west of Cape Finisterre by several hundred miles in 1969. Two parties were held the first one as London passed the Cape in early spring. The day turned out to be the warmest March day in the previous 100 years. People had parties on the banks of the Thames in London. In Brighton, over 1000 people turned up for the opening of a stretch of beach for naked swimming and sunbathing.
The second party was held on the same day in 1977 when Edinburgh passed the same latitude. The population of Great Britain nearly doubled for that week with people from all over the world came to party with Edinburgh.
A a nation the UK had become less hurried, less aggressive and generally a nicer and more tolerant place. The Government decided that for the long weekends of the “Move Parties” the opening hours could be relaxed, Pubs and bars could serve, non-intoxicated people, drinks from 10 am through to midnight. To avoid problems associated with people overheating or getting into conflict with the police because of simply taking off too much clothing the laws around nudity were changed. For the weekend simply being naked would not be a crime. Threatening or abusive behaviour would be taken more seriously if nudity was a part of the offence, but just being nude would not be an offence.
The world had changed a lot in the 8 years between the two parties. New industries had appeared and old ones passed. The British motor industry was following the motorcycle industry into oblivion. Computers were the new and upcoming thing, with ICL, Sinclair and the BBC in the forefront of this new science. The massive data requirements of managing The Move, which had initially involved thousands of slide rule wielding technicians was now run on one ICL machine and checked on another. A part work magazine helped people to write a basic programme that would enable the users of personal computers to follow the work of The Move Coordination team in their own homes.
In Europe, the Common Market had been formed and Britain had been excluded initially on the grounds that it might not be in Europe when it came to rest. As it became obvious that the stated destination was the real destination. Britain would have Portugal on its east coast and west coast it was definitely within Europe. Tourism from both France and Germany favouring the unique British offering of beach and culture in a single destination. As both countries were haemorrhaging currency to Britain negotiations began for British accession to the Common Market.
Ten years later The Move was virtually over. The drift was back to inches a month and decreasing rapidly. Most of Scotland was south of Santa Maria and Plymouth was only just north of Funchal the capital of Madeira. The climate was what you could call mild and others would call sub-tropical.
Not only had the weather changed beyond recognition. The changes in British industry had become embedded: Motorcycles were no longer built in Birmingham. Few cars came from Coventry. The Clyde shipyards had gone and there was no steel coming from Sheffield. Heavy industry had been replaced by tourism. Surf schools on the west coast, beach holidays on the east coast, hill walking in the north and water sports all along the south coast. London continued as a global cultural centre, the theatres, the opera, the historical tours and the Royal family continued to draw crowds. The UK was now Europe’s number one tourist destination.
Agricultural changes were even more marked. Scottish hills were covered in vines and their wines were improving year on year. On the plains and in the valleys of the north apples and cherries flourished. In Kent, the garden of England, the apples and cherries had been replaced with oranges and lemons, limes and avocados, kiwi fruit and winter strawberries.
Socially things had changed and remained the same. The British had become a more outdoor society. Cookouts were common. Alcohol consumption was down as people drank slower. People drank in pavement cafes and pub gardens instead of darkened pubs. Crimes of “violence against the person” decreased in line with the reduction of alcohol consumption and the amount clothing people were wearing. It is hard to be aggressive when flip-flops constitute your toughest footwear.
The key things that didn’t change were the great British eccentrics and the tolerance of eccentrics and ‘foreign’ cultures. The French, Germans and Scandinavians who wandered the streets and lanes were made welcome. The Americans and Japanese tourists continued to flock to Strafford with their cameras and were made welcome. Eccentrics of all types thrived, the spoon whittlers, the morris dancers, the sun worshippers and the cheese rollers all enjoy the freedoms allowed by the relaxing of legislation. Music festivals flourished in the sun. The beaches were filled with people of every hue and complexion, the dressed and the naked, the old and the young. They all mixed, young and old, black and white, the quick and the slow in bars and gardens, for parties and festivals, dancing and singing … One Britain unified in the sun!
****************
It is great, I am just so glad that my work on earthquakes was at the right stage and that I was able to contribute to The Move.
Christmas Day 1998
The forecast was the temperature to set to a very respectable 70 degrees. Not bad for Cambridge if you looked at the historical records. However, in terms of recent years it was unremarkable. Mid-summer temperatures of over 80 degrees had become commonplace ever since The Move had been completed.
The Move, I’ve decided to use the name for the project, including the capital letters, that was given to the popular press. That had been a stroke of genius, the official papers had named it “National Mobilisation” which smacked of the pre-war lack of planning.
I’m getting ahead of myself, the background to The Move was the second World War and the bitter winter of 1948. The massive cost and damage to the economy of the whole of Europe caused by World War 2 cannot be overstated. Rebuilding was a slow process as industries geared to make weapons of destruction were re-aligned for peace. A huge task even under ideal conditions.
The winter of 1948 had been far from ideal. In Britain alone, the bitter cold had killed thousands. People had gone hungry. All industrial activity had ground to a halt. The economic recovery from World War 2 was set back five years in five weeks. For Britain it was a disaster, another severe winter like that could destroy everything the country had achieved.
The Government struggled to find ways to ameliorate the situation. There was no money. There was not enough coal in the right places, it was trapped at the pit heads and docksides. The food arriving from around the world was trapped in the ports and could not be moved to the shops.
What could be done? What could they do? How do they prevent the cold killing people? How could they intervene to prevent snow and ice stopping the country?
“How could the Government prevent cold and snow causing death and chaos in Britain ever again?” The challenge sent to every university, every research facility, civil and military, and every policy think-tank in the country. The prize on offer for a workable solution was huge, financially, academically and socially. Fame, fortune and status awaited the team with the right idea.
The answers came back, sadly weak on ideas and thin on detail. The civil service panel of the great and good, set up to review the ideas, rejected them all in very short order.
The panel sat was reconvened to review what resources could be applied to solving the problems caused by a severe winter.
The list was fairly short; The army, but no petrol for the tanks. The air force, but no fuel for the planes. The navy, more ships than the navy could use in peacetime. And piles, no, mountains, of unburnt coal at the mines and ports. Not a lot of useful resouces, really.
That was until the Chief Science Officer from the committee overheard a conversation in the staff canteen. One of the juniors in the Department of War was trying to impress one of the typists.
“I wish I was back in ’ve Azores. I was vere in forty-four an’ forty-five” he boasted. “Even in winter, it was never less than 65 degrees. I kid yer not! I fink they should tow us sarf to find some nice wever!”
The CSO took a few moments to decipher the strong London accent. Eventually, he had most of it translated into the King’s English.
The Azores, a group of Portuguese Islands in the Atlantic. They are about 1000 miles south of London. The climate he recalled was pretty much that, a climate rather than wever, sorry weather. The seasons saw daily temperatures vary between 65 and 80 degrees. Moderate rainfall and few real storms. A nice place to avoid the cold and snow of the UK.
“Tow us sarf… South” he thought.
“Who could he mean by “they”?” he mused. The only towing he could think of was the barges being towed up and down the Thames by tugs. Then things started to click into place in his mind.
‘Boats pulling things…’
‘More ships than the Navy could use…’
‘Lots of coal at the ports…’
It was a silly idea, a very silly idea, it would never work, or would it?
*****************
Next morning, he set his team to work on the theoretical problems.
Two weeks later the Tech Team came back with an interim discussion paper. Subject to one condition it would be possible to tow the country. It would slow to start with but the speed would build up steadily as inertia was overcome. Then the problem would be trying to stop at the right place. That would be easy to calculate on the move as all the information could be updated on a daily basis using real data rather than a mathematical model.
The one condition was, however, a real biggie. They had to overcome the forces of friction.
The weight of the country was, as the scientist doing the briefing put it, “bloody huge!”. The surface area the weight was acting over was in the region of 90,000 square miles.
Either the mass had to be reduced, the surface area changed. Both were sort of constants given this was Britain. The only other option was to somehow change the coefficient of friction.
That was going to be a tricky one.
Three weeks later a young research student at Kings College, Cambridge identified the solution. He had been looking at data about earthquakes that revealed that it wasn’t just vibration that made buildings fall down. There was an effect that caused the soil and rock around the foundation of a building to turn almost to liquid.
When this happened whole buildings would tilt and slide on their foundations. If, and it was a big ‘if’, this effect could be created underneath Britain as the moving force was applied the slide could get started. So there it was the theoretical model all in place.
All that was needed was a practical plan, the resources to make the plan reality and the political will to make the resources needed available.
The Chief Scientific Officer phoned the Cabinet Office to see if he could get a slot on the agenda for a Cabinet Meeting. He was in luck, the response to “Winter Crisis” was going to be debated in Parliament in the next week or so. The Cabinet was keen to be able to talk about interventions they were investigating. His presentation would be heard on Thursday.
As it turned out he was pushing at an open door. The Government was keen, the plan used lots of existing resources that were considered, by many, to be a waste. It offered a chance to keep unemployment down. The key political factor, always the key factor, was that the Government, this party, would be seen to be improving the lives of every person in the country. Well, pretty much every person, there would be a few who would be anti the idea.
When the announcement was made by the Prime Minister, in response to a carefully prepared question from a Government Back-Bencher the world went crazy. The Russians accused the British of trying to colonise the Atlantic. The Americans took the contrary position offering technical assistance and protection from Russian aggression. The French were delighted that the perfidious Albion would be further away. Britain’s oldest and longest established ally Portugal were gleeful that their friends would be coming closer. They even suggested establishing the St Georges trading partnership. Both England and Portugal having St George as their national saint. The name was changed under a barrage of complaints from the Scots and Welsh.
The work started before the following summer. All along the south coast of England a Wales they started sinking huge concrete and steel anchoring posts which would be used to connect the tow ropes. All over the country drilling rigs were set up and holes were drilled thousands of feet into the ground. Hundreds and hundreds of holes drilled in each county, hundreds of holes punched deep underneath each and every city.
In the dockyards of Portsmouth, Plymouth, Portland, Sheerness, Chatham and Rosyth, mothballed and decommissioned ships had their engines overhauled and serviced. Unnecessary guns, armour plate and electronics were removed. Strong reinforced towing points were fitted to the sterns and sterns of corvettes, destroyers, cruisers and battleships. Later the same teams started on lend-lease liberty ships and troop carriers. Thousands of ships capable of generating millions of horsepower.
Inland the army was placing all the war surplus explosives in the hundreds of thousands of deep, deep holes in the ground. The huge industrial complexes that had built the bombs that rained down on Germany were back in business. This time, the bombs they were building were genuine “Earthquake” bombs.
The RAF was charged with all the communications and making sure that as much weight was airborne at the critical moments. They also flew as many people as possible to assorted Commonwealth and European countries for safety and to reduce the total mass of the ships would need to get moving.
New Year’s Day, January 1953 in a modified Lancaster bomber the new Queen pressed the big blue button that gave the command to the ships to start pulling. The ships moved forward taking the slack and stretch out of the ropes and chains anchoring them to the south coast.
Sixty seconds later a light flashed and the Queen pressed the big red button that detonated the thousands of bombs and charges deep underground. The whole country shook to its foundations but because of the care and precision in the positioning of the charges, there was little damage to buildings on the surface.
It was mid-February when they were able to confirm that Britain was nine inches further south than it had been. It had worked.
Many of the islands around Scotland. the Isle of Man, the Channel Islands and a few other little islands were not part of “The Move.” The populations had been offered the choice of relocating at some stage or joining a nearby country. The Orkneys decide to become part of Norway, they always claimed that Oslo was closer than London, so that was predictable.
January 1954 saw the distance moved up to 400 yards, things were very much as normal otherwise. During 1954, the country moved over 2 miles south. By 1960, the tow-ships were moving the country south and west by over 2 miles a month. In 1965 with mainland Britain now located offshore from the Bay of Biscay moving at very nearly a mile a week. The science team had calculated that the power being applied could be reduced and the motion allowed to slow. Most of the ships were in need of maintenance a so a rotation was organised to make sure that enough power was available to keep the speed up and provide direction while the remainder were overhauled.
In the country changes in public behaviour were becoming noticeable. Drunkenness was less common. The sociologists put this down to people moving outside. Instead of sitting close to the bar indoors to keep warm people were drinking in the pub gardens and drinking less. Café life was starting to appear with youths sitting in pavement cafes over a coffee discussing the merits of playing a 4-4-3, like Chelsea, as opposed to the traditional 4-3-4 line up still favoured by Manchester United.
People were also wearing less. Jackets and ties disappeared from casual wear for men. Ladies hemlines got higher and higher. British Naturism reported that as the summers got warmer and drier, membership of Nudist Clubs increased and appealed for more nudist beaches.
As Great Britain gradually lost momentum it continued to move south and west. The south coast passing to the west of Cape Finisterre by several hundred miles in 1969. Two parties were held the first one as London passed the Cape in early spring. The day turned out to be the warmest March day in the previous 100 years. People had parties on the banks of the Thames in London. In Brighton, over 1000 people turned up for the opening of a stretch of beach for naked swimming and sunbathing.
The second party was held on the same day in 1977 when Edinburgh passed the same latitude. The population of Great Britain nearly doubled for that week with people from all over the world came to party with Edinburgh.
A a nation the UK had become less hurried, less aggressive and generally a nicer and more tolerant place. The Government decided that for the long weekends of the “Move Parties” the opening hours could be relaxed, Pubs and bars could serve, non-intoxicated people, drinks from 10 am through to midnight. To avoid problems associated with people overheating or getting into conflict with the police because of simply taking off too much clothing the laws around nudity were changed. For the weekend simply being naked would not be a crime. Threatening or abusive behaviour would be taken more seriously if nudity was a part of the offence, but just being nude would not be an offence.
The world had changed a lot in the 8 years between the two parties. New industries had appeared and old ones passed. The British motor industry was following the motorcycle industry into oblivion. Computers were the new and upcoming thing, with ICL, Sinclair and the BBC in the forefront of this new science. The massive data requirements of managing The Move, which had initially involved thousands of slide rule wielding technicians was now run on one ICL machine and checked on another. A part work magazine helped people to write a basic programme that would enable the users of personal computers to follow the work of The Move Coordination team in their own homes.
In Europe, the Common Market had been formed and Britain had been excluded initially on the grounds that it might not be in Europe when it came to rest. As it became obvious that the stated destination was the real destination. Britain would have Portugal on its east coast and west coast it was definitely within Europe. Tourism from both France and Germany favouring the unique British offering of beach and culture in a single destination. As both countries were haemorrhaging currency to Britain negotiations began for British accession to the Common Market.
Ten years later The Move was virtually over. The drift was back to inches a month and decreasing rapidly. Most of Scotland was south of Santa Maria and Plymouth was only just north of Funchal the capital of Madeira. The climate was what you could call mild and others would call sub-tropical.
Not only had the weather changed beyond recognition. The changes in British industry had become embedded: Motorcycles were no longer built in Birmingham. Few cars came from Coventry. The Clyde shipyards had gone and there was no steel coming from Sheffield. Heavy industry had been replaced by tourism. Surf schools on the west coast, beach holidays on the east coast, hill walking in the north and water sports all along the south coast. London continued as a global cultural centre, the theatres, the opera, the historical tours and the Royal family continued to draw crowds. The UK was now Europe’s number one tourist destination.
Agricultural changes were even more marked. Scottish hills were covered in vines and their wines were improving year on year. On the plains and in the valleys of the north apples and cherries flourished. In Kent, the garden of England, the apples and cherries had been replaced with oranges and lemons, limes and avocados, kiwi fruit and winter strawberries.
Socially things had changed and remained the same. The British had become a more outdoor society. Cookouts were common. Alcohol consumption was down as people drank slower. People drank in pavement cafes and pub gardens instead of darkened pubs. Crimes of “violence against the person” decreased in line with the reduction of alcohol consumption and the amount clothing people were wearing. It is hard to be aggressive when flip-flops constitute your toughest footwear.
The key things that didn’t change were the great British eccentrics and the tolerance of eccentrics and ‘foreign’ cultures. The French, Germans and Scandinavians who wandered the streets and lanes were made welcome. The Americans and Japanese tourists continued to flock to Strafford with their cameras and were made welcome. Eccentrics of all types thrived, the spoon whittlers, the morris dancers, the sun worshippers and the cheese rollers all enjoy the freedoms allowed by the relaxing of legislation. Music festivals flourished in the sun. The beaches were filled with people of every hue and complexion, the dressed and the naked, the old and the young. They all mixed, young and old, black and white, the quick and the slow in bars and gardens, for parties and festivals, dancing and singing … One Britain unified in the sun!
****************
It is great, I am just so glad that my work on earthquakes was at the right stage and that I was able to contribute to The Move.
An Excerpt from Dragon Shifters at Southgate by Sherry LeClerc
PART I:
The Champion and the Lord
Sometimes
I wish my heart were like a stone,
(Cold and hard)
Oblivious to the pain that it has known.
The Champion and the Lord
Sometimes
I wish my heart were like a stone,
(Cold and hard)
Oblivious to the pain that it has known.
CHAPTER 1
Talwyn and her mother ran through the woods, her mamai holding her tightly to her chest. Tree branches and leaves took turns flashing by in a blur or hitting them as her mother ran as fast as she could. They had been following her sister, but then they veered off. Her mother placed her on the ground and started digging underneath an outcropping of rock.
Her mamai took her by the hand and pulled her toward the hollow she’d just cleared. “Here Talwyn, I want you to hide in here. No matter what you hear, don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?”
Talwyn was scared. She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t want to leave her mamai. Why were those people chasing them? They hadn’t done anything wrong! Tears streaked down Talwyn’s cheeks and dripped from her chin.
“Do you understand?” Her mamai’s voice was urgent, panicked.
Talwyn nodded, and her mother placed her underneath the outcropping. Stones and twigs were soon added in front of her hiding place, shielding her from view. It got darker and darker as she was given more cover. Talwyn’s breathing rate increased and her heart pounded. When there was nothing left but a little sliver of light, her mother peeked in through the crack. “I love you, Tali. Never forget.” Then everything went dark.
The sound of her mother’s footfalls faded as she got further away, and more footfalls sounded in pursuit. Her mamai managed to lead them some distance away from her hiding place, but Talwyn’s people had excellent senses. So even though her hands were clamped tightly down over her ears and her eyes were squeezed shut, Talwyn still heard the clash of metal-on-metal and metal-on-bone. She still heard the screams of pain. Would they find her in her hiding spot when they were done? Her heart pounded fast and hard, and her silent tears continued to fall.
“Stop, please! Don’t hurt her. Please, I will do whatever you want, just don’t hurt her!” Her mother pleaded for her sister’s life.
Why were those people hurting them? Why wouldn’t they stop?
Talwyn wanted so desperately to go to her family. She didn’t dare move, however, because her mother had hidden her here; her sister had sacrificed herself to draw the humans away from her. She needed to honor those sacrifices.
It seemed like such a long time before the screams, cries, and moans of agony stopped. Even then, she waited, afraid to come out too soon from her hiding place. The humans might still be there, ready to grab her and hurt her too.
Once, she dared to open her eyes and peek out around the rocks and greenery that hid her to see if it was safe to come out. What she saw across the clearing, however, was blood splattered on the ground and the lifeless forms of the people she loved. So she squeezed her eyes tight again and stayed like that, shivering, as night fell.
Eventually, she heard footsteps, and she huddled closer to the back of her hiding place. Then a familiar voice called out to her.
“Talwyn Sevi, come here, child.” The man’s voice was kind and gentle. Soothing. There was some noise as the man moved the items that had kept her hidden and reached in for her. “You are safe now. Come, I will take you home.”
Home. Her home was her family, and they were gone. She had no home.
Talwyn bolted upright as she woke abruptly from her dream. Actually, it wasn’t a dream. Not really.
“Universe save me!” Over three hundred years later, and she was still haunted by these memories.
She should have forgotten by now, since she only had eight years behind her when it happened. Her people could live for seven or eight hundred years or more and didn’t begin their adolescence until they had twenty-five or thirty years. This meant she had been barely more than a baby when those traumatic events happened. Unfortunately, her memory was even better than her senses, and this dark moment in her life remained clear and detailed in her mind.
Talwyn brought her knees up toward her chest, resting her arms over them and hanging her head, taking deep breaths and trying to calm down.
Why, oh why, did she have to have such a good, clear memory? Every time she had this dream-memory, she heard the screams rend the night, saw the gore covering the ground, smelled the iron tang of blood on the air, felt the all-consuming panic squeezing her chest and stealing her breath. It was as fresh as it had been more than three centuries ago. It was as though she was living it all over again.
She shook her head to try and clear it, then began folding up the light cloak she had been using as a blanket, even though the night had been warm. It was always warm and welcoming, summerlike, inside the Foraoise Naofa. Outside of the Sacred Forest, summer was threatening to turn to autumn. The evenings and early mornings would be crisp and cool to the north of the forest and warm the rest of the day. Here, to the south of the forest, the days were still hot enough to make physical activity uncomfortable.
Once she finished folding her cloak, she placed it in her pack before reaching into a second pocket and taking out some dried meat to chew on as she walked. She had a job to do. She may as well get to it.
She was about a day south-southwest of Southgate, one of the four fortresses and resulting castle-towns that were constructed to protect the keystones. She had checked in quickly with the King of Southgate, her fellow guardian of the south keystone, and so far, there seemed to be no suspicious activity. She knew trouble was headed that way, but she hoped it would not be for another week or two, giving her time to find some much-needed allies. Or rather, to convince them it would be in their best interest to help, since she already knew where to find them. Now she just needed a way to get them to let her inside their fortress.
Having just rested, she would not need to rest again for some time. So she began to run at a steady pace. If she walked at a human pace the whole way, it could take her a couple of days to get to her destination. That was more time than she could spare, so she would run until she got close enough to the mountain to potentially be spotted.
As she ran, the trees got fewer and farther between. She was so accustomed to having the trees overhead, blanketing her and all within the Foraoise Naofa, or the Sacred Forest as it was known in modern terms, that she felt naked and exposed wandering out from under its protection. Of course, given her role with her people, she had been outside of the forest many times, but she never really liked to leave. She did it because it was one of her responsibilities.
She ran until the green grasses became sparse, turning into low vegetation in uneven terrain. She slowed a little now to adjust for the pits, tufts and jutting rocks.
Even though Talwyn disliked leaving her forest home, she had to admit that she had always marveled at this area she was now passing through. Some people would look at this stretch of land and see it as harsh and barren. It was nothing but short, rough vegetation, stunted trees bent by the wind, and boulders of varying sizes.
But this last was what she found so interesting. The land was peppered with numerous boulders of many different shapes and sizes that looked as if they didn’t belong. How did they get here in such a random formation? It was if they had been rained down from the sky, and there was a particular kind of beauty in this wonder the universe had created.
She shook her head. She didn’t have time to think about this mystery right now. There were real problems that needed solving.
As she traveled, she had been thinking of a plan for how to get inside the fortress. Now, as there became less and less vegetation and more and more rock, she began looking for a good place to store her pack. Looking around and under the boulders, she found a large one with a hollow underneath. She checked for any signs of animals or reptiles that may have been denning there. Finding none, she stuffed the pack in the hollow along with her weapons and placed a pile of other, smaller rocks around the base to hide it from sight.
Well, didn’t this seem familiar? Only at one time, she was the pack.
Shaking off this morbid thought, she moved on. The climate had been getting warmer as she traveled farther south. Changes in climate didn’t affect her people as it did most others—they were skilled at regulating their body temperature, as they were with many of their bodies’ functions.
That thought gave Talwyn an idea for the quickest way into the mountain fortress. Unfortunately, though she hated to do it, it would involve the use of deception. She went back and forth numerous times in her mind about whether she should use this idea, and she tried to think of another option—any other option.
In the end, she decided to do it because, while it was not the best way to start a relationship with a people you wish to be allies with, any other option would take too much time and convincing. And the realm did not have time to spare.
So Talwyn changed her gait and her behavior to match those of a human who had been walking alone, exposed to the elements for too long. She stumbled along the harsh landscape that was so much different than her beloved Foraoise Naofa. She continued zig-zagging, pretending to be weak and out of sorts, for some time.
She took a break against one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. She looked up to scan the area, wiping her brow as she did so.
She carried no water, no food, no weapons—nothing but her wits and her determination. And maybe a couple of tools hidden in her boots. She had nothing with which to slake her thirst. This actually wasn’t so bad for a seer. But for the human she was pretending to be, it would be torturous. So she lay back against the rock and closed her eyes for a moment. After resting briefly, she set off again.
The scrubby plants and mossy ground cover under her feet often hid pits and holes. Dips and crevices between low rocks were made invisible by the short green, yellow, and brown blanket of flora. As she walked, she moved as though her weary feet were slipping often, but she kept staggering forward.
The wind suddenly picked up. It whipped her long, red hair across her face and stole her breath. It sent particles of dust into her eyes and mouth. She raised her arm to protect her face against it. She did not allow herself to easily deal with the climate, as her kind could do. Rather, she tried to think and react as a human would under these circumstances, and this short trip from the forest to the mountain would be treacherous for unskilled humans.
Talwyn knew that stories spoken about the dragon shifters, by those who had lived when they had wandered the realm freely, said the dragonkin were strongly on the side of good, almost to a fault. So, she hated having to start out with an untruth. However, the safety of the realm could be at stake if she didn’t succeed in getting inside quickly.
Her friend Anwyl, the greatest metallurgist the seers had ever known, was the only being she had heard of who was allowed admittance into the mountain. He did so to mine the rare metal that could only be found there. In return, he created whatever the dragonkin needed. He had even spent some time training dragon shifter apprentices when he was there. These allowances for an outsider were unheard-of during these last few centuries. Talwyn was a bit in awe that he was able to do this, even though he admitted that gaining their trust had taken some time.
Anwyl had confirmed that the dragon shifters were still staunchly on the side of good. So she wanted to use as little deceit as possible.
As it was, she was modulating her body and skin temperature, and thirst and hunger responses, to mimic those of a human. The dragon shifters would never believe one of the magical races of the realm would have such a difficult time crossing this expanse. But she needed a way into the mountain fortress quickly, so she was trying to evoke sympathy in them.
“Please, Universe, let the Stone Dragons be as noble as they were once known to be,” Talwyn prayed. “Let them be loath to turn away a human in need because of something their ancestors did four hundred years ago.”
She prayed often and hard for that as she traveled nearer to her destination.
When Talwyn was about a hundred meters or so from the base of the tallest peak of the mountain range, she collapsed to the ground. She lay facedown and motionless near the foot of the mountain for some time. As she waited, she concentrated on giving herself the appearance of being dehydrated and having heat stroke: she increased the temperature of the surface of her skin; she increased the red pigment of her skin, making it look flushed, yet dry; and she slowed and shallowed her breathing.
When the sun was going down and the air was beginning to chill a little, she finally heard the whoosh of great wings descend upon her. She had lain there for a couple of hours but, still, this was faster than she had expected. She hadn’t been sure they would come at all. Her dream-visions had shown it could go either way.
Soon, she felt the extra current in the air from the wing beats. It was gentle at first, then pressed down upon her more firmly as the dragon got closer. Finally, without landing completely, the great beast wrapped a clawed foot around her torso. Then she felt almost weightless as they ascended into the air, her body hanging down, limp and lifeless.
It was only a few short moments later that she felt herself being laid down, slowly and gently, on a smooth, cold surface.
Dreyken was extra-careful as he placed the female upon the ground. Once she was secure, he quickly shifted back to human form. He could not fit inside this area of the caves in dragon form.
He looked down upon the female, and the first thing he saw was the mass of fiery-red hair. Of course, he had noticed it when he went to collect her, but he hadn’t really had time to get a good look. Now, as it covered her features and flowed down over her back to her waist, he could see it was the redder side of auburn. He was quite fond of the color.
Kneeling beside her, he cupped the back of her head, grabbed her at the hip, and rolled her toward him onto her back. Her thick hair partially covered her face, so he brushed it away with a light touch, and when he did, his breath caught.
Though her features were not those typically considered beautiful by the males of his kind, he was immediately taken with her. Her nose was delicately proportioned and slightly upturned. Her lips were full and a deep-pink color. Right now, they were slightly parted, and he couldn’t help but think that they would be perfect for kissing. Her cheekbones and chin were finely sculpted and flawless, her skin fair and spattered with freckles. As he let his gaze travel a little farther down, he noticed that her shoulders were also freckled, at least the little of them that were not covered by her vest or hair.
He would never have guessed it about himself, but he found this to be very appealing, to the point where he could not help but have thoughts that were completely inappropriate. Especially considering that he did not know who she was or what her purpose was in coming here. Not to mention that she was lying here, unconscious, and he had just rescued her from possible death from exposure.
He let his eyes travel down her torso. She was clad in a leather vest that laced up the front, and supple leather pants that laced up both sides. There were gaps in these garments where the sides did not quite come together, leaving a small amount of her pale skin visible to him through the leather laces. She also wore leather boots that came to just below her knees.
He had never before had such a strong physical reaction to a female at first sight, and it was ironic that it was happening now, with an unknown female with an unknown agenda who lay unconscious before him.
When he finished allowing his gaze to travel down her body and back up again, he noted that she was tall, lean, and well-muscled, with the perfect proportion of curves. She was so tall, however, that this stood out to him. She had to be six-one or six-two, which was extremely rare for human females.
Maybe she wasn’t human at all.
Just then, a gust of wind blew through, sending the female’s hair across her face again and raising goose bumps on her exposed flesh. This brought him back to his task, and bending to scoop her up, he carried her inside.
He cradled her close as he wandered through the corridors, carrying her to the section where they kept unwelcome visitors and those who broke their laws. It was far from the main area where his people lived and socialized, and this section went mostly unused since they rarely had visitors or lawbreakers. He laid her down on a stone ledge carved into the wall. It was covered in animal fur, and he hoped it would be comfortable enough for her.
He did not immediately cover her so she would cool down in the chill air of the cave. He left her there for a few minutes and, when he returned, he placed a basin of water and a cloth on a ledge next to her, as well as a cup of drinking water and a hunk of bread in case she was hungry or thirsty when she awoke.
Dreyken looked down at the female’s features and brushed a thumb along her cheek, then along her bottom lip. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
He dunked the cloth into the water, then took it out again and squeezed out the excess. He placed the cool cloth on her forehead for a few moments, then he swept it gently down over her face. He continued his ministrations over her arms and to her hands, across her neck, and then over the exposed area of her chest, returning the cloth to the water from time to time to freshen it.
Dreyken warred with himself for a moment before he gave in to his urge and bent down to touch his lips gently to her soft, full ones. “I am sorry about this, but until I find out more about you, I cannot leave you free to wander through the tunnels. Good night and pleasant dreams.”
Talwyn tried to fight the urge to peek at the male as he turned to leave, but she lost her internal battle. She lifted her lids slightly, just enough to glimpse him as he walked away. He was still nude after shifting, and she figured he probably thought there was no point in dressing quickly since she was “unconscious.” He had thick, wavy, golden-blond hair that just touched his shoulders. It almost seemed to shimmer in the light of numerous candles. His shoulders and back were broad and well-muscled, and he had a firm, well-sculpted behind, and thick, muscular legs.
“Get ahold of yourself!” she whispered to herself. “If he wasn’t so attractive, you would find his behavior unnerving.”
The male’s coloring, build and gait were familiar to her. It only took a moment for recognition to strike. She knew him from her dream-visions. This was the Dragon Lord.
It would have been easier for her if he had been heartless and disgusting since she could never again allow herself to get close to someone in that way. As she had learned from experience, it left you vulnerable to having your heart and soul ripped apart. And she could not allow that to happen again.
Talwyn listened to the sound of the male’s feet as he moved farther and farther away. When she could no longer hear him, she continued to lie still, taking in the muffled sounds, foreign smells, and the cool feel of the air around her. A seer’s senses were second only to those of the shifters. The air felt slightly moist against her skin, and it smelled a little dank, but still clean and earthy. Listening carefully, she could hear sounds of life off in the distance. She could tell from the way the noise echoed that it was traveling down a tunnel from some distance away.
She continued to wait until the sounds of life died down, then she cracked her eyes open to look around her. As she took in the stone room, she noticed that the only furniture was carved out of large rocks. There was a bench in the middle of the room, and on the wall straight in from the door, which was made of thick metal bars, there was another bed-sized alcove such as her own carved into the stone wall. There was a thick, tall candle burning in an alcove carved into the rock on the other side of the room, and several smaller ones on various ledges jutting out here and there along the cave walls.
Well, no need to worry about a prisoner lighting the place on fire, so why not have a candle or two?
She also noticed that both her bunk and the other one had smaller alcoves carved into the wall next to them. In her alcove, her host had left a cup of water and piece of bread. She left these alone for the time being, however, not wanting to let her captor know she was awake just yet.
Talwyn sat up and threw her legs over the side of her bed, then she stood and moved silently across the room and blew out the candles. Seers were not considered true shifters since they could only change their coloring and skin condition and temperature. However, they had exceptional night vision, as most shifter species did. She would have no problem finding her way in the dark.
Moving over to the barred door, Talwyn crouched down and pulled a long, flat, narrow metal object from the inside of her left boot. She first tested the door by pushing firmly but slowly to minimize any noise. It was locked. Reaching through the bars, she inserted the narrow metal instrument into the key hole and turned it a little. The lock clicked open almost immediately.
Moving slowly and silently, Talwyn opened the bars and closed them behind her. She moved to the stone walls to her left. As she walked down the wide tunnel to explore, she ran her hand along the walls in an up and down sweeping motion. Inconsistencies in the stone might indicate a hidden door or some other kind of hiding place.
After some time, she came upon a division in the tunnel. Since she already had her hand on the left wall, Talwyn decided to take the left fork. After around the same distance again as from her chamber to the split, the passageway curved sharply to the right. Light spilled in from the opening at the end but, thanks to the sharp curve, she managed to stay hidden in the darkness.
Talwyn moved as close as she could to the tunnel exit, then she leaned out slightly, just enough to take a look. On the other side, she could see a large open space. It had several long, stone tables spaced out across the area, as well as a number of benches.
She could not see all the way to the right from her position, but she could see the end of the cavern to her left. There, she saw four other openings, which she figured likely led to other tunnels such as the one she was currently hiding in. Thanks to her dream-visions, she knew where at least one of them led.
Suddenly, Talwyn heard voices approaching from the tunnel immediately to her left. Two females appeared and made their way to a stone bench perhaps twenty feet in front of her. They were speaking quietly, but Talwyn could hear them clearly.
“The deadline is almost upon us,” a dark-haired dragon shifter female said. “He will have no choice but to decide soon.”
“We should go to the council and suggest they put more pressure on him,” the female with the lighter-brown hair responded. “We should stress that our species needs bolstering. That we need an heir.”
“There are several attractive and willing females among us who would make a fitting queen and mother to the heir. I don’t understand why the decision seems to be so difficult for him.”
“Maybe he has taken a liking to more than one female,” Brownie replied. This is how Talwyn was beginning to refer to the brown-haired dragonkin in her mind.
“He is our leader, and an amazing specimen of a male,” Blackie responded. “That’s a lot of male for one female to handle. Maybe the females would be willing to share,” she said, with a chuckle.
The other female giggled and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he will choose us.”
“Maybe we can think of a way to make that happen.”
Talwyn rolled her eyes. She had listened to enough of this insipid conversation. Maybe the Dragon Lord wanted to marry for love and not just for duty. Then again, he’d probably be better off this way. It wouldn’t be so hard on one if anything were to happen to the other.
She shook her head. Stupid, morbid thoughts.
Talwyn turned until her left hand was on the opposite wall. Then, making the same sweeping motions as before, she made her back the way she came to her cell. She remembered the Dragon Lord as he walked out of here earlier. Those females were right about one thing—he was quite a specimen of a male.
Why, oh why did he have to be so attractive? She had already found out when she peeked at him last night that he was in extremely good physical form. Now she had seen his beautiful face. It was not what she had expected for the Lord of the Stone Dragons. She had expected him to be rough and wizened. Instead, he was youthful and beautiful, with his wavy blond hair that touched his shoulders, strong jawline, and beautiful blue eyes that reminded her of a clear sky on a bright, sunny day.
She had seen the Dragon Lord in previous dream-visions, but his face had always been hazy. She had also seen what his own personal agenda was, but she thought she could come here and resist his charms by focusing on the very real dangers lurking in the shadows. Now, he would be that much harder to resist.
She shook her head. The entire realm was in danger, and she had a very short time to convince the Stone Dragons to help their cause. Once she left here, she would head to Southgate to help protect their keystone from the demonkin. Then, even if she was successful, she would head to the Great Gate.
She hoped against hope that if the keystones remained untouched, there would be no need to bring an army to protect the Great Gate. However, she and her fellow champions had foreseen that the possibility of a great battle at the Gate was very high.
So she needed to win the dragonkin’s trust. She needed them to come together with the others in the realm to protect their world. And she suspected convincing them that this would be in their best interest as well would prove very difficult.
Her time was limited. There was no time to consider romance, even if she wanted it. Which she didn’t. What she wanted was to refocus her mind. So once she arrived back at her cell to await the Dragon Lord’s return, she did what she usually did when she needed to calm and center herself
Talwyn and her mother ran through the woods, her mamai holding her tightly to her chest. Tree branches and leaves took turns flashing by in a blur or hitting them as her mother ran as fast as she could. They had been following her sister, but then they veered off. Her mother placed her on the ground and started digging underneath an outcropping of rock.
Her mamai took her by the hand and pulled her toward the hollow she’d just cleared. “Here Talwyn, I want you to hide in here. No matter what you hear, don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?”
Talwyn was scared. She didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t want to leave her mamai. Why were those people chasing them? They hadn’t done anything wrong! Tears streaked down Talwyn’s cheeks and dripped from her chin.
“Do you understand?” Her mamai’s voice was urgent, panicked.
Talwyn nodded, and her mother placed her underneath the outcropping. Stones and twigs were soon added in front of her hiding place, shielding her from view. It got darker and darker as she was given more cover. Talwyn’s breathing rate increased and her heart pounded. When there was nothing left but a little sliver of light, her mother peeked in through the crack. “I love you, Tali. Never forget.” Then everything went dark.
The sound of her mother’s footfalls faded as she got further away, and more footfalls sounded in pursuit. Her mamai managed to lead them some distance away from her hiding place, but Talwyn’s people had excellent senses. So even though her hands were clamped tightly down over her ears and her eyes were squeezed shut, Talwyn still heard the clash of metal-on-metal and metal-on-bone. She still heard the screams of pain. Would they find her in her hiding spot when they were done? Her heart pounded fast and hard, and her silent tears continued to fall.
“Stop, please! Don’t hurt her. Please, I will do whatever you want, just don’t hurt her!” Her mother pleaded for her sister’s life.
Why were those people hurting them? Why wouldn’t they stop?
Talwyn wanted so desperately to go to her family. She didn’t dare move, however, because her mother had hidden her here; her sister had sacrificed herself to draw the humans away from her. She needed to honor those sacrifices.
It seemed like such a long time before the screams, cries, and moans of agony stopped. Even then, she waited, afraid to come out too soon from her hiding place. The humans might still be there, ready to grab her and hurt her too.
Once, she dared to open her eyes and peek out around the rocks and greenery that hid her to see if it was safe to come out. What she saw across the clearing, however, was blood splattered on the ground and the lifeless forms of the people she loved. So she squeezed her eyes tight again and stayed like that, shivering, as night fell.
Eventually, she heard footsteps, and she huddled closer to the back of her hiding place. Then a familiar voice called out to her.
“Talwyn Sevi, come here, child.” The man’s voice was kind and gentle. Soothing. There was some noise as the man moved the items that had kept her hidden and reached in for her. “You are safe now. Come, I will take you home.”
Home. Her home was her family, and they were gone. She had no home.
Talwyn bolted upright as she woke abruptly from her dream. Actually, it wasn’t a dream. Not really.
“Universe save me!” Over three hundred years later, and she was still haunted by these memories.
She should have forgotten by now, since she only had eight years behind her when it happened. Her people could live for seven or eight hundred years or more and didn’t begin their adolescence until they had twenty-five or thirty years. This meant she had been barely more than a baby when those traumatic events happened. Unfortunately, her memory was even better than her senses, and this dark moment in her life remained clear and detailed in her mind.
Talwyn brought her knees up toward her chest, resting her arms over them and hanging her head, taking deep breaths and trying to calm down.
Why, oh why, did she have to have such a good, clear memory? Every time she had this dream-memory, she heard the screams rend the night, saw the gore covering the ground, smelled the iron tang of blood on the air, felt the all-consuming panic squeezing her chest and stealing her breath. It was as fresh as it had been more than three centuries ago. It was as though she was living it all over again.
She shook her head to try and clear it, then began folding up the light cloak she had been using as a blanket, even though the night had been warm. It was always warm and welcoming, summerlike, inside the Foraoise Naofa. Outside of the Sacred Forest, summer was threatening to turn to autumn. The evenings and early mornings would be crisp and cool to the north of the forest and warm the rest of the day. Here, to the south of the forest, the days were still hot enough to make physical activity uncomfortable.
Once she finished folding her cloak, she placed it in her pack before reaching into a second pocket and taking out some dried meat to chew on as she walked. She had a job to do. She may as well get to it.
She was about a day south-southwest of Southgate, one of the four fortresses and resulting castle-towns that were constructed to protect the keystones. She had checked in quickly with the King of Southgate, her fellow guardian of the south keystone, and so far, there seemed to be no suspicious activity. She knew trouble was headed that way, but she hoped it would not be for another week or two, giving her time to find some much-needed allies. Or rather, to convince them it would be in their best interest to help, since she already knew where to find them. Now she just needed a way to get them to let her inside their fortress.
Having just rested, she would not need to rest again for some time. So she began to run at a steady pace. If she walked at a human pace the whole way, it could take her a couple of days to get to her destination. That was more time than she could spare, so she would run until she got close enough to the mountain to potentially be spotted.
As she ran, the trees got fewer and farther between. She was so accustomed to having the trees overhead, blanketing her and all within the Foraoise Naofa, or the Sacred Forest as it was known in modern terms, that she felt naked and exposed wandering out from under its protection. Of course, given her role with her people, she had been outside of the forest many times, but she never really liked to leave. She did it because it was one of her responsibilities.
She ran until the green grasses became sparse, turning into low vegetation in uneven terrain. She slowed a little now to adjust for the pits, tufts and jutting rocks.
Even though Talwyn disliked leaving her forest home, she had to admit that she had always marveled at this area she was now passing through. Some people would look at this stretch of land and see it as harsh and barren. It was nothing but short, rough vegetation, stunted trees bent by the wind, and boulders of varying sizes.
But this last was what she found so interesting. The land was peppered with numerous boulders of many different shapes and sizes that looked as if they didn’t belong. How did they get here in such a random formation? It was if they had been rained down from the sky, and there was a particular kind of beauty in this wonder the universe had created.
She shook her head. She didn’t have time to think about this mystery right now. There were real problems that needed solving.
As she traveled, she had been thinking of a plan for how to get inside the fortress. Now, as there became less and less vegetation and more and more rock, she began looking for a good place to store her pack. Looking around and under the boulders, she found a large one with a hollow underneath. She checked for any signs of animals or reptiles that may have been denning there. Finding none, she stuffed the pack in the hollow along with her weapons and placed a pile of other, smaller rocks around the base to hide it from sight.
Well, didn’t this seem familiar? Only at one time, she was the pack.
Shaking off this morbid thought, she moved on. The climate had been getting warmer as she traveled farther south. Changes in climate didn’t affect her people as it did most others—they were skilled at regulating their body temperature, as they were with many of their bodies’ functions.
That thought gave Talwyn an idea for the quickest way into the mountain fortress. Unfortunately, though she hated to do it, it would involve the use of deception. She went back and forth numerous times in her mind about whether she should use this idea, and she tried to think of another option—any other option.
In the end, she decided to do it because, while it was not the best way to start a relationship with a people you wish to be allies with, any other option would take too much time and convincing. And the realm did not have time to spare.
So Talwyn changed her gait and her behavior to match those of a human who had been walking alone, exposed to the elements for too long. She stumbled along the harsh landscape that was so much different than her beloved Foraoise Naofa. She continued zig-zagging, pretending to be weak and out of sorts, for some time.
She took a break against one of the many boulders that dotted the landscape. She looked up to scan the area, wiping her brow as she did so.
She carried no water, no food, no weapons—nothing but her wits and her determination. And maybe a couple of tools hidden in her boots. She had nothing with which to slake her thirst. This actually wasn’t so bad for a seer. But for the human she was pretending to be, it would be torturous. So she lay back against the rock and closed her eyes for a moment. After resting briefly, she set off again.
The scrubby plants and mossy ground cover under her feet often hid pits and holes. Dips and crevices between low rocks were made invisible by the short green, yellow, and brown blanket of flora. As she walked, she moved as though her weary feet were slipping often, but she kept staggering forward.
The wind suddenly picked up. It whipped her long, red hair across her face and stole her breath. It sent particles of dust into her eyes and mouth. She raised her arm to protect her face against it. She did not allow herself to easily deal with the climate, as her kind could do. Rather, she tried to think and react as a human would under these circumstances, and this short trip from the forest to the mountain would be treacherous for unskilled humans.
Talwyn knew that stories spoken about the dragon shifters, by those who had lived when they had wandered the realm freely, said the dragonkin were strongly on the side of good, almost to a fault. So, she hated having to start out with an untruth. However, the safety of the realm could be at stake if she didn’t succeed in getting inside quickly.
Her friend Anwyl, the greatest metallurgist the seers had ever known, was the only being she had heard of who was allowed admittance into the mountain. He did so to mine the rare metal that could only be found there. In return, he created whatever the dragonkin needed. He had even spent some time training dragon shifter apprentices when he was there. These allowances for an outsider were unheard-of during these last few centuries. Talwyn was a bit in awe that he was able to do this, even though he admitted that gaining their trust had taken some time.
Anwyl had confirmed that the dragon shifters were still staunchly on the side of good. So she wanted to use as little deceit as possible.
As it was, she was modulating her body and skin temperature, and thirst and hunger responses, to mimic those of a human. The dragon shifters would never believe one of the magical races of the realm would have such a difficult time crossing this expanse. But she needed a way into the mountain fortress quickly, so she was trying to evoke sympathy in them.
“Please, Universe, let the Stone Dragons be as noble as they were once known to be,” Talwyn prayed. “Let them be loath to turn away a human in need because of something their ancestors did four hundred years ago.”
She prayed often and hard for that as she traveled nearer to her destination.
When Talwyn was about a hundred meters or so from the base of the tallest peak of the mountain range, she collapsed to the ground. She lay facedown and motionless near the foot of the mountain for some time. As she waited, she concentrated on giving herself the appearance of being dehydrated and having heat stroke: she increased the temperature of the surface of her skin; she increased the red pigment of her skin, making it look flushed, yet dry; and she slowed and shallowed her breathing.
When the sun was going down and the air was beginning to chill a little, she finally heard the whoosh of great wings descend upon her. She had lain there for a couple of hours but, still, this was faster than she had expected. She hadn’t been sure they would come at all. Her dream-visions had shown it could go either way.
Soon, she felt the extra current in the air from the wing beats. It was gentle at first, then pressed down upon her more firmly as the dragon got closer. Finally, without landing completely, the great beast wrapped a clawed foot around her torso. Then she felt almost weightless as they ascended into the air, her body hanging down, limp and lifeless.
It was only a few short moments later that she felt herself being laid down, slowly and gently, on a smooth, cold surface.
Dreyken was extra-careful as he placed the female upon the ground. Once she was secure, he quickly shifted back to human form. He could not fit inside this area of the caves in dragon form.
He looked down upon the female, and the first thing he saw was the mass of fiery-red hair. Of course, he had noticed it when he went to collect her, but he hadn’t really had time to get a good look. Now, as it covered her features and flowed down over her back to her waist, he could see it was the redder side of auburn. He was quite fond of the color.
Kneeling beside her, he cupped the back of her head, grabbed her at the hip, and rolled her toward him onto her back. Her thick hair partially covered her face, so he brushed it away with a light touch, and when he did, his breath caught.
Though her features were not those typically considered beautiful by the males of his kind, he was immediately taken with her. Her nose was delicately proportioned and slightly upturned. Her lips were full and a deep-pink color. Right now, they were slightly parted, and he couldn’t help but think that they would be perfect for kissing. Her cheekbones and chin were finely sculpted and flawless, her skin fair and spattered with freckles. As he let his gaze travel a little farther down, he noticed that her shoulders were also freckled, at least the little of them that were not covered by her vest or hair.
He would never have guessed it about himself, but he found this to be very appealing, to the point where he could not help but have thoughts that were completely inappropriate. Especially considering that he did not know who she was or what her purpose was in coming here. Not to mention that she was lying here, unconscious, and he had just rescued her from possible death from exposure.
He let his eyes travel down her torso. She was clad in a leather vest that laced up the front, and supple leather pants that laced up both sides. There were gaps in these garments where the sides did not quite come together, leaving a small amount of her pale skin visible to him through the leather laces. She also wore leather boots that came to just below her knees.
He had never before had such a strong physical reaction to a female at first sight, and it was ironic that it was happening now, with an unknown female with an unknown agenda who lay unconscious before him.
When he finished allowing his gaze to travel down her body and back up again, he noted that she was tall, lean, and well-muscled, with the perfect proportion of curves. She was so tall, however, that this stood out to him. She had to be six-one or six-two, which was extremely rare for human females.
Maybe she wasn’t human at all.
Just then, a gust of wind blew through, sending the female’s hair across her face again and raising goose bumps on her exposed flesh. This brought him back to his task, and bending to scoop her up, he carried her inside.
He cradled her close as he wandered through the corridors, carrying her to the section where they kept unwelcome visitors and those who broke their laws. It was far from the main area where his people lived and socialized, and this section went mostly unused since they rarely had visitors or lawbreakers. He laid her down on a stone ledge carved into the wall. It was covered in animal fur, and he hoped it would be comfortable enough for her.
He did not immediately cover her so she would cool down in the chill air of the cave. He left her there for a few minutes and, when he returned, he placed a basin of water and a cloth on a ledge next to her, as well as a cup of drinking water and a hunk of bread in case she was hungry or thirsty when she awoke.
Dreyken looked down at the female’s features and brushed a thumb along her cheek, then along her bottom lip. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
He dunked the cloth into the water, then took it out again and squeezed out the excess. He placed the cool cloth on her forehead for a few moments, then he swept it gently down over her face. He continued his ministrations over her arms and to her hands, across her neck, and then over the exposed area of her chest, returning the cloth to the water from time to time to freshen it.
Dreyken warred with himself for a moment before he gave in to his urge and bent down to touch his lips gently to her soft, full ones. “I am sorry about this, but until I find out more about you, I cannot leave you free to wander through the tunnels. Good night and pleasant dreams.”
Talwyn tried to fight the urge to peek at the male as he turned to leave, but she lost her internal battle. She lifted her lids slightly, just enough to glimpse him as he walked away. He was still nude after shifting, and she figured he probably thought there was no point in dressing quickly since she was “unconscious.” He had thick, wavy, golden-blond hair that just touched his shoulders. It almost seemed to shimmer in the light of numerous candles. His shoulders and back were broad and well-muscled, and he had a firm, well-sculpted behind, and thick, muscular legs.
“Get ahold of yourself!” she whispered to herself. “If he wasn’t so attractive, you would find his behavior unnerving.”
The male’s coloring, build and gait were familiar to her. It only took a moment for recognition to strike. She knew him from her dream-visions. This was the Dragon Lord.
It would have been easier for her if he had been heartless and disgusting since she could never again allow herself to get close to someone in that way. As she had learned from experience, it left you vulnerable to having your heart and soul ripped apart. And she could not allow that to happen again.
Talwyn listened to the sound of the male’s feet as he moved farther and farther away. When she could no longer hear him, she continued to lie still, taking in the muffled sounds, foreign smells, and the cool feel of the air around her. A seer’s senses were second only to those of the shifters. The air felt slightly moist against her skin, and it smelled a little dank, but still clean and earthy. Listening carefully, she could hear sounds of life off in the distance. She could tell from the way the noise echoed that it was traveling down a tunnel from some distance away.
She continued to wait until the sounds of life died down, then she cracked her eyes open to look around her. As she took in the stone room, she noticed that the only furniture was carved out of large rocks. There was a bench in the middle of the room, and on the wall straight in from the door, which was made of thick metal bars, there was another bed-sized alcove such as her own carved into the stone wall. There was a thick, tall candle burning in an alcove carved into the rock on the other side of the room, and several smaller ones on various ledges jutting out here and there along the cave walls.
Well, no need to worry about a prisoner lighting the place on fire, so why not have a candle or two?
She also noticed that both her bunk and the other one had smaller alcoves carved into the wall next to them. In her alcove, her host had left a cup of water and piece of bread. She left these alone for the time being, however, not wanting to let her captor know she was awake just yet.
Talwyn sat up and threw her legs over the side of her bed, then she stood and moved silently across the room and blew out the candles. Seers were not considered true shifters since they could only change their coloring and skin condition and temperature. However, they had exceptional night vision, as most shifter species did. She would have no problem finding her way in the dark.
Moving over to the barred door, Talwyn crouched down and pulled a long, flat, narrow metal object from the inside of her left boot. She first tested the door by pushing firmly but slowly to minimize any noise. It was locked. Reaching through the bars, she inserted the narrow metal instrument into the key hole and turned it a little. The lock clicked open almost immediately.
Moving slowly and silently, Talwyn opened the bars and closed them behind her. She moved to the stone walls to her left. As she walked down the wide tunnel to explore, she ran her hand along the walls in an up and down sweeping motion. Inconsistencies in the stone might indicate a hidden door or some other kind of hiding place.
After some time, she came upon a division in the tunnel. Since she already had her hand on the left wall, Talwyn decided to take the left fork. After around the same distance again as from her chamber to the split, the passageway curved sharply to the right. Light spilled in from the opening at the end but, thanks to the sharp curve, she managed to stay hidden in the darkness.
Talwyn moved as close as she could to the tunnel exit, then she leaned out slightly, just enough to take a look. On the other side, she could see a large open space. It had several long, stone tables spaced out across the area, as well as a number of benches.
She could not see all the way to the right from her position, but she could see the end of the cavern to her left. There, she saw four other openings, which she figured likely led to other tunnels such as the one she was currently hiding in. Thanks to her dream-visions, she knew where at least one of them led.
Suddenly, Talwyn heard voices approaching from the tunnel immediately to her left. Two females appeared and made their way to a stone bench perhaps twenty feet in front of her. They were speaking quietly, but Talwyn could hear them clearly.
“The deadline is almost upon us,” a dark-haired dragon shifter female said. “He will have no choice but to decide soon.”
“We should go to the council and suggest they put more pressure on him,” the female with the lighter-brown hair responded. “We should stress that our species needs bolstering. That we need an heir.”
“There are several attractive and willing females among us who would make a fitting queen and mother to the heir. I don’t understand why the decision seems to be so difficult for him.”
“Maybe he has taken a liking to more than one female,” Brownie replied. This is how Talwyn was beginning to refer to the brown-haired dragonkin in her mind.
“He is our leader, and an amazing specimen of a male,” Blackie responded. “That’s a lot of male for one female to handle. Maybe the females would be willing to share,” she said, with a chuckle.
The other female giggled and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he will choose us.”
“Maybe we can think of a way to make that happen.”
Talwyn rolled her eyes. She had listened to enough of this insipid conversation. Maybe the Dragon Lord wanted to marry for love and not just for duty. Then again, he’d probably be better off this way. It wouldn’t be so hard on one if anything were to happen to the other.
She shook her head. Stupid, morbid thoughts.
Talwyn turned until her left hand was on the opposite wall. Then, making the same sweeping motions as before, she made her back the way she came to her cell. She remembered the Dragon Lord as he walked out of here earlier. Those females were right about one thing—he was quite a specimen of a male.
Why, oh why did he have to be so attractive? She had already found out when she peeked at him last night that he was in extremely good physical form. Now she had seen his beautiful face. It was not what she had expected for the Lord of the Stone Dragons. She had expected him to be rough and wizened. Instead, he was youthful and beautiful, with his wavy blond hair that touched his shoulders, strong jawline, and beautiful blue eyes that reminded her of a clear sky on a bright, sunny day.
She had seen the Dragon Lord in previous dream-visions, but his face had always been hazy. She had also seen what his own personal agenda was, but she thought she could come here and resist his charms by focusing on the very real dangers lurking in the shadows. Now, he would be that much harder to resist.
She shook her head. The entire realm was in danger, and she had a very short time to convince the Stone Dragons to help their cause. Once she left here, she would head to Southgate to help protect their keystone from the demonkin. Then, even if she was successful, she would head to the Great Gate.
She hoped against hope that if the keystones remained untouched, there would be no need to bring an army to protect the Great Gate. However, she and her fellow champions had foreseen that the possibility of a great battle at the Gate was very high.
So she needed to win the dragonkin’s trust. She needed them to come together with the others in the realm to protect their world. And she suspected convincing them that this would be in their best interest as well would prove very difficult.
Her time was limited. There was no time to consider romance, even if she wanted it. Which she didn’t. What she wanted was to refocus her mind. So once she arrived back at her cell to await the Dragon Lord’s return, she did what she usually did when she needed to calm and center herself