I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the second part, the so-called Means
Everyone knew I had a gun. It was locked away in a safe that was not in an obvious position in the dressing room at home.
Several years ago our neighbourhood had been subjected to several breaking and several people had been injured, prompting the rest of us to seriously consider getting protection.
I got a Glock 19, 9 mm along with several of my neighbours and then both Wendy and I got lessons so we knew how to use it properly, and avoid shooting either each other or in our feet.
The thing is, there had only been that one round of breaking, and since the gun was put away on the safe about eighteen months ago, it had not seen the light of day since.
Or so I thought.
When asked to check if it was still there, it wasn’t, much to my surprise.
Equally, to my surprise, the bullet that killed James Burgman was a nine millimetre. Was that a coincidence, I didn’t think so.
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the second part, the so-called Means
Everyone knew I had a gun. It was locked away in a safe that was not in an obvious position in the dressing room at home.
Several years ago our neighbourhood had been subjected to several breaking and several people had been injured, prompting the rest of us to seriously consider getting protection.
I got a Glock 19, 9 mm along with several of my neighbours and then both Wendy and I got lessons so we knew how to use it properly, and avoid shooting either each other or in our feet.
The thing is, there had only been that one round of breaking, and since the gun was put away on the safe about eighteen months ago, it had not seen the light of day since.
Or so I thought.
When asked to check if it was still there, it wasn’t, much to my surprise.
Equally, to my surprise, the bullet that killed James Burgman was a nine millimetre. Was that a coincidence, I didn’t think so.
It had been one of those days, you know, the sort where you hoped, when you woke up again, it would be a distant memory if not gone altogether. Everything had gone wrong, the handover from my shift to the next, longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could go wrong had, I was late getting to bed, which meant I was going to be tired and cranky even before my shift started.
But what topped it all off was that the alarm didn’t go off. It was not as if I hadn’t set it, I remembered doing it. There was something else in play.
I rolled over and instantly noticed how dark it was. It was never this dark. It was why I chose an apartment as high up as I could, there would always be light coming from the advertising sign on the roof of the building over the road at night, or direct sunlight not blotted out by surrounding buildings.
I also left the curtains open, deliberately. I liked the notion of being able to see out, sometimes looking at the stars, other times watching the rain, but mostly to see that I was not in a dark place.
Not like now.
I got out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there were lights, but they were all the way down on the street level. Everywhere else, nothing. It had to be a power blackout. Our first in a long time. I should have noticed the air conditioning was not on, and it was almost silent inside the room.
The apartment had windows that opened, not very far, but enough to allow some airflow, and the room feeling stuffy, I opened one in the bedroom. Instantly, sounds drifted up from street level, and looking down I could see the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, as well as the sounds of sirens.
The cold air was refreshing.
It took a few minutes before I realized the elevators would not be working, and I remembered the only pitfall of having a high-up apartment, it was a long way down by the stairs, and even longer going back up.
In the distance, I could see other buildings, about ten blocks away, with their lights on. It had to be a localized blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with power supply caused by an unexplained explosion at several power stations on the grid.
Some were saying it was a terrorist attack, others were saying the antiquated infrastructure had finally given out.
My attention was diverted from the activity below by the vibration of my cell phone on the bedside table. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3:10 in the morning, not a time I usually got a phone call.
I crossed the room and looked at the screen, just as the vibrating stopped. Louis Bernard. Who was Louis Bernard? It was not a name I was familiar with, so I ignored it. It wasn’t the first wrong number to call me, though I was beginning to think I had been given a recycled phone number when I bought the phone. Perhaps the fact it was a burner may have had something to do with it.
About the go back to the window, the phone started ringing again. The same caller, Louis Bernard.
Curiosity got the better of me.
“Yes?” I wasn’t going to answer with my name.
“Get out of that room now.”
“Who….” It was as far as I got before the phone went dead.
The phone displayed the logo as it powered off, a sign the battery was depleted. I noticed then though I’d plugged the phone in to recharge, I’d forgotten to turn the power on.
Damn.
Get out of that room now? Who could possibly know firstly who I was, and where I was living, to the point they could know I was in any sort of danger?
It took another minute of internal debate before I threw on some clothes and headed for the door.
Just in case.
As I went to open the door, someone started pounding on it, and my heart almost stopped.
“Who is it?” I yelled out. First thought; don’t open it.
“Floor warden, you need to evacuate. There’s a small fire on one of the floors below.”
“OK. Give me a minute or so and I’ll be right out.”
“Don’t take too long. Take the rear stairs on the left.”
A few seconds later I heard him pounding on the door next to mine. I waited until he’d moved on, and went out into the passage.
It was almost dark, the security lighting just above floor level giving off a strange and eerie orange glow. I thought there was a hint of smoke in the air, but that might have been the power of suggestion taking over my mind.
There were two sets of stairs down, both at the rear, one on the left and one on the right, designed to aid quick evacuation in the event of a calamity like a fire. He had told me to take the left. I deliberately ignored that and went to the right side, passing several other tenants who were going towards where they’d been told. I didn’t recognize them, but, then, I didn’t try to find out who my fellow tenants were.
A quick look back up the passage, noting everyone heading to the left side stairs, I ducked into the right stairwell and stopped for a moment. Was that smoke I could smell. From above I could hear a door slam shut, and voices. Above me, people had entered the stairwell and were coming down.
I started heading down myself.
I was on the 39th floor, and it was going to be a long way down. In a recent fire drill, the building had been evacuated from the top floor down, and it proceeded in an orderly manner. The idea was that starting at the top, there would not be a logjam if the lower floors were spilling into the stairwell and creating a bottleneck. Were those above stragglers?
I descended ten floors and still hadn’t run into anyone, but the smell of smoke was stronger. I stopped for a moment and listened for those who had been above me. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely there had to be someone above me, coming down.
A door slammed, but I couldn’t tell if it was above or below.
Once again, I descended, one floor, two, three, five, all the way down to ten. The smoke was thicker here, and I could see a cloud on the other side of the door leading out of the stairwell into the passage. The door was slightly ajar, odd, I thought, for what was supposed to be a fire door. I could see smoke being sucked into the fire escape through the door opening.
Then I saw several firemen running past, axes in hand. Was the fire on the tenth floor?
Another door slammed shut, and then above me, I could hear voices. Or were they below? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were starting to tear up from the smoke, and it was getting thicker.
I headed down.
I reached the ground floor and tried to open the door leading out of the fire escape. It wouldn’t open. A dozen other people came down the stairs and stopped when they saw me.
One asked, “Can we get out here?”
I tried the door again with the same result. “No. It seems to be jammed.”
Several of the people rushed past me, going down further, yelling out, “there should be a fire door leading out into the underground garage.”
Then, after another door slamming shut, silence. Another person said, “they must have found a way out,” and started running down the stairs, the others following. For some odd reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t follow, a mental note popping up in my head telling me that there was only an exit into the carport from the other stairs, on this side, the exit led out onto an alley at the back of the building.
If the door would open. It should push outwards, and there should also be a bar on it, so when pushed, it allowed the door to open.
The smoke was worse now, and I could barely see, or breathe, overcome with a coughing fit. I banged on the door, yelling out that I was stuck in the stairwell, but there was no reply, nor could I hear movement on the other side of the door.
Just as I started to lose consciousness, I thought I could hear a banging sound on the door, then a minute later what seemed like wood splintering. A few seconds after that I saw a large black object hovering over me, then nothing.
It was the culmination of a bad night, a bad day, and another bad night. Was it karma trying to tell me something?
When I woke, I was in a hospital, a room to myself which seemed strange since my insurance didn’t really cover such luxuries. I looked around the room and stopped when I reached the window and the person who was standing in front of it, looking out.
“Who are you?” I asked, and realized the moment the words came out, they made me sound angry.
“No one of particular importance. I came to see if you were alright. You were very lucky by the way. Had you not stayed by that door you would have died like all the rest.”
Good to know, but not so good for the others. Did he know that the fire door was jammed? I told him what happened.
“Someone suspected that might be the case which is why you were told to take the other stairs. Why did you not do as you were told?”
“Why did the others also ignore the advice.” It was not a question I would deign to answer.
They didn’t know any better, but you did, and it begs the question, why did you take those stairs.”
Persistent, and beginning to bother me. He sounded like someone else I once knew in another lifetime, one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.
The man still hadn’t turned around to show me his face, and it was not likely I’d be getting out of bed very soon.
“You tell me?”
He turned slightly and I could see his reflection in the window. I thought, for a moment, that was a familiar face. But I couldn’t remember it from where.
“The simple truth, you suspected the fire was lit to flush you out of the building and you thought taking those stairs would keep you away from trouble. We both know you’ve been hiding here.”
Then he did turn. Hiding, yes. A spot of trouble a year or so before had made leaving Florida a necessity, and I’d only just begun to believe I was finally safe.
I was not.
They had found me.
And it only took a few seconds, to pull the silenced gun out of his coat pocket, point it directly at me, and pull the trigger.
Two stabbing pains in the chest, and for a moment it was as if nothing happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.
The last thing I saw and heard, several rounds from at least two guns, voices yelling out on the passage, and people running.
As I lay dying, my last thought was, it had been a good run, but no one can run forever.
When you have secrets, sometimes it’s very hard to hide them from others.
It was something Henry had to do since the day he could speak. The fact that his parents had been murdered because of their profession, something his grandfather told him was akin to ‘working for the government’. The fact that he was from a very wealthy and influential family. The fact he was heir to a fortune. The fact he was anything other than just another boy, who grew up to be just another man.
His whole life, to this point, had been ‘managed’ so that no one, other than a selected few chosen by his grandfather, knew who he was, or what he represented. And more to the point, he had been told to just live his life like any other of his age.
Yes, he went to a private school, but it wasn’t an exclusive one, yes he went to university, but he had got into Oxford on his own merit, and, yes, he was smart, smart enough to create his own business, and make a handsome income from it. And no, he never drew upon the stipend he had been granted by his parents will, so it just gathered dust in the bank.
Henry was an only child, and to a certain extent, introverted. It was a shyness that his grandfather knew existed in his son, Henry’s father. It could be an asset or it could be a liability. With Henry’s father, it had been an asset, a means by which many had misunderstood him. It might even serve him well for the next phase of his life.
Today, Henry was meeting his grandfather at Speaker’s Corner at Hyde Park, and an unusual meeting place because in the past it had always been at his grandfather’s club. At his grandfather’s request, he had undertaken a three-year program, one that his father had, and his father before him, and a pre-requisite for a profession that would be explained to him.
And it was all because Henry said he was bored. The business he’d built could run without him, his attempts at relationships with various girls and women hadn’t quite achieved what he was looking for, even though he had no idea what he was looking for, and, quite frankly, he told his grandfather, he needed something more exciting.
It was, he’d been told, the way of the MacCallisters. Ever since the British tried to put down the Scots.
Henry was listening to a rather animated man preaching the word of the Lord, but he was not sure what Lord that was. Anything he quoted from the bible resembled nothing he had read and remembered. Perhaps the man was on drugs.
Two or three people stopped, listened for a minute or two, shook their heads, some even laughed, and moved on.
“It’s the last bastion of freedom of speech, though I can say this man is not about to gather an army of insurrectionists any time soon. Let’s walk.”
His grandfather was getting old, and walking was getting more and more difficult. More scotch was needed, he had told Henry, to ward of the evils of arthritis. And, he added, ‘I should have had a less devil may care attitude when he was younger.’
It was a slow amble to the serpentine, which, being a bright sunny day, if not a little chilly, was alive with people.
He waited until his grandfather spoke. One lesson he had learned, speak when you’re spoken to, and if you’ve got nothing to say, best to remain silent.
“I have found a job you might like to have a go at. Nothing difficult, mind you, but a perhaps, at times, hard work. I think you’d be good at it.”
“Is that meant to be a hint, and I have to guess?”
“I think you’re smart enough to know what it might be yourself, young Henry.”
I think I did too. Everything I’d been doing over the last three years led me to believe I’d been training to walk in my father’s footsteps. It was with the Army, and I had imagined my father had been a soldier, though I’d never seen him in a uniform. But my Grandfather had said he worked for the government, so I wondered if that might be some sort of policeman, or some sort of internal agent, like MI6. It had not been boring, and the exercises had been ‘interesting’, but no one had said what the end result of this training might be; in fact no one had said who they were.
“Something hush, hush as the saying goes.”
We had gone about fifty yards and reached a cross path. As we did, a youngish woman dressed in leather appeared and walked towards us.
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Henry. Her name is Marion, though I suggest you don’t call her that.”
She smiled. “Call me Mary. There’s only one person in the whole world that would dare call me that, and he’s standing here. Your grandfather has spoken a lot about you.”
Henry’s first impression; she had been to the training school he had. He could see it in her manner, and in the way she scanned the area, even though it didn’t look like she was. He’d been doing it himself, and he had seen her earlier. What made her stand out, she didn’t have a bag like all the other women.
“I hope it was good, not bad.”
“You have no bad traits?”
“Everyone had bad traits. You’ll just have to get to know me if you want to know what they are.”
“Well,” my grandfather said, “enough chit chat. Mary has a task, and she needs a little help. I thought you might want to join her.”
“Doing what?”
“She’ll explain it on the way. When it’s done, come and see me.” With that, a hug from Mary, and a handshake from his grandson, he turned and walked back the way they had come earlier.
“So,” Henry asked, “What’s the job?”
“I have to pick up a computer.”
“That doesn’t sound like something you would need help with.” In fact, if he was right in his assessment of her, he was the last person she needed, if at all. She looked to him as if she could handle anything.
“It’s one of those just in case situations.”
They walked a circuitous route back to Park Lane and crossed both roads, up Deanery Street, left where Tilney Street veered off, and then a short distance to Deanery Mews. Henry noted this was an area with a lot of expensive real estate, and scattered Embassies. If he was not mistaken, the Dorchester Hotel wasn’t far away.
Walking down the mews seemed to Henry to be walking into a trap. When he looked back towards Deanery Street he thought he saw two men position themselves, not quick enough to prevent him from getting a glimpse of them.
“You do realize that getting back out of here could be a problem.”
“It’s why I asked for help. Just in case.”
No visible sign of fear, or of what the consequences might be if this went south. Perhaps his grandfather had considered this a test. But what sort of test?
They reached the end, and, just around the corner, a van was parked with what Henry assumed was the driver, standing by the open driver’s door, smoking a cigarette.
Mary stopped about ten feet away from him. “Have you got the package?”
He reached inside the car and lifted up a computer case. There didn’t necessarily have to be a computer in it. I looked up and around. It was a good place for a meeting. No witnesses. But there were CCTV cameras. I wondered if they were working.
The man tossed the bag back in the car. “Have you got the money?”
She held up her phone. “Just need the bank account details.”
“OK. Just step over here and let’s get this done.”
She moved closer, and in a flash, he had grabbed her, holding her by the neck with a gun to her head. The two men Henry thought he’d seen at the top of the mews were now within sight, and both had guns trained on him. A trap, indeed.
“What do you want?” Henry asked.
“Tell your boss the price just doubled. Two million. You’ve got five minutes.”
I shook my head, not to clear the cobwebs, but to calm down and think rationally.
Talk first. “Surely there’s a better way to do this. You don’t need to hold a gun to her head.”
I held my hands out just to show I wasn’t a threat.
“No, probably not.” He released his grip and lowered the gun.
It was odd having a voice in your head, well, not really in your head as such, but in your ear, and sounding like it was in your head.
You could truthfully say you were hearing voices.
It was the next step after going through some very intensive training, having someone else as your eyes and ears when breaching a secure compound, and avoiding the enemy.
I’d signed on for this extra training thinking one day it would land me in the thick of the action. Some of the others thought I was mad, but someone had to do it, and the fact it was quite dangerous added just that extra bit to it.
But as they say, what you learn in training, and practise in a non-hostile environment, is nothing like being in that same situation in reality.
Now on was on my first assignment, part of an elite team, packed and taken to what was to everyone else, an unspecified location, but to us, it was the point of incursion.
The mission?
To rescue a government official (that was how he was described to us) who had been illegally detained in a foreign prison.
Our job?
To break him out and get out without the knowledge of the prison staff, or anyone representing that government. Yes, what we were doing was highly illegal, and yes, if we were caught it was more likely than not we would be executed as spies.
…
We were under cover in an abandoned farmhouse about three miles from the prison. We had been brought in under cover of darkness, and had only a few hours to set up, and then wait it out until the following night.
It was now or never, the weather people predicting that there would be sufficient cloud cover to make us invisible. Two of us were going in, and two remaining strategically placed outside to monitor the inside of the prison through a system of infrared scanners. We also had a floor plan of the building in which the prisoner was being held, and intelligence supplied, supposedly, by one of the prison guards who had been paid a lot of money for information on guard movements.
To me, it was a gigantic leap of faith to trust him, but I kept those thoughts to myself.
We had been over the plan a dozen times, and I’d gone through the passageways, rooms, and doors so many times I’d memorised where they were and would be able to traverse the building as if I had worked there for a lifetime. Having people outside, talking me through it was just an added benefit, along with alerts on how near the guards were to our position.
I was sure the other person going with me, a more seasoned professional who had a number of successful missions under his belt, was going through the same motions I was. After all, it was he who had devised and conducted the training.
There was a free period of several hours before departure, time to listen to some music, empty the head of unwanted thoughts, and get into the right mindset. It was no place to get tangled up in what-ifs, if anything went wrong, it was a simple matter of adapting.
Our training had reinforced the necessity to instantly gauge a situation and make changes on the fly. There would literally be no time to think.
I listened to the nuances of Chopin’s piano concertos, pretending to play the piano myself, having translated every note onto a piano key, and observing it in my mind’s eye.
My opposite number played games of chess in his head. We all had a different method of relaxing.
Until it was 22:00 hours, and time to go.
…
“Go left, no, hang on, go right.” The voice on my ear sounded confused and it was possible to get lefts and rights mixed up, if you were not careful.
It didn’t faze me, I knew from my study of the plans that once inside the perimeter fence, I had to go right, and head towards a concrete building the roof of which was barely above the ground.
It was once used as a helipad, and underneath, before the site became a prison, the space was used to make munitions. And it was an exceptionally large space that practically ran under the whole of the prison, built above ground.
All that had happened was the lower levels were sealed, covered over and the new structures built on top. Our access was going to be from under the ground.
Quite literally, they would not see, or hear, us coming.
The meteorological people had got it right, there was cloud cover, the moon hidden from view, and the whole perimeter was in inky darkness. Dressed in black from head to foot, the hope was we would be invisible.
There were two of us heading to the same spot, stairs that led down to a door that was once one of the entrances to the underground bunker. We were going separate ways in case one of the other was intercepted in an unforeseen event.
But, that part of the plan worked seamlessly, and we both arrived at the same place nearly at the same time.
Without the planning, we might easily have missed it because I didn’t think it would be discernable even in daylight.
I followed the Sergeant downstairs, keeping a watchful eye behind us. I stooped at the point where I could see down, and across the area we had just traversed.
Nothing else was stirring.
As expected, the door was seamless and without an apparent handle. It may have had one once, but not anymore, so anyone who did stumble across it, couldn’t get in.
Except us. We had special explosives that were designed to break the lock, and once set, would not make a lot of noise. Sixty seconds later we were inside, and the door closed so no one would know we’d broken in.
I was carrying a beacon so that the voice in my head could follow my progress. The sergeant had one too, and he led.
“Straight ahead, 200 yards, then another door. It shouldn’t be locked, but it might be closed.”
In other words, we had no way of knowing. Our informant had said no one had been down in the dungeons, as he called them, since the munition factory closed, and had been sealed up soon after the prison building had been handed over for use.
We were using night goggles, and there was a lot of rubbish strewn over the floor area so we had to carefully pick our way through which took time we really didn’t have. It looked as though our informant was right, no one had been down there for a long time. We were leaving boot prints in the dust.
We reached the door ten minutes later than estimated. Losing time would have a flow-on effect, and this operation was on a very tight time constraint.
“Once you are through the door, there’s a passage. Turn left and go about 50 paces. There should be another passage to your right.”
“Anyone down here?”
“No, but there is a half dozen prison officers above you. Standard patrol, from guardhouse to guardhouse. Unless they can hear you through five feet of solid concrete, you’re safe.”
My instincts told me five feet of concrete were not enough, but I’ll let it ride for the moment.
The door was slightly ajar and it took the two of us to pull it open so that we could get past. Behind it was the passage, going left and right. Trusting my invisible guide was not getting mixed up again, I motioned right, and we headed down the passage.
Despite the fact we should be alone, both of us were careful not to make any noise, and trod carefully.
At 50 or so paces, the passage came into sight. The sergeant went ahead. I stayed back and kept an eye in both directions. The passage before us was the one that would take us under the cell of the captive we were sent to retrieve.
There would be no blasting our way in. The floor to the cell had a grate, and when removed, a person could drop down into the ‘dungeon’. Currently, the grate was immovable, but we had the tools to fix that.
The sergeant would verify the grate was where it was supposed to be, then come back to get me.
Five minutes passed, then ten. It was not that far away.
I was about to go search when the voice in my head returned, but with panic. “We’ve been compromised. Get the hell out of there, now. Quickly…”
Then I heard what sounded like gunshots, then nothing.
A minute later there was a new voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I’d strongly advise you give yourself up to the guards. Failure to do so within one hour, I’ll execute the two men I now have in custody.”
Ahead of me there was a sudden explosion, followed by a cloud of dust and fine debris.
Hand grenade, or mine, it didn’t matter. The sergeant wouldn’t be coming back.
It started with a phone call, then a visit by two police officers. It was about my parents, but the news could not be imparted over the phone, only in person. That statement alone told me it was very bad news, so I assumed the worst.
The two police officers, standing at the front door, grim expressions on their faces, completed the picture. The news, my parents were dead, killed in a freak car accident.
At first, it didn’t sink in. They were on their way back from another of their extensive holidays, one of many since my father had retired. I’d seen them probably six months out of the last five years, and the only reason they were returning this time was that my mother needed an operation.
They hadn’t told me why, not that they ever told me very much any time since the day I’d been born, but that was who they were. I thought them eccentric, being older when I’d come along, and others thought them, well, eccentric.
And being an only child, they packed me off to boarding school, then university, and then found me a job in London, and set me up so that I would only see them weekends if they were home.
I had once wondered if they ever cared about me, keeping me at arm’s length, but my mother some time ago had taken me aside and explained why. It was my father’s family tradition. The only part I’d missed was a nanny.
It most likely explained why I didn’t feel their passing as much as I should.
A week later, after a strange funeral where a great many people I’d never met before, and oddly who knew about me, I found myself sitting in the sunroom, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an envelope with my name on it, in the other.
The solicitor, a man I’d never met before, had given it to me at the funeral. We had, as far as I knew an elderly fellow, one of my father’s old school friends, as the family solicitor, but he hadn’t shown at the funeral and wasn’t at home when I called in on my way home.
It was all very odd.
I refilled the glass and took another look at the envelope. It was not new, in fact, it had the yellow tinge of age, with discoloration where the flap was. The writing was almost a scrawl, but identifiable as my father’s handwriting, perhaps an early version as it was now definitely an illegible scrawl.
I’d compared it with the note he’d left me before they had embarked on their last adventure, everything I had to do while caretaking their house. The last paragraph was the most interesting, instructing me to be present when the cleaning lady came, he’d all but accused her of stealing the candlesticks.
To be honest, I hadn’t realized there were candlesticks to steal, but there they were, on the mantlepiece over the fire in the dining room. The whole house was almost like being in an adventure park, stairs going up to an array of rooms, mostly no longer used, and staircase to the attic, and then another going down to the cellar. The attic was locked and had been for as long as I could remember, and the cellar was dank and draughty.
Much like the whole house, but not surprising, it was over 200 years old.
And perhaps it was now mine. The solicitor, a man by the name of Sir Percival Algernon Bridgewater, had intimated that it might be the last will and testament and had asked me to tell him if it was. I was surprised that Sir Percival didn’t have the document in question.
And equally. so that the man I knew as his solicitor, Lawerence Wellingham, didn’t have a copy of my father’s last will and testament either.
I finished the drink, picked up the envelope, and opened it.
It contained two sheets of paper, the will, and a letter. A very short letter.
“If you are reading this I have died before my time. You will need to find Albert Stritching, and ask him to help you find the murderer.”
Even the tenor of that letter didn’t faze me as it should have, because at this point nothing would surprise me. In fact, as I unfolded the document that proclaimed it was the will, I was ready for it to say that whole of his estate and belongings were to be left to some charity, and I would get an annual stipend of a thousand pounds.
In fact, it didn’t. The whole of his estate was left to my mother should she outlive him, or in the event of her prior decease, to me.
I had to put all of those surprises on hold to answer a knock on the door.
Lawerence Wellingham.
I stood too e side, let him pass, closed the door, and followed him into the front room, the one my mother called the ‘drawing room’ though I never knew why.
He sat in one of the large, comfortable lounge chairs. I sat in the other.
I showed him the will. I kept the other back, not knowing what to make of it.
“No surprise there,” Wellingham said.
“Did you have any idea what my father used to do, beyond being, as he put it, a freelance diplomat?”
I thought it a rather odd description but it was better than one he once proffered, ‘I do odd jobs for the government’.
“I didn’t ask. Knowledge can be dangerous, particularly when associated with your father. Most of us preferred not to know, but one thing I can tell you. If anyone tries to tell you what happened to your parents was not an accident, ignore them. Go live your life, and keep those memories you have of them in the past, and don’t look back. They were good people, Ken, remember them as such.”
We reminisced for the next hour, making a dent in the scotch, one of my father’s favorite, and he left.
Alone again, the thoughts went back to the second note from my father. That’s when the house phone rang.
Before I could answer it, a voice said, “My name is Stritching. Your father might have mentioned me? We need to talk.”
My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.
But there was one exception.
I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,
If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.
It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.
Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.
But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.
Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”
Code Zanzibar?
It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.
Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.
Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.
I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?
Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.
After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,
When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.
Then I heard it.
“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”
I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”
I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.
There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”
Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.
When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.
“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”
What the…
When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.
And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.
Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.
Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?
This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.
Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.
I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.
That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.
I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.
It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.
It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.
It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.
And just had.
I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.
I waited.
It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.
He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.
“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.
“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”
“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”
“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”
His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.
“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”
“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.
“My God. Where are they now?”
“My place.”
“Where?”
I told him.
“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.
Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.
Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.
Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.
And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.
“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”
All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.
Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.
A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.
Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.
After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”
He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”
“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”
“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”
“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.
“Five years, Freddie.”
“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”
“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”
“They didn’t come to see you?”
“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”
“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”
“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”
“Do what I can. Over and out.”
He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”
He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”
We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.
Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.
Bones recognised him.
“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”
“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.
“I rescued the radios.”
He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”
They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…
My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.
But there was one exception.
I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,
If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.
It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.
Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.
But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.
Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”
Code Zanzibar?
It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.
Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.
Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.
I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?
Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.
After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,
When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.
Then I heard it.
“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”
I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”
I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.
There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”
Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.
When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.
“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”
What the…
When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.
And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.
Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.
Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?
This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.
Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.
I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.
That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.
I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.
It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.
It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.
It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.
And just had.
I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.
I waited.
It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.
He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.
“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.
“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”
“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”
“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”
His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.
“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”
“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.
“My God. Where are they now?”
“My place.”
“Where?”
I told him.
“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.
Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.
Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.
Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.
And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.
“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”
All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.
Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.
A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.
Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.
After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”
He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”
“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”
“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”
“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.
“Five years, Freddie.”
“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”
“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”
“They didn’t come to see you?”
“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”
“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”
“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”
“Do what I can. Over and out.”
He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”
He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”
We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.
Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.
Bones recognised him.
“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”
“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.
“I rescued the radios.”
He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”
They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…
When I woke up that morning it was like every other day. Everything was familiar. Except…
The first thought that popped into my head was a question, “Why did I walk through the blue door?”
Usually, it was those few minutes when the aches and pains of old age were something to look forward to the moment I got out of bed.
But…
The blue door?
Here’s the thing. I don’t remember walking through a blue, or other coloured door. When I thought about it, it had been in a dream where, the night before, I had wished I could go to a place where the pain was negligible, and, more importantly, the family were at peace instead of at war, over, of all things, our father’s will.
I hadn’t thought that money would be everyone’s first thought, but I was wrong. I guess the amount he left behind was large enough to fuel that inherent monster in all of us, greed.
Being the only one not motivated to dispute the will, and being the principal beneficiary, I was over it, and in fact was ready to wipe my hands of the whole business, and let the lawyers take most if it in fees, leaving the rest with next to nothing.
All of it had come to a head and good old-fashioned pugilism. Blows were exchanged, words that couldn’t be taken back, said, and threats made. What was meant to be a congenial meeting of family members to discuss the will, very quickly degenerated into a disaster.
No surprise then that I would metaphorically step through any coloured door to escape reality. There had been a green door, a red door, a blue door, a yellow door and a brown door. Blue was my favourite colour.
OK, so another fragment of the dream returned while I was staring at the ceiling and thinking it was not like that the last time I looked. Each of the doors represented a different outcome in my life. Then I realised the MC, dressed in a ring master’s outfit, yes, there was a circus element.
Obviously, my mind wanted to go somewhere, anywhere but where I was right then.
I looked sideways at the form that had burrowed under the blankets, not the sort of thing Margret, my wife of many long-suffering years did. She hated my family to begin with and we had distanced ourselves from them. It was not a thing I did to please her, I hated them too.
Having come back to nurse my father to the grave, the last six months had been difficult. The relatives, known and obscure, had come from everywhere, smelling blood in the water.
Her hand was on the pillow, and I gave it a squeeze.
A head popped put, a smile, and then shock. Not hers, mine.
It was her younger sister Margery.
“What the hell,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
I remembered having a think for Margery before I met Margaret and had been resentful and bitter when Margaret stole me away. But, as a first love, she had never quite left my mind.
“Have you been dreaming again? Yesterday you thought you’d turned into your father.”
Good Grief. Behind the blue door was one of my fantasies. I shook my head.
“Where’s Margaret?”
“Forgetful too it seems.” She sighed as if this was normal for me. “She died two years ago. Cancer. I came back to see how you were, and you were broken. Then I discover you had this crush, so we gave it a fling. Married last year, don’t regret it, just hated Margaret more for stealing you.”
My dreams summarised in seven sentences.
“OK. That sounds about right for me. What about Dad?”
If my life with Margaret was over then everything else could be changed. I could only hope.
“Still hanging by a thread, knowing the longer he drags it out the more he can torment the family. It’s going to be a blood bath at the will reading. God, I hate money. Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.”
“Isn’t that women for men and men for women?”
She punched me in the arm. “Don’t try and make me feel better. On the other hand,” she leaned over and kissed me. “Please make me feel better.”
It was the one thing I remembered about Margery, how much fun it could be with her. She was one of the few what you see is what you get girls and I had loved her quite intensely until Margaret came along and turned me into the dull and responsible version that my father approved of.
That was when my two brothers both irresponsible troublemakers abused the privilege of their position, squandered their inheritances, and then went cap in hand to our father for support and instead got disinherited. Now, knowing what he was worth they were like Hyenas circling their prey, waiting to swoop.
I wasn’t going to burst their bubble by telling them that disinherited meant no recognition in the will. I’d seen a copy where the bulk of the estate was left to the responsible one, me. They got nothing.
Margery was right. It was going to be a bloodbath.
I visited my father every day. He had been a heavy smoker and suffered because of it. Now breathing was almost impossible and the cancer was going to kill him. Did he regret any part of his life or anything he did? No. What was the point? You do the best you can. There’s always someone telling you what you did was wrong, but there’s no such thing as being perfect.
Except for our mother, his first wife, was perfect. And I agreed with him.
He was looking better. To me, that meant the end was close, that short period of remission before death. Time to order up the priest to administer the last rights. He might have been a bastard and a crook, but he was also steadfastly religious.
“The jackals were in. Never saw a worse pair than those two. Their mother would be ashamed to call them hers.:
“No. She had a higher degree of tolerance than you. She expected more of me, like you, but they could do no wrong. In a way it was her fault they turned out the way they did. Are you sure you want to cut them out?”
“Teach them a lesson. They’re survivors. People like them always are. You can take pity on them if you want, but once you open the door you won’t be able to close it.
That conversation was different, but then so was the woman I was married to. Perhaps there was some sort of joke in this alternate universe, that my father just shunted all of his problems into me.
If the blue door was what I wanted rather than what I had, the red door was hell. I mean, it was a red door. What was I expecting?
The green door was all sweetness and light, everyone was sickly kind and thoughtful without a hint of discord and enmity. Even my father was the epitome of generosity and kindness.
Behind the brown door was a void. It was like stepping from the light into the dark. There was no one but the voices in my head, and if I’d stayed there too long, I would have gone mad.
That left the yellow door. There was a reason why I’d been dragged three ought each, leaning more about the people I knew or thought I did, and in an odd sort of way discovering more about myself.
I knew that I’d spent most of my life compromising, taking the easy way, doing what was expected of me and not what I wanted. I guess that was what life was meant to be like. So few of us ever got to do what we wanted, mainly because we couldn’t afford to, and that was basically it. Money ruled our lives.
I looked at that yellow door for a long time, believing it was going to be more of the same. A horrible father, obtuse relatives, greedy little sycophants who’d willingly sell their souls to the devil for 20 pieces of silver.
Did I want to see more about a life I should have had and didn’t get?
And there it was, the yellow door beckoning, and who was I to resist?
I opened the door and went in. It was a room, with a desk, two chairs on opposite sides of the table, and a sign on the back wall that said, “Please sit”. Below that was a two-way mirror, that only reflected one way.
An interview room in a police station?
Five minutes later a door opened beside the mirror and a woman came through.
My mother.
Or a very young version of her, before my memories of her started. I had not known she was so beautiful, or blonde.
I said nothing but watched her sit, then when settled, smiled.
“Well, Walt, this is a fine kettle of fish.”
Metaphors? Who was this woman?
“Why am I here, and just to be clear, you are my mother.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. This is your imagination, Walt, and I could be anyone. But, you have used a memory of your mother.”
“So, you do know about me?”
“More than I care to, but yes. You’ve come to a crossroads in your life, and you have to make a decision that will affect the rest of it. You can choose to live or you can choose to die. You’ve always made the right choice, Walk. Always. Quite often to your detriment, or to please others, while all the time suppressing your hopes, wishes and desires. Admiral but depressing.”
She was right. But it wasn’t that simple.
“I had no choice.”
‘You always had a choice, Walt. You just chose the most expedient. Like marrying Margaret rather than Margery. Of course, you knew that was a huge mistake. So did your father and I which is why we paid Margaret to steal you away before Margery’s bad ways destroyed you, like she was destroying herself. You loved Margery, I know, but love was never going to be enough. You needed solid and dependable. That was Margaret.”
“What else did you do?
“Too many to be listed. Just be assured we did it for your own good. And, fortunately, it had led you here, now. I guess if your father hadn’t been the bastard he was, we wouldn’t be here, but he was dependable like that. And lazy, leaving all his messes for you to fix up.”
“Like my bothers?”
“Nice boys, but utterly useless. We knew that from the moment they could speak. You were our only hope, Walt. Those two, all the love in the world was never going to fix them, and that’s apparent now in spades. You must look after them, Walt. Your father wouldn’t, but you are not your father.”
“Margaret?”
‘You’ve been planning to leave her. She’s financially independent and will have no claim on the inheritance. Like I said, we gave her a fortune, so you can leave. Find someone else.”
“Margery?”
“If you can find her. Last we knew of her whereabouts, it was a commune in Tibet, or on the side of a mountain.” She shrugged. “That PA of yours, Ms Pendle, she seems a good sort. “has a thing for you, too.”
Ms Pendle was a little too staid for me. But then, perhaps I was the same and didn’t realise it.
“Right, enough yammering Walk. Time to go.” She stood. “Just remember, the future, your future, is n your hands, no one else’s.”
I woke, in the same bed, in the same house, looking at the same roof, and when I looked on the other side of the bed, the same hidden form with a hand on the pillow.
I touched it, thinking it might be Margery, but it was Margaret.
I watched her wake and wondered if it was true, she had been paid to get me away from Margery.
“You were late in last night.”
“I was with my mistress.”
She snorted. “You, with a mistress?” She shook her head. “When did you become a comedian?”
I decided on a change of subject. “Did my parents pay you to get me away from Margery?”
The smile disappeared and a frown appeared on her face. “Who told you?”
“Mother, just before she died. Wanted to go with a clear conscience.”
She thought about what sort of answer to give me, then said, “It was the right thing to do. They wanted you to have a future, not flame out before you were 35. Margery would have killed you, Walt.”
“Well, your job is done. I made it. Today is the first day f the rest of my life, and while you may be in it, it will not be as my wife. I thank you for your service.”
“To be honest, I thought you’d divorce me long before this. I did love you, you know. I guess we just sort of grew out of love in the end.”
It seemed so, well, I had no idea what it seemed like.
“What are you going to do with the family?”
“Annuities. They live within their means or go to hell.”
“And you?”
“First day and all, Margaret. I have no idea.”
It was odd to discover Margaret had a case packed and ready to go, she had for a long time. Everything else she owned; she didn’t want. It would be, she said, like taking her memories with her, and she was past that.
We had a last breakfast together, one last kiss, and she was gone. No, she wasn’t parting with the Audi A5.
I was going to go into the office but decided not to, and instead called the lawyers and for the next hour told them what I wanted done.
Then, I went out onto the patio, put on some melancholy jazz, and stretched out in one of the sunbeds, my last thought before dozing off, was the endless possibilities of what I was going to do.
I was lost in a mist, going upriver in a boat, slowly wending towards the mountains. It had started out very warm, and the further inland we went the closer it got. I had the feeling I was not alone on the boat, the figures were indistinct shadows, flitting about in the background.
Then it started to rain, and I woke with a start.
I realized I was at home and the automated sprinkler system had started.
When I went to get up, I realised something or someone was holding my hand and a looked over.
Margery.
“What are you doing here?”
“My, my, Walt. I thought you would be more pleased to see me.”
“I am. But…”
” Margaret called me about a week ago. She told me what had happened all those years ago and apologised. She said you two were splitting up, and if I wanted to get first in line, I’d better get my butt home. I just knew she had something to do with splitting us up. Not that it wasn’t a good idea, I was in a bad place then.”
“Now?”
“Now I know better. And the best thing about it. We have a lot of years to catch up, perhaps it will take the rest of our lives. Never stopped loving you, Walt. Not for a minute.”
“Nor I you. I was just coming to find you.”
“Then everything is as it should be. Now, let’s get out from under these sprinklers before one or other, or both of us get pneumonia.”
When I woke up that morning it was like every other day. Everything was familiar. Except…
The first thought that popped into my head was a question, “Why did I walk through the blue door?”
Usually, it was those few minutes when the aches and pains of old age were something to look forward to the moment I got out of bed.
But…
The blue door?
Here’s the thing. I don’t remember walking through a blue, or other coloured door. When I thought about it, it had been in a dream where, the night before, I had wished I could go to a place where the pain was negligible, and, more importantly, the family were at peace instead of at war, over, of all things, our father’s will.
I hadn’t thought that money would be everyone’s first thought, but I was wrong. I guess the amount he left behind was large enough to fuel that inherent monster in all of us, greed.
Being the only one not motivated to dispute the will, and being the principal beneficiary, I was over it, and in fact was ready to wipe my hands of the whole business, and let the lawyers take most if it in fees, leaving the rest with next to nothing.
All of it had come to a head and good old-fashioned pugilism. Blows were exchanged, words that couldn’t be taken back, said, and threats made. What was meant to be a congenial meeting of family members to discuss the will, very quickly degenerated into a disaster.
No surprise then that I would metaphorically step through any coloured door to escape reality. There had been a green door, a red door, a blue door, a yellow door and a brown door. Blue was my favourite colour.
OK, so another fragment of the dream returned while I was staring at the ceiling and thinking it was not like that the last time I looked. Each of the doors represented a different outcome in my life. Then I realised the MC, dressed in a ring master’s outfit, yes, there was a circus element.
Obviously, my mind wanted to go somewhere, anywhere but where I was right then.
I looked sideways at the form that had burrowed under the blankets, not the sort of thing Margret, my wife of many long-suffering years did. She hated my family to begin with and we had distanced ourselves from them. It was not a thing I did to please her, I hated them too.
Having come back to nurse my father to the grave, the last six months had been difficult. The relatives, known and obscure, had come from everywhere, smelling blood in the water.
Her hand was on the pillow, and I gave it a squeeze.
A head popped put, a smile, and then shock. Not hers, mine.
It was her younger sister Margery.
“What the hell,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
I remembered having a think for Margery before I met Margaret and had been resentful and bitter when Margaret stole me away. But, as a first love, she had never quite left my mind.
“Have you been dreaming again? Yesterday you thought you’d turned into your father.”
Good Grief. Behind the blue door was one of my fantasies. I shook my head.
“Where’s Margaret?”
“Forgetful too it seems.” She sighed as if this was normal for me. “She died two years ago. Cancer. I came back to see how you were, and you were broken. Then I discover you had this crush, so we gave it a fling. Married last year, don’t regret it, just hated Margaret more for stealing you.”
My dreams summarised in seven sentences.
“OK. That sounds about right for me. What about Dad?”
If my life with Margaret was over then everything else could be changed. I could only hope.
“Still hanging by a thread, knowing the longer he drags it out the more he can torment the family. It’s going to be a blood bath at the will reading. God, I hate money. Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.”
“Isn’t that women for men and men for women?”
She punched me in the arm. “Don’t try and make me feel better. On the other hand,” she leaned over and kissed me. “Please make me feel better.”
It was the one thing I remembered about Margery, how much fun it could be with her. She was one of the few what you see is what you get girls and I had loved her quite intensely until Margaret came along and turned me into the dull and responsible version that my father approved of.
That was when my two brothers both irresponsible troublemakers abused the privilege of their position, squandered their inheritances, and then went cap in hand to our father for support and instead got disinherited. Now, knowing what he was worth they were like Hyenas circling their prey, waiting to swoop.
I wasn’t going to burst their bubble by telling them that disinherited meant no recognition in the will. I’d seen a copy where the bulk of the estate was left to the responsible one, me. They got nothing.
Margery was right. It was going to be a bloodbath.
I visited my father every day. He had been a heavy smoker and suffered because of it. Now breathing was almost impossible and the cancer was going to kill him. Did he regret any part of his life or anything he did? No. What was the point? You do the best you can. There’s always someone telling you what you did was wrong, but there’s no such thing as being perfect.
Except for our mother, his first wife, was perfect. And I agreed with him.
He was looking better. To me, that meant the end was close, that short period of remission before death. Time to order up the priest to administer the last rights. He might have been a bastard and a crook, but he was also steadfastly religious.
“The jackals were in. Never saw a worse pair than those two. Their mother would be ashamed to call them hers.:
“No. She had a higher degree of tolerance than you. She expected more of me, like you, but they could do no wrong. In a way it was her fault they turned out the way they did. Are you sure you want to cut them out?”
“Teach them a lesson. They’re survivors. People like them always are. You can take pity on them if you want, but once you open the door you won’t be able to close it.
That conversation was different, but then so was the woman I was married to. Perhaps there was some sort of joke in this alternate universe, that my father just shunted all of his problems into me.
If the blue door was what I wanted rather than what I had, the red door was hell. I mean, it was a red door. What was I expecting?
The green door was all sweetness and light, everyone was sickly kind and thoughtful without a hint of discord and enmity. Even my father was the epitome of generosity and kindness.
Behind the brown door was a void. It was like stepping from the light into the dark. There was no one but the voices in my head, and if I’d stayed there too long, I would have gone mad.
That left the yellow door. There was a reason why I’d been dragged three ought each, leaning more about the people I knew or thought I did, and in an odd sort of way discovering more about myself.
I knew that I’d spent most of my life compromising, taking the easy way, doing what was expected of me and not what I wanted. I guess that was what life was meant to be like. So few of us ever got to do what we wanted, mainly because we couldn’t afford to, and that was basically it. Money ruled our lives.
I looked at that yellow door for a long time, believing it was going to be more of the same. A horrible father, obtuse relatives, greedy little sycophants who’d willingly sell their souls to the devil for 20 pieces of silver.
Did I want to see more about a life I should have had and didn’t get?
And there it was, the yellow door beckoning, and who was I to resist?
I opened the door and went in. It was a room, with a desk, two chairs on opposite sides of the table, and a sign on the back wall that said, “Please sit”. Below that was a two-way mirror, that only reflected one way.
An interview room in a police station?
Five minutes later a door opened beside the mirror and a woman came through.
My mother.
Or a very young version of her, before my memories of her started. I had not known she was so beautiful, or blonde.
I said nothing but watched her sit, then when settled, smiled.
“Well, Walt, this is a fine kettle of fish.”
Metaphors? Who was this woman?
“Why am I here, and just to be clear, you are my mother.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. This is your imagination, Walt, and I could be anyone. But, you have used a memory of your mother.”
“So, you do know about me?”
“More than I care to, but yes. You’ve come to a crossroads in your life, and you have to make a decision that will affect the rest of it. You can choose to live or you can choose to die. You’ve always made the right choice, Walk. Always. Quite often to your detriment, or to please others, while all the time suppressing your hopes, wishes and desires. Admiral but depressing.”
She was right. But it wasn’t that simple.
“I had no choice.”
‘You always had a choice, Walt. You just chose the most expedient. Like marrying Margaret rather than Margery. Of course, you knew that was a huge mistake. So did your father and I which is why we paid Margaret to steal you away before Margery’s bad ways destroyed you, like she was destroying herself. You loved Margery, I know, but love was never going to be enough. You needed solid and dependable. That was Margaret.”
“What else did you do?
“Too many to be listed. Just be assured we did it for your own good. And, fortunately, it had led you here, now. I guess if your father hadn’t been the bastard he was, we wouldn’t be here, but he was dependable like that. And lazy, leaving all his messes for you to fix up.”
“Like my bothers?”
“Nice boys, but utterly useless. We knew that from the moment they could speak. You were our only hope, Walt. Those two, all the love in the world was never going to fix them, and that’s apparent now in spades. You must look after them, Walt. Your father wouldn’t, but you are not your father.”
“Margaret?”
‘You’ve been planning to leave her. She’s financially independent and will have no claim on the inheritance. Like I said, we gave her a fortune, so you can leave. Find someone else.”
“Margery?”
“If you can find her. Last we knew of her whereabouts, it was a commune in Tibet, or on the side of a mountain.” She shrugged. “That PA of yours, Ms Pendle, she seems a good sort. “has a thing for you, too.”
Ms Pendle was a little too staid for me. But then, perhaps I was the same and didn’t realise it.
“Right, enough yammering Walk. Time to go.” She stood. “Just remember, the future, your future, is n your hands, no one else’s.”
I woke, in the same bed, in the same house, looking at the same roof, and when I looked on the other side of the bed, the same hidden form with a hand on the pillow.
I touched it, thinking it might be Margery, but it was Margaret.
I watched her wake and wondered if it was true, she had been paid to get me away from Margery.
“You were late in last night.”
“I was with my mistress.”
She snorted. “You, with a mistress?” She shook her head. “When did you become a comedian?”
I decided on a change of subject. “Did my parents pay you to get me away from Margery?”
The smile disappeared and a frown appeared on her face. “Who told you?”
“Mother, just before she died. Wanted to go with a clear conscience.”
She thought about what sort of answer to give me, then said, “It was the right thing to do. They wanted you to have a future, not flame out before you were 35. Margery would have killed you, Walt.”
“Well, your job is done. I made it. Today is the first day f the rest of my life, and while you may be in it, it will not be as my wife. I thank you for your service.”
“To be honest, I thought you’d divorce me long before this. I did love you, you know. I guess we just sort of grew out of love in the end.”
It seemed so, well, I had no idea what it seemed like.
“What are you going to do with the family?”
“Annuities. They live within their means or go to hell.”
“And you?”
“First day and all, Margaret. I have no idea.”
It was odd to discover Margaret had a case packed and ready to go, she had for a long time. Everything else she owned; she didn’t want. It would be, she said, like taking her memories with her, and she was past that.
We had a last breakfast together, one last kiss, and she was gone. No, she wasn’t parting with the Audi A5.
I was going to go into the office but decided not to, and instead called the lawyers and for the next hour told them what I wanted done.
Then, I went out onto the patio, put on some melancholy jazz, and stretched out in one of the sunbeds, my last thought before dozing off, was the endless possibilities of what I was going to do.
I was lost in a mist, going upriver in a boat, slowly wending towards the mountains. It had started out very warm, and the further inland we went the closer it got. I had the feeling I was not alone on the boat, the figures were indistinct shadows, flitting about in the background.
Then it started to rain, and I woke with a start.
I realized I was at home and the automated sprinkler system had started.
When I went to get up, I realised something or someone was holding my hand and a looked over.
Margery.
“What are you doing here?”
“My, my, Walt. I thought you would be more pleased to see me.”
“I am. But…”
” Margaret called me about a week ago. She told me what had happened all those years ago and apologised. She said you two were splitting up, and if I wanted to get first in line, I’d better get my butt home. I just knew she had something to do with splitting us up. Not that it wasn’t a good idea, I was in a bad place then.”
“Now?”
“Now I know better. And the best thing about it. We have a lot of years to catch up, perhaps it will take the rest of our lives. Never stopped loving you, Walt. Not for a minute.”
“Nor I you. I was just coming to find you.”
“Then everything is as it should be. Now, let’s get out from under these sprinklers before one or other, or both of us get pneumonia.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 