Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 16, 2013

Theme / Genre: Steampunk

Include: photograph, pills, headset,
data stick, lottery ticket

Words: 1,000

Music Fans

‘What in Stevenson’s Rocket?’ Sidney wafted his hands, as he entered a
steam and smoke filled kitchen. ‘Damn,
the last slices of bread.’

‘Master Sidney, what is going on here?’ A fiery voice cut through the cloud.

‘The toast-steamer, Mrs Westwood, it is on the blink again.’

‘Well, trust it to be you, Sidney.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Westwood.
It could have happened to anyone.’

‘But it happened to you, and the last of the bread I see,’
Mrs Westwood said, sliding open the basement windows, the wind flapped her
white apron. ‘It’s a good job you didn’t
start a fire in here, or a flood. I’ll
get Nancy, to tidy up this mess later.’

Sidney watched rays of sun cast through a mixture of vapour
and smoke finding its way out into the early afternoon air. A single ray reflected on a photograph of his
mother, taken with the winning lottery ticket that changed their lives; he
remembered how it used to be. The daily
smog from coal fires, the days greyer and darker. He would hide downstairs playing games with
staff, whilst his mother searched for him upstairs. The house was colder then too. Steam under-floor heating changed everything;
life was cleaner, brighter and warmer, upstairs and downstairs. However, enough of the nostalgia, he needed
to go.

‘I guess I will do without breakfast,’ he said.

‘Well young man that will teach you to sleep late,’ she
said. ‘There’s some left over bacon, if
you like.’

Mrs Westwood was a tough old boot; she made an excellent
Cook, and ruled the kitchen like a rod of iron; sometimes a fitting surrogate
for his recently departed mother – the innocent victim of a drunken
hover-carriage accident.

‘No thanks, Mrs Westwood,’ he said grabbing an apple from
the bowl on the table. ‘This will
suffice; I’m late as it is.’

‘Yes, your concert; big night tonight.’

‘Indeed it is,’ his thoughts returned to the past. ‘Wish mother could see it.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be looking down on you tonight.’

‘I do hope not, she never liked my music, “Too modern for
me”, she would always say.’

‘She was still very proud of you, you know that.’

Sidney could see even Mrs Westwood was holding back a tear
or two; it really was time to go.

‘Right, tell Nancy and the others that I will meet them in
the King’s Head afterwards.’

‘So, just me to look after everything tonight,’ she said
sarcastically. ‘Everyone has a
night-off.’

‘You can still come, Mrs Westwood.’

‘No, Master Sidney, I’m only pulling your leg,’ her face
warmed with a radiant smile. ‘You father
is going too, so I will put my feet up.
You have fun now, you hear.’

‘I will.’

Sidney left the warm kitchen. A big night was right; he needed some
support. He pulled out two red pills
from his pocket popped them in his mouth and took a bite of his apple.

Making his way to the stables, he sneaked out before his
father could give him a lecture on correct driving and safety procedures. The stable doors were open and the groom
stood brushing his horse. Glen, dressed
in brown peaked cap, waistcoat, britches and boots, covered in flecks of golden
hair, had already harnessed Golden Sovereign to the carriage; packed full of
instruments.

‘How is my Sovereign this morning?’

‘Fine fettle, sir,’ Glen said, ‘and looking forward to a
canter about town.’

‘Excellent.’

Entering the stall, Sidney turned to the carriage that
rested on a foot-high oak plinth. He
flicked several switches and pulled down a lever securing it in an open
position, then pulled and pushed a large leather knob. A motor turned over and a loud pop made
Sovereign jump.

‘Steady, girl,’ Glen consoled the steed.

Sidney pulled and pushed again, another pop and a cloud of
smoke billowed from under the carriage, the engine rumbled for a few
moments. Soon, wisps of steam puffed
from various valves from the engine compartment at the rear of the carriage. The vehicle lifted six inches from the plinth
and Sidney climbed the short chrome and timber ladder to the open driving seat,
the carriage buffeted, as it calculated the additional load.

‘The data stick is already in the mapping device, Sir. You’re good to go.’

‘Thank you, Glen. See
you later.’

To dampen the sound of the engine, he pulled on his
headset. Making a clicking sound through
his teeth, he flicked the reigns, ushered Sovereign out of the stables and down
the cobbled mews; he and instruments hovered behind.

Steam-carriages were far more comfortable than
wooden-wheeled ones over the cobbles, and quicker, weight carried by the steam,
not horse power. They were harder to
steer sometimes, especially if galloping too fast, and although water storage tanks
took up quite a bit of space, steam was the way to go. However, until they could design a suitable
breaking system, Sovereign would still have a job to do.

The streets seemed busier than usual today, but thanks to
the mapping device, Sidney and Sovereign skilfully traversed the back streets
of London’s West End. Pulling up at the
back of Her Majesty’s theatre, Sidney spied friend and fellow band member,
Johnny, lugging a set of kettledrums.

‘Sidney, good day.
Have you seen the crowds?’ he said.

‘Yes, I had to drive a torturous route to get here. What is going on?’

‘They are here for us.’

‘What? That is not
possible,’ Sidney was truly bewildered.
‘This is our first major concert.’

‘It would appear Malcolm has done his management well. He must have spun some yarns and mentioned
your steam-guitar. The place is
absolutely thronged.’

‘Well, imagine that.’

Sidney lowered the carriage setting, jumped down, and began
to offload his equipment. No sooner had
he done so, a group of screaming girls ran towards them from the other end of
the street, petticoats and dresses swirling everywhere.

‘Sidney, they have seen your guitar case.’

Sidney looked down at the large letters emblazoned on the
side.

“The Steam Punks.”

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 26, 2013

Theme / Genre: “The
Movies” or for us Brits “The Cinema”

Include: –

Words: 735

The Secret Film Club

The timber and glass doors swung outwards with a long
squeaking sound; they hadn’t been opened in a while. Pushing over the tall weeds that grew in
front of the garden room, they revealed a darkened space full of various boxes,
bags and unused items. As he stepped
over the threshold, Joshua gasped, half in wonder at what stood before him, and
half in disbelief at the amount there seemed to be. Now he could see why his mum had agreed to
the idea, he thought she had given in to his demands all too quickly. He would certainly have his work cut-out, to
pull off his plans; the room was a tip, and there was little time before the
others arrived.

Cobwebs covered his face, as he squeezed through a gap of
teetering towers of cardboard boxes, and he quickly wiped the strands
away. The air smelt damp and when he
pushed through to an open space at the back of the room, he could see patches
of mould in the corner. Nothing a few
well-placed boxes couldn’t hide.

It’s perfect, he thought, and set about arranging the room.

Heavy boxes of books he slid, others overflowing with
dressing-up clothes he lifted into place.
Bigger boxes at the bottom, then smaller ones, and finally plastic bags
filled with old clothes on top, filling any odd spaces between. The constructed wall was placed close to the
door, with a folded decorators table bridging a gap at the bottom, which
created a tiny access route through the wall, like an igloo’s doorway. A room within a room.

At one end of the space, Joshua carefully arranged a
broken-legged plastic table, sitting atop a pile of scooters, skateboards,
hula-hoops and other garden toys, providing the perfect position for a
projector. To the opposite wall, he made
a gap in the centre of some old tea chests exposing a rectangular section of wall
up to the ceiling; perfect 12×7 viewing ratio, he calculated. Any other leftover bags he then squashed into
leftover boxes, and stacked up along with an assortment of old pieces of
furniture against the wall.
Strategically placed ledges in the stack would provide handy places for
bottles of coke, bowls of sweets and popcorn later, he envisaged.

Several unrolled threadbare rugs covered the floor, although
a little musty, they were fine for the boys.
Various scattered cushions, pillows and old duvets provided reclining
space, which he finally laid back on. He
reached out flicking a switch; an old set of fairy lights illuminated the dark,
the final touch to the SFC: Secret Film Club.

There was a knock on the boxes.

‘Joshua, you in there?’
Joshua’s mother asked.

‘Yep, here,’ he said.

‘You can’t come in.’

‘Oh, go on. Just a
peak.’

‘Only a peak then.’

Through the low-level opening, his mother pushed a large
tray of drinks, sweets and popcorn; to Joshua’s delight.

‘Oh, excellent,’ he sounded surprised. ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’

‘Thought you might have been,’ she said, sticking her head
and shoulders through the small opening. ‘Oh, this is cool. I better send in the others.’

‘Are they here?’

‘Yes, everyone.’

‘Send them in then,’ he said excitedly.

‘Ok, ok,’ she said, retreating backwards.

Joshua took up the tray and quickly filled the stacked up
box-tower with drinks and food; awesome, he thought.

‘Oh wow, Josh,’ a voice behind him said, the first of his
friends to appear from the igloo hole.

‘Great isn’t it?’

‘Deffo.’

Soon six boys all buzzed with delight, jumping around, high
on sugary treats.

‘Right let’s watch the film,’ Joshua announced, and pressed
play on the remote.

‘I’ll just slide this box into the hole, Josh, so it blocks
out all the light,’ a muffled voice said from behind the wall.

‘Oh, thanks dad.’

The boys sat quietly in the dark, as the movie played, until
they heard some scratching.

‘What’s the noise Josh,’ one of Joshua’s friends asked,
slightly worried.

‘I’m not sure, it’s coming from the box in the doorway,’ he
said, and paused the movie, so they could hear.

Switching the lights back on he crawled to the box; more
scratches could be heard.

‘Open it,’ someone said. He pulled the box inwards revealing the words Happy
Birthday formed out of small holes on the top. Nervously, he began opening the lid. Then to his surprise, a small damp puppy’s
nose poked out.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 19, 2013

Theme / Genre: Summer

Include: –

Words: 850

Mad Dogs and
Englishmen

The mirrored images of the tall apartment blocks enlarge and
reduce with the water’s rippling movement, as the sun reflects off the
pool. Little shimmering ghosts of light
zigzag backwards and forwards between the buildings. Even with my Oakleys on, the light scratches
at my retinas.

I try to blink, my eyelids feel like sandpaper. How long have I been staring into the
whirling pool of colour?

I try to move.

I can’t move.

When I say I can’t move, I mean it hurts to move. It’s like I’m frozen, as if someone has
slipped me a needle. Only these are not
your normal injectables, they are numbing epidurals, or glue, or magnetic stuff
pinning me to the sun-lounger, but whatever, it ain’t pain relief; and what’s
with that drumming noise in my ears.

My muscles cringe with agony at the slightest shift in my
position. When I move the stabbing pains
are intense, sharp and piercing rip-like sensations, to neck and shoulders down
through my arms, my back and legs; until I stop moving. So, I can’t, I mustn’t move.

Glancing down to my side table, which hurts like I’ve voodoo
pins piercing my eyeballs, I spy my bottle of beer the beads of condensation
slowly dribbling down its length; it’s untouched, I can’t reach it.

Looking the other way I see Gazzer’s table, it’s full of
empty bottles and leftover side salad; from a quarter pounder I expect. Did I miss lunch?

‘Hey, Johnno, what’s up mate?’ It’s Steve’s voice, just audible over the
thumping sounds in my head, but I can’t see him, I try to crane my neck, but
the pain, jeese, the pain.

Making an attempt to communicate, I can provide nothing more
than a groan. Steve comes into view,
he’s staring down at me, dripping wet from the swimming pool, body glistening
brown. We’ve only been in Magaluf two
days and his Italian skin’s looking more Mediterranean than ever. He’s laughing.

‘Oh, mate, speak up,’ he rubs his face with a towel and
peers at me again. ‘You sound retarded.’

I try again, nothing but a long groan. My lips are fused together, and as push my
dry tongue between to prise them open, I can feel the skin tearing apart. Everything I seem to do is painful.

‘That’s gross, Johnno, your lips are bleedin’ now. Gazzer look at his lips.’

‘Man, looks like you’ve been punched in the face,’ Gazzer
says, coming into view, as he sits up on his lounger. ‘You’re a bit pink too, mate.’

‘Ike arn oove,’ I muster, but it’s not coherent, I can tell
by their faces.

‘He’s gone loopo,’ Steve says and turns around to face the
pool. He bends down on his haunches at
the pool edge. I turn to Gazzer.

‘Seriously Johnno, stop messing about now,’ he says.

Suddenly, I feel on fire, as if someone has just thrown
hundreds of burning embers onto my skin, my whole body jolts
uncontrollably. Steve is standing in
front of me his hands freshly dripping wet, the few droplets of water that run
down my sunglasses confirm that he has just thrown a handful of water over
me. Steve and Gazzer laugh at my
frenzied body. My eyes are filling with
water. With nerve endings on overload
the pain is bombarding my brain, the thumping is drowning out their laughing,
they appear not to hear anything. Then it
hits me, it’s the sound of my own racing heartbeat.

‘Calm down mate, it’s only water,’ Steve laughs openly. Behind him an audience is growing, I see
faces staring back at me, a mixture of smiles and shocked expressions. Some laugh along with him, but others are
asking, ‘Is he alright?’

‘Ssto pid,’ more slurred nonsense passes my lips, and as
tears slither out from the rims of my glasses on the way to my jawline, I feel
it’s not only slurs that are going to pass my lips; nausea is crashing through
my body at a rate of knots, tickling at my throat.

As the rubberneckers push closer someone shouts, ‘He’s as
red as a lobster.’

I’ve no time to examine my skin, my stomach has flipped
churning up last night’s copious lager and curried chips, the bongos are going
mad in my head. Then, unable to control
my body any more, I erupt.

The shorts, legs and flip-flops of the front row receive a
splattering with vomit. My crimson stomach
and legs are stinging once more.

‘Give him some air,’ a sweet voice from an unseen face,
filters through the drumming. The crowd
step back, a girl pushes through with a bottle of water and places it against
my burnt and bloody lips, she squirts a small mouthful in and it begins to
quench the fire.

‘Has he been here long?’ she asks to nobody in particular.

‘Since this morning,’ Gazzer answers.

‘It must be food poisoning from that Indian, you wait ’till
I_’

‘No,’ the girl interrupts Steve and looks back at me. ‘Your friend has got severe sunstroke.’

What a way to start of my summer romance.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 12, 2013

Theme / Genre: optional

Include: plate, tea, biscuit, cake, burn

Words: 1,030

The Collector

‘I can do this,’ Blue Swiss
said, he felt a small bead of sweat trickle from his armpit towards his hip; he
suppressed it with his elbow. ‘Just give
me a few more seconds, Control.’

‘You don’t have a few more
seconds, get out,’ Control sounded agitated.
Blue Swiss didn’t reply. ‘Did you
hear me, Blue Swiss? Get out, get out
now.’

‘It’s here somewhere,’ a
scrunching sound echoed across the polished porcelain tiles, he froze
solid. Had he tripped some security
device? He looked down to his matt black
leather boots.

‘Blue Swiss?’ Control whispered through his headset.

Slowly, he lifted his foot and
peered beneath. Just visible in the dim
light, biscuit crumbs. He let out a
sigh.

‘Blue Swiss?’

‘Nothing, Control. Just … nothing,’ Blue Swiss moved on,
scrunching, crumbs stuck to his otherwise clean soles. He scanned the room again. It has to be here somewhere, he told himself.

Although he could hear his heart
thumping in his ear against the pressure of the earphones, the office canteen
was quiet. Another ten minutes and
cleaning staff would be swarming all over this place; he focused, there was still
time.

Control had been monitoring the
office all today; several directors had come from the UK and the CEO had
thought it a great idea to organise an English Tea and Cake affair that
afternoon. The place had seen plenty of
action, now half-drunk cups of tea littered every available worktop, their saucers
splashed with the brown liquid – Americans were not really tea drinkers – piles
of plates too, with cake-smeared serviettes slipped between them – Twinkies on
the other hand.

They called it a Canteen, but
really it was a fabulous entertaining space, a modern interior with integrated
white gloss kitchen, ambient lighting and a scatter of flat screen TV’s. Italian breakout furniture graced the corners
of the room, abstract multi-coloured pieces you could easily be happy
photographing than sitting on.

‘Movement. Heading your way from the meeting room. I told you Blue Swiss. A young woman, early twenties, heading
straight for you,’ Control’s voice rising with anticipation, sensing the
impending failure of the mission. ‘Blue
Swiss, the window, now. It’s her,
Shelley Taylor, go. Blue Cheese, are you
receiving?’

The door cracked open, a flood
of light filled the room from the corridor, more lighting flickered into
operation as the woman entered swiping the touch switch. Her heels clacking on the tiling, she
approached the kitchen units. Blue Swiss
watched from his vantage point, unseen. Delayed, the TV screens came to life, flashing up
images from the news channels, one commenting on the day’s Wall Street
activity.

‘Blue Cheese, it’s not fucking
Blue Cheese,’ Blue Swiss whispered to himself.

Looking around, Shelley
hesitated for a second, as if detecting his presence, his whisper perhaps. The tips of his boots, were they poking out
from the Zaha Hadid Moon sofa? No,
thankfully. She turned back and opened a
shiny white high-level cupboard door, reached in and pulled out a plate with a
chocolate cake on it. Damn it’s hot in
here, he thought.

‘I see it, Control,’ he said in a
barely audible tone.

‘Where are you?’ The voice in his ear said, nearly as loud as
his own voice.

‘Concealed. I can see it.’

‘Affirmative. Can you secure the item? Don’t blow your cover. Do you understand Blue Swiss? Don’t_’

‘Yeah, Yeah, I know, but I see
it,’ he said looking adoringly at the big fat chocolate cake. ‘Remember my name now, do you?’

‘Sorry. Repeat that_’

‘Oh forget it, make the call,
quickly, before she moves off, hurry,’ he whispered, as loud as he dare.

A phone rang in the distance, a
voice called out for Shelley. She looked
up flustered, the cake still in her hands.
She walked to the door.

‘Not the door,’ Blue Swiss whispered,
as he watched the objective slipping away.

Shelley turned, as if hearing
his demands. Perhaps she changed her mind;
he knew she was not the type to share food, especially chocolate cake. He watched her bottom-heavy pear-shaped form
waddle back to the counter. She
hurriedly placed the cake back in the cupboard and then exited the room.

‘Aghh,’ Swiss let out a loud
yelp.

‘Blue Swiss! What’s happened? Report. Are you compromised.’

‘No, dammit, Control,’ he cursed
under his breath, aware that at any moment Shelley could walk back in. ‘I just burnt myself on the bloody radiator.’

‘What? Blue Swiss.
Repeat.’

‘I’m wedged behind the sofa and
a wall. There’s a radiator,’ he began to
prize himself out of the gap.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake Blue
Cheese, Swiss, Blue Swiss. Will you call
it, and get to the rendezvous point ASAP.’

‘It’s alright for you in your
cosy ops room; I’ve a burn on my arse.’

Blue Swiss jumped up and sped to
the kitchen units. Quickly he opened the
wall cupboard, grabbed the red rim of the melamine plate, pulled it out then
flipped the cake onto a pile of dirty paper plates and serviettes. Lifting the formally upright and presentable
cake, he shoved it and its second-hand plate, with attached soiled serviettes,
into the cupboard and closed the door.

Wiping smudges of chocolate with
his latex gloves, he looked down, the cool faces of Obi-wan, Luke, Han and the
Princess staring back at him, he kissed the plate and slipped it under his
black flak jacket and headed for the door.

‘I have it, Control.’

‘Right, now get the hell out of
there. Level two, north wall, go.’

The door was open; he could hear
muffled voices, as he approached. It was
Shelley, chatting on her phone, and she was coming closer.

‘She’s coming back Swiss, get
out man,’ Controls voice full of panic.

There was nowhere to hide.

He had no choice; he pulled down
the brim of his black beany hat, dropped his chin and marched to the door.

‘… really, well I saw her and
…’ Shelley’s voice tailed off on seeing Blue Swiss march out from the
doorway. ‘Simon? Is that you?’

‘Shelley,’ he acknowledged with
a shy voice muffled into his jacket collar; he didn’t look, just ran.

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14

The Second Coming

Chapter 4

Boy Meets Girl

870 words

Bang! The front door slammed. Joelle bounded upright, eyes wide open. She gasped for breath, felt her head and then ran her fingers through her hair. The water dried up, the bus gone, the policeman. The policeman, she looked around, Ray stirred in the bed next to her.

‘Ray. Wake up, Ray. Ray.’

‘Ray. Your pub, Ray,’ says Duncan.

‘Bearslake Inn?’ Raymond questions his luck again.

‘That’s a big nuffink for you,’ Duncan smiles. His lips slid up and around the sides of his face, they contort revealing a crescent of hundreds of pearly whites, as his swollen lips part. Literally grinning from ear to the other, half his head has evolved into a whale’s bony smile.

‘Come on Mum, it ain’t fair, he had The Highwayman,’ Raymond complains loudly, turning from his brother. ‘Dad, can’t you drive by the decent pubs when it’s my turn.’

‘Please boys, be quiet, your father’s drivin’, and gawd knows when we’ll get to this campsite,’ says his mother.

‘It ain’t my fault Shirl, these country roads are so bloomin’ slow,’ his father says.

‘Me next!’ Duncan presses his nose against the window of the car door, his newly acquired polished teeth rattle against the glass. Raymond sits disappointed; watching the lane in front speed past, yet the view from his side window shows trees and shrubs ambling along; he is convinced he could run faster.

Onward they drive, along the sunny winding lanes around the edge of Dartmoor. Both boys wait for the next pub with anticipation. Another high score for Duncan, or will Raymond’s luck change?

‘Tasty! The Fox and Hounds,’ Duncan beams, when the country pub comes into view. It lurches out from the wall of greenery, long windows and white walls bend out over the road, as the roof tiles nearly touch the car roof, they drive beneath smoking chimney pots. ‘That’s another twelve points to me.’

‘Bloody ‘ell, I don’t believe it,’ Raymond curses loudly, no change of fortune; the fox winks at him from the swaying signpost, its bushy tail waves.

‘Raymond,’ his father shouts to the back of the car. Eyes leave the road, whilst his neck stretches unnaturally, twisting to peer at Raymond face to face. ‘If I have to bring up your bloody swearin’ again, I’ll clip your ear and—’

‘Derek!’ Shirley shouts. Her hand shoots out instinctively to the dashboard.

A cloud of straw confetti engulfs the car, Derek’s neck recoils back to see it settle on the windscreen. Through the blur, Raymond sees a slow moving tractor and trailer that fills the road ahead, packed overly high with teetering straw bales. Brakes jam; his father swerves to avoid the trailer, head-on into the path of another car.

Derek steers the car off the road onto a freshly mown verge, its momentum carves tracks of mud into the green carpet of grass. A stone and red metal letterbox passes by Shirley’s passenger window, Raymond watches aghast; it smashes the wing mirror to pieces. Slow-motion fragments of mirror scatter in every direction, he can make out the reflected faces of his family’s shocked expressions, as the shards drift pass.

When they crash through an old split rail timber fence, the vehicle collides with a wooden post; it acts as a trigger to unfasten Raymond’s side door. As it swings open, the air sucks out an endless flow of playing cards, half-coloured sheets of hangman and noughts and crosses, which create a trail in their wake.

The car speeds-on uncontrollably. Without notice, an arm within a brown jacket sleeve reaches inside; the hand grabs Raymond’s t-shirt and forcefully yanks him out, it propels him headlong into a hedgerow of late-summer flowers and bracken. He rolls headfirst onwards, flowers fly everywhere, the smell of pollen tickles his nose, finally he comes to rest; petals flutter from above speckling his body.

Reminiscent to a crumpling accordion, the car pushes itself into the old oak tree. Derek’s ribs shatter, as they crush against the steering column; Shirley’s skull fractures, as her head shoves out the windscreen, her chest follows; Duncan’s small body and limbs bash off seats and the dashboard, passing his parents and out over the bonnet. Glass, dust and blood fills the air, the tree shudders, dust swirls. Steam from the engine seeps out through the concertinaed bodywork, lead petrol drips from the chassis and everything else comes to a halt.

Immediate noises stop, and the boom of the horn fills the void incessantly, an admonition to the horrific scene. It bellows, until a very ashen-faced Raymond pulls the bloody and broken torso of Derek from the steering wheel silencing it.

With a look to his father, Raymond feels guilt build up inside, as if on cue the man’s eyes open and blood gurgles from his mouth before he spatters cutting words.

‘I told you to shut it, and now you killed us,’ his bloodied hands reach out from nowhere and grasp Raymond by the throat; they squeeze ferociously, and pull him downwards at the same time. Helpless against his father’s strength, his hands slip in fresh blood, he tries to prise away fingers from his neck. He can’t breathe.

‘Did you hear me Raymond? Raymond?’

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14

The Second Coming

Chapter 3

The Detour

3080 words

One week later, and not a blip from Levi, Rupert boarded his British Airways flight to Geneva International Airport. The flight was busy, delayed, and the women passenger in front of him held-up everyone, as she tried to explain to the boarding staff that her four pieces of hand luggage were only very small. Fifty-five minutes added wait time; apparently, due to a drunken passenger locked in the toilet who fell asleep; something Rupert could relate to in a strange way. Levi’s non-appearance disappointed Rupert.

An intense web-search by colleagues had turned up no new information on Levi. Not a trace. Still an enigma, as when they first met.

Those he confided in were sceptical of meeting the mysterious figure again, which had been no surprise to Rupert. They imagined trouble. The brown-suited man could be a politician, an advertising baron, a stalker—at best—and they had suggested notifying the police. Rupert did not share their anxieties. In their brief meeting, he felt a bond with Levi, not just shared a genetic eye mutation, but also sensed a level of honesty and integrity. It left him in no doubt they should meet again; although he was unsure as to when, or what his new acquaintanceship might lead to; definitely intrigue.

Initially, his friends concluded Levi’s warning statement concerning eviFive, as slanderous, yet its certainty held favour. Only four days before, hackers crashed an unsecured server linked to one of Rupert’s websites, and although only used for music backup they tried to gain access via a backdoor. With enlisted contacts from his close university network, Rupert, assisted by computer programmers and software developers, managed to re-trace paths back to secure firewalls. Whilst not openly involved with hacking, his friends found they held the trump card with the software; they had been the ones originally commissioned to develop this particular firewall for eviFive.

Financially, as well as academically successful, Rupert was not greedy or particularly product oriented. When not in university accommodation, or hotel rooms, and not wanting to tie himself to any particular owned location, he occasionally stayed with his parents. The financial draw to lecturing resulted in frequent journeying—arranged around his studies—so when he did, he liked to travel comfortably.

Finally, on the plane, he tried to find his business class seat, as opposed to squashed in with the economy passengers. It was not “them-and-us”, or a selfish attitude, just practical. Comfort he could afford, which in-turn afforded him a more relaxed journey, ahead of the gruelling and demanding conference.

With his computer tablet slid out, he stowed his cabin bag in the overhead locker. A smell of bacon and hash browns from the pre-packed on board catering wafted passed, inducing a feeling of nausea within him. Bag pushed to the back of the luggage compartment, he ducked under to take his seat.

‘This seat is taken,’ a familiar voice said.

‘Jesus,’ Rupert said, startled and nearly sitting on someone’s lap.

‘Levi actually, but if it helps with your nerves,’ he joked.

‘Where did you spring from?’ Rupert said, very surprised to see him, especially as he had been keeping his eye out for last couple of hours.

‘I have been here all the time.’

‘How come I didn’t see you?’

‘You must have been preoccupied with other matters, the lady with her bags for example.’

‘But I still don’t understan—’

‘Come on, sit. Let us not hold the flight any longer.’

Sat in the window seat next to Levi, Rupert was puzzled and annoyed with himself that he had not seen Levi earlier.

‘I knew that you would not cancel,’ Levi said, passing over Rupert’s confusion. ‘You made the right decision to meet with me again.’

‘To be honest, I didn’t think you’d turn up.’

‘And several of your colleagues no doubt advised against it.’

‘Yes, they did.’

‘Presumably they thought I was a bothersome publicist, or demented fanatic.’

As he looked at his new friend, Rupert thought it strange that the man had uncanny knowledge of his past, or was it just coincidence.

‘Something along those lines,’ he said

Levi sat back and fastened his seat belt, a tinge of smugness on his face.

‘To Geneva then,’ he closed his eyes and fell asleep before the plane taxied away from its stand.

Disappointed, although mildly amused, Rupert wanted to chat with Levi, to fill in the gaps, and while away the flight. Instead, he sat alone once more, only thoughts kept him company.

They taxied along the runway, his palms sweated, as he patiently waited until he could call the air steward and order a vodka and coke.

Wheels having left tarmac behind, and his need for alcohol satisfied, Rupert’s mind wandered; and not for the first time. He tried to quantify his life. Why was he off to lecture people about the divergent principles of world religions? What did he understand that so many did not? And, where was it all going to end?

Thirst for knowledge; an ability to gulp it down and regurgitate it in a coherent way, had pushed him this far, but he was far from on top of things. Uncertainty filled his head once more, fears and worries associated with a distinct lack of control over his own destiny. His success and direction guided by others, due to an inability to acquire the necessary tools for change. Not needed, or desired, it became a means to an end for him.

Rupert knew he was fortunate, it opened doors, gave him experiences never imagined. From the greatly populated, to the most troubled; from the richest, to the very fragile; inclusion of governments, countries, regimes and organisations; everyone called for his humanitarian speeches. Rupert Carpenter had become a successful commodity; world religious leaders tried, so too the likes of celebrity conspiracy theorists David Icke, and Alex Jones, but there were no real alternatives. Informed and without allegiance, or personal preference, he had a monopoly on multi-religion tolerance and understanding.

A trip, to speak to the Swiss.

‘I can’t believe you fell asleep for the whole flight,’ Rupert said, as the plane rolled to a stop in Geneva. ‘I had a few questions I wanted to ask you.’

‘Really. I am sorry, another time perhaps. We have business to attend to,’ he said, unbuckled his belt intuitively and stood just as the fasten-seat-belt signs switched off.

Levi, who carried nothing but himself, disappeared along the aisle. Rupert scrabbled his bag from the overhead storage and followed. The flight was not full; nonetheless, several people managed to disembark between the two of them. Jostled along the air-bridge, Rupert kept an eye on the familiar brown suit several figures ahead.

With no means to contact him, Rupert wondered if Levi realised how busy airports were; if they separated they would lose each other. Through the smallest of gaps, he pushed passed other passengers, bumping his small Samsonite off legs and other trolley cases.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Excuse me, thank you.’

On entry to the luggage hall, the crowds thinned and Rupert drew alongside Levi.

‘Do you have checked-in luggage?’ Levi said.

‘No, just carry-on.’

‘Good. Straight through to passports then,’ again he sped away.

Second-class feelings ensued, as Levi made his way oblivious to how Rupert needed to navigate the crowds at high speed with his case, small as it was. Levi ducked and dived between travellers and gave him the slip. Rupert scanned the slow-moving passport queues. Nothing. Why the hurry?

Raised up twice and dropped twice, in the space of a single journey. The mystique around Levi grew and annoyed.

Attempted glimpses made by Rupert to catch sight of the man were unsuccessful, as he made his way through passport control. It was no good; Levi was nowhere. Rupert gave the male official an embarrassed smile, as he approached the desk; he wished he hadn’t. A thought ran through his head, the nervous glances and twitches made as he tried to spot Levi; security might pull him over. Several minutes spent with cross-referenced photos and details; Rupert finally entered Genève.

Once in the arrivals hall, he filed behind a stream of passengers and noticed a smartly dressed man in suit and tie standing a few steps ahead of him, holding aloft a clearly printed card with “Mr Carpenter” emblazoned on it; no mistaking it. Intuition suggested to sidestep the driver and the smell of fresh croissants attracted Rupert in the direction of a small coffee outlet. He needed a few moments for a caffeine and sugar boost to help with his decisions before heading off to the conference.

‘Monsieur?’ the barista asked.

‘Yes, hi. Café au lait, s’il vous—’ someone grabbed Rupert’s arm.

‘We have no time for refreshments,’ Levi’s familiar voice crashed through Rupert’s plans again. ‘We have an agenda to stick to.’

‘Levi. Where did you—, never mind. What agenda? I don’t think you copied me in to that one.’

‘This way.’

Again, Rupert concentrated hard not to lose him, and jogged closer. Across the concourse, headed to more security, it appeared.

‘Levi, where are you taking me?’

‘This way,’ he did not let on, instead passed through a glass door which slide closed behind him.

On the door’s jamb a red light illuminated, Rupert waited. He half listened to a message playing on the public-address system. A green light came on and the door slid open, Rupert followed Levi along a bending glass corridor. It reflected like a travelling carnival’s Hall of Mirrors; he left behind the hubbub of the busy terminal building.

‘Monsieur Rupert Carpenter—’ the tannoy announced.

‘Huh,’ Rupert’s ears pricked up, just as the barrier doors closed. He had not concentrated on the brief announcement and now, sealed in the glass passageway, heard no more; and could not walk back. ‘What the hell.’

Further security; a message broadcast that mentioned him by name; another flight he wondered; surely not. Levi never mentioned it. Rupert looked back and forth along the corridor, confused. Whatever next?

A queue of passengers grew, they watched, as they waited for the strange Englishman to move through security. The single-direction sliding security doors led Rupert into a smaller hall with a lower ceiling than the before, he could not tell if it was arrivals or departures. There appeared check-in desks, yet Levi marched over to a car hire desk; he talked to a young girl. Relieved his mark at last stood still, Rupert drew alongside him.

‘There you are. Just in time. Here,’ Levi said, and offered a set of car keys. ‘Hope you are okay with left-hand drives.’

‘Where are we, Levi? Is this a private business lounge?’

‘Relax Rupert; this is the French side of the airport.’

‘French side?’

‘Yes, France, hence the internal border crossing,’ Levi glanced back to the glass entry point they recently passed through, then gestured again with the keys.

‘But I’m supposed to be in Switzerland, the conference, my talk,’ Rupert realised the delay Levi caused him. ‘Someone was trying to contact me, I heard the call.’

‘I am afraid it was not for you, I organised a message for the driver meeting you.’

‘Why? What did you tell him?’

‘It is not important now.’

‘It is to me,’ Rupert’s tone became serious and anxious. ‘People are relying on my attendance. I’ve no intention of letting anyone down.’

Levi opened his radiant purple eyes wider, his stare pierced Rupert’s inner mind as if his head skewered on a pike.

‘Your conference is important, Rupert; I sincerely understand that, you have been given the sight, the capacity to orchestrate real spiritual change for your fellow man. Without doubt you are an exceptional person and I truly believe it,’ he said, paused to deliver, ‘nevertheless, what I have to give you is more important than any conference appearance. I know you will not regret our meeting.’

Rupert’s head spun on the imaginary spear, an emotional deck stacked against him, his heart told him this was his destiny. He took the dangled keys from Levi’s still hand; thoughts and effects of airborne vodka miraculously sobered away.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I will tell you on the way.’

They made their exit via a low-key perimeter access road, less frequented than the busier commercial Swiss side of the airport, then out into the French countryside and headed west on the D35.

‘So, how far is this place?’ Rupert asked, as they drove along; the route flanked by trees.

‘Not far, fifteen minutes, maybe fewer at the speed you are driving.’

If Levi had complaint of his driving, it was not obvious; he looked at home in the passenger seat, window ajar, wind buffeted his hair. His hands rested on his thighs and it was the first time Rupert noticed them in any detail. Careful not to take his eye off the road for too long, he saw aged skin, older than any other visible flesh, small lesions visible in several places: the knuckle joints, sides of his fingers and hands, swollen and deep enough to glisten with moisture. They didn’t look the hands he had shaken on their first meeting; they looked painful.

No sooner had the ploughed fields appeared, so more airport hotels came into view.

‘Are we driving in circles?’ Rupert said.

‘Yes. Well, no obviously, we need to drive around the airport, to avoid border crossings and Swiss customs.’

‘Avoid?’

Traffic slowed for a roundabout, which enabled Rupert to read the directional signposts, his head started to swim with worry and his heartbeat raised a notch. He hastily pulled off the road into the Novotel car park and stopped in the first available space, tyres squealed to a halt, then turned to face Levi.

‘Right, it’s time to come clean. Where are we going?’

‘A village called Saint Genis Pouilly. Are you ok? You look a little pale.’

‘And leaving the airport on the French side, avoiding Swiss customs, what’s with the secrecy?’

‘No need to attract attention, besides we need to be in France.’

‘Attract attention, oh, it’s just that we appear to be driving through the middle of CERN, overlooking buildings in every direction, and no doubt the odd CCTV camera,’ Rupert said with slight sarcasm in voice. ‘So I’m sure we are quite inconspicuous.’

‘Well, if you really need to know the main CERN buildings are over the border in Switzerland, but CERN is a big place and the campus straddles the border in several places. The Hadron collider itself is mainly under French soil, including part of Saint Genis Pouilly.’

‘Thanks for science lesson,’ Rupert was not impressed. ‘If you’re going to show me any nuclear device or atomic weapon, you’ve got the wrong man. I’ve no interest in fundamentalism or mass extinction of the Earth to save the planet either.’

‘I am glad to hear that. You know plenty of good things come from nuclear research, Rupert; anyway, I have no interest in a nuclear incident.’

‘That’s a relief. So, it’s not fallen off the back of a particle accelerator then.’

Levi shuffled in his seat to get more comfortable, as he faced Rupert, their eyes connected, purple on purple.

‘Let me explain. Several moons ago, I initiated a project in England. Now without getting into too much detail, it never attained a finished marketable product. At the time, nuclear power developed at such a rate in the UK, CERN established itself and other projects took precedent. The item in question used new and groundbreaking technology of the time, and achieved a great deal, but there were unfortunate consequences and it could never be fully realised. I am entrusting you with one of only two originals. eviFive have the other,’ he paused, information sunk in, he continued. ‘eviFive made reproductions and, based on the same technology, created a larger machine, which they have in an undisclosed facility. Advancement eluded them and these duplicate machines carry the same risks. They use them indiscriminately.’

‘What? Thanks for the clear explanation,’ a hesitant thought came to Rupert; he should have made himself known to the chauffeur in departures. ‘What do eviFive use it for?’

‘For their “unending” fight against terrorism.’

‘To do what?’

‘I cannot say.’

Both sets of eyes focused on each other, battled for the body language high ground. A group of Japanese visitors walked past the car. Rupert’s peripheral vision, aware of their stares, didn’t betray his concentration.

‘So, you expect me to accept a “gift”, an “atomic sub-particle nuclear device gift”.’

‘It is not a nuclear—’

‘Whatever. It’s an experimental machine of undetermined description, used against radicals, or free radicals even, or both, and you expect me to show it to friends of mine, but you can’t tell me what it does.’

‘You have to trust me Rupert,’ Levi remained steadfast.

‘Then trust me. Tell me what it does.’

‘I cannot, for two reasons,’ Levi’s answer turned political. ‘Firstly, I need your team of scientific minds to look upon this as a challenge, a mystery. They need to start at a basic level, use their knowledge and understanding of the laws of physics, chemistry and biology, unpick the machine and learn what it does. I offer no manual, no guidebook. To limit my information will expand the boundaries of theirs and no doubt will surpass the original technology, and develop a more successful one.’

The car fell silent. Rupert’s mind ticked over the discussion. Levi aimed to move in a decisive direction, and not detract from it.

‘And the second reason?’

‘For your own safety.’

Rupert said nothing, Levi continued.

‘You will not be able to tell anyone, if you do not know anything. This should keep you out of trouble.’

‘What should I say it is then?’

‘If anybody asks, tell them it is a piece of second-world-war memorabilia.’

‘That old?’

‘You have not seen it yet.’

‘Well, as I’m up to my neck in it,’ Rupert turned away. He turned the key in the ignition, a sudden grating sound emitted, the engine was still running. ‘Whoops.’

Levi smiled and settled himself in the seat once more. Rupert was not sure if he found the ignition key funny, or if he smiled because he had won him over and they were once again back on the trail. They exited the car park and Rupert continued, as directed.

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14

The Second Coming

Chapter 2

Girl Meets Boy

2100 words

Once again, Joelle and Ray plummeted into deep sleep, troubled, acutely troubled. Both revived different historic events, traumas better left in remote memories. The return of intense nightmares coincided with the return of their child, their only child, a consequence of whenever he slept under the same roof. They drew no other significant parallels with Rupert, his saintly imagery a sharp contrast from that of the dark incubi that corrupted their subconscious.

Joelle twisted once more, rolled from her left to her right side, and took the duvet with her. As if connected via a set of puppet strings, Ray moved in unison. The couple continued to plummet into rapid-eye-movement, to a level where they relived their future-defining pasts.

At the end of a darkened hall, she leaves her room, then traces a route over the carpet following the floral design; its illuminated pattern swirls back and forth. It’s alive. She nimbly steps in the necessary directions, until her gaze jumps to the sudden shrinking hallway ahead, then freezes. The distant door speeds towards her swallowing the animating carpet beneath, until it reaches her and abruptly stops. The door rests right up against her nose; she sways in its presence. From behind, she hears music and laughter.

‘Can I have a drink?’ she asks to those beyond the door.

It is not thirst that drives her on, but want for acceptance. Always chatting with adults, her mother has no time; she never does. Despite living in the same house, no mother-daughter relationship exists.

‘Please can I have a drink?’ she says again. ‘Mummy?’

Again, her mother ignores her.

She and a man called Reggie are busy behind the bedroom door. Furniture bangs and squeaks, she thinks the pair might be rearranging the room. Soon, the only thing she hears, apart from the continuous clatter of objects falling onto the floor, is heavy breathing. She surmises they must be moving furniture, and that they should have placed loose things in a box. Now they must be having a break; catching their breath after the hard work.

Unsure if they had heard her through the sounds and noises, she knocks on the door one more time.

‘Mummy, I’m thirsty,’ she says. Still no answer, only deep panting.

On tiptoes, she looks through the keyhole, candles flicker and wild shadows dance on the wall. Why draw curtains at midday? Does candlelight help to rearrange things?

Banging sounds start again and grow steadily; she realises she has to raise her own voice, if they are to hear her.

She shouts, ‘Mummy!’

Reggie mumbles something over the din, and then finally, the quiet voice of her mother gradually becomes audible.

‘Ah … ah … yes … ah, that’s it … faster … faster …’ her mother pants in a rhythmical manner, ‘ahhh … oh fu—,’

‘Are you ok, Mummy?’ The child senses something might be wrong.

‘No … ah … don’t stop … oh, God … don’t stop,’ she continues. Her voice, amplifying above any other noise, echoes passed Joelle, along the hallway.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she bangs on the door. ‘Mummy!’

‘Go away!’ Reggie’s bearish voice shouts: deep and menacing.

Reggie is hurting her mother; she is convinced of it. The hallway behind the girl grows dark; the only light now flickers from under the door and through the keyhole.

Yet again, she bangs.

‘Stop! Leave her alone. Mummy! Mummy!’

With both fists, she drums on the door and screams out. That wicked man, she needs to help her mother.

Sounds suddenly quieten, except clenched fingers rapping on the door and her racing heartbeat. Noisily beating the door with such concentration, she doesn’t hear the lock unfasten. The door flies open; she tumbles forward, falls into the room, and drops hard onto the timber floorboards just short of the dirty white shag-pile rug. Senses fill with the taste and aroma of heady incense and lingering smoke from her mother’s ‘herbal’ cigarettes; dancing colours swallow her whole.

‘Out of my way, you little shit,’ Reggie shouts to her. He strides towards the door; she rolls over just in time to avoid his cowboy boots, they kick-out in her direction. His every step echoes on the floorboards.

His paisley wing-collared shirt flaps open, as he passes and shows his hairy skinny body. He buttons his trousers; Joelle thinks he’s taken a belt to her. She pushes herself up to see her mother’s red face scowl over the bed. What had he done?

‘Reggie, come back … darling, come on … please, Reggie,’ her mother says. She glances downward and registers the existence of her offspring. ‘She means nothing, Reggie. Where are you going? Please come back.’

‘Get rid of the girl, Penny, for God’s sake,’ his voice echoes along the hallway. Heavy steps thump the stairs. ‘It’s her, or me.’

The front door slams with the sound of a cavernous prison door. It reverberates for several seconds, then the hushed lyrics of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John replaces it, as a long-player skips on a turntable at the back of Penny’s room.

“—’mer heat, boy and girl meet, but uh-oh those sum’—’mer heat, boy and girl meet, but uh-oh those sum’—’mer heat, boy and girl meet, but uh-oh those sum’—”

With a tight-lipped hateful glance, visible pipes of cartoon steam fume from her mother’s nose. She moves away; wisps of moisture evaporate.

Sheets, blankets and an assortment of her mother’s clothes lie scattered over the room, but the furniture is in the right place. Unsettled, the young girl cannot understand what has happened here.

‘Why the hell do you have to ruin everything?’ her mother says when reappearing, her voice masculine and gravely, akin to a cigar smoking dictator. She stands naked and covered in beads of sweat, towering high above; she looks angry. More confusion wells in the girl’s eyes. ‘You never stop bleating, on and on, the noise you make drives me mental.’

‘I thought he was hurting you and, and I was thirst—’

‘Thirsty,’ she bows, her voice still gruff. ‘I’ll give you thirsty.’

She pulls the child to her feet, squeezes tightly a black and blue bruised arm, and then drags her from the bedroom out to the bathroom.

‘Ouch, you’re hurting me, Mummy,’ she tries to pull away. ‘I’m not thirsty now.’

‘You little—’

‘I’ll be quiet I promise. I’m not thirsty. I’m not thirsty.’

‘Liar, you little liar. You messed it up for me, again, “I’m thirsty Mummy,”‘ she mimics. ‘Well here’s a nice bowl of water.’

Penny scrunches up the hair on the back of her daughter’s head and pushes her towards the toilet. The girl grabs the rickety timber toilet seat with both hands and straightens her arms, the seat moves from side to side; one of the hinges has rusted right through, the other strains under pressure.

Both struggle, twist and shuffle against each other for a moment; mother finally triumphs and forces her face into the water. Shock gives the girl renewed energy and she pushes upwards. With the full force of both hands, her mother fights to push her back. The girl’s forehead bangs off the seat and the ceramic bowl. Penny holds her tight and flushes the toilet; the water cascades out, splashing over the floor, the girl’s arms flail unsuccessfully, as she tries to escape.

After what feels an eternity, she gasps for air and slips off the toilet into the rapidly rising water, exhausted. The toilet seat has come away; it hangs around her neck with the look of a swimming medal. She pushes it off, and as it splashed into the water, she kicks her feet and shuffles away to relative safety underneath the basin. Her tears are lost in the soaked hair that quivers on her face. Penny kneels in silence for a moment and ignores her daughter’s whimpers.

Water continues to pour from the toilet and transforms the bathroom into a sloshing sea of murky blue and blood red. Her mother’s naked body dives beneath the water, a glittering bluey-green mermaid tail in her wake.

As the water laps around the bathroom the soaked little girl hears the bedroom door slam in the hallway. Tentatively, she feels the swollen gashes on her forehead and then gasps with terror at the sight of blood on her fingertips. She sloshes through the water to her feet and looks in the mirror; she feels light-headed and holds the basin, fresh red handprints imprint themselves in the brim. Exacerbated by the water, blood streams from her hair, it looks horrific.

Why does her mother do such beastly things? She looks again in the mirror: her pallid face; hair stuck to wet skin; eyes puffy from the water; another drop of blood drips from her chin.

Her eyes close tightly and she wishes her mother dead.

Enough is more than enough; her hand grabs a toothbrush and she wades through scarlet water to her room. Snatches her Sindy doll, pushes it into her school satchel along with, “Button Eyes” the teddy, clean underwear, two t-shirts and a pair of red corduroy trousers. She hopes her mother doesn’t leave her room again, as she splashes downstairs amid the bubbling waterfall. A packet of custard cream biscuits finds its way to her bag and she puts on her anorak. The front door opens, pink tinted water sloshes over the threshold into the garden to freedom. Now she runs as fast as her little legs can, sprinting along the path, out into the road, making her getaway.

Pumped full of adrenalin, she runs and runs for hours, she feels. Unnoticed from Camberwell to Bow, she passes other children; dodges between adults; bravely traverses the city thoroughfares. At every road crossing the Green Cross Code man, with his friendly face, helps her cross safely; she isn’t sure how he manages to get to each crossing before her, but is glad he does. By Aldgate High Street, she is tired, the people and shops are different; everything has become unfamiliar.

The end of the working day makes the streets busier and her view becomes restricted, weaving between endless adult legs. The incident is inevitable, she is tired and begins to worry, fears grow and concentration fails her. A sandal slips over the kerb, as she runs the road edge; she stumbles, grazes the soft skin of her leg, and trips over her own feet, then bounces off the kerb headlong into the path of a routemaster bus.

With no choice, the driver jams on his brakes with a squeal, passengers hold onto chrome poles and seat-top handles, as the bus lurches; not enough time to stop.

The bus continues to skid towards her, closer. She looks up in fear and freezes to the spot, as if hypnotised; the white number plate ingrains itself into her memory: MEL 265. Despite such a vivid recall, she never sees a face; it happens so fast, just a glimpse of the stranger’s hands and arms. Lifted and pushed back onto the pavement by a brown suited man: no matter how hard she tries to look around the edge of the roadside scene, she can see no face. The chance to thank him has passed. People are suddenly tripping over her and shouting.

‘Mind where you’re going,’ says one.

‘Come out of the way,’ says another.

A woman stumbles over the girl’s slim legs. ‘If you’ve broken something in here,’ she picks up her shopping bag, ‘you’ll pay for it.’

The driver climbs out of his cab and rounds the front of the bus. She sits on the pavement and watches him through the surrounding circle of scolding pedestrians, his face pale; he must have expected the worse.

Then he wades in, ‘You could have got yourself killed, not to mention my passengers …’

For the fact that she survived her ordeal unscathed, and with no parent or guardian in the vicinity, everyone takes it upon themselves to chastise her. Once they vent their anguish the onlookers, and their voices dissolve away. She sits alone on the pavement smudges of congealed blood and tears litter her face. The challenge to get far away from her home and hateful mother succeeds, yet arrival to a place where no one cares about her is not part of the plan.

‘Well, what do we have here then?’ an unfriendly dark face of a riot-policeman says, as he examines her tear-stained face. Reaching to his side, he pulls out a dull matt-black gun, points the barrel straight to her head and pulls the trigger.

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14

The Second Coming

Chapter 1

Man in Brown

1500 words

The plane jittered, wine glasses chinked on the shelf behind the bartender; those who stood righted themselves against the minor air turbulence. Rupert took another swig of his Moscow Mule, the ice rattled in the glass as he drained the last droplets of ginger beer; he sucked hard on a single ice cube and hoped it melted to release a hidden drop of vodka. Not known for being the best of flyers, twenty minutes into the flight, two cocktails drunk and he still rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. Discontented, he ordered another.

As the barman mixed his drink, Rupert visually flicked through the limited bottle labels on the shelves, pondered what his father would say if he saw him drinking at the Business Class bar aboard the Emirates’ airbus. Rupert earned this comfort, besides, better he arrived in Dubai more relaxed for the conference, especially after a few more Mules inside him, and the short, but deep sleep that would ensue.

‘Compliments from the gentleman in the brown jacket, sir,’ the barman said, as he handed over the cocktail.

The Emirates man nodded towards a man who sat by a window. Rupert turned and saw the man, his glass aloft in a friendly salute. He raised his own glass in return and turned back to the barman.

‘Did he leave a name?’ he asked.

The barman shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, he did not. He did say that you looked in need of a drink though.’

‘I do,’ he confirmed, checked his appearance in the mirror behind the bar, then gathered himself up and made for the vacant seat next to the stranger.

‘Hello, Rupert. Please. Sit,’ the man said, and gestured to the empty seat.

‘Have we met?’ Rupert said, careful to balance his drink, as he fell into the seat; the result of more buffeting turbulence.

‘I feel that we are in for a rough flight,’ the stranger said. He looked at the drink in Rupert’s hand. ‘I expect you will need a few more of those.’

‘You noticed. They help; I’m not the best flyer,’ Rupert knew the alcohol wasn’t just to ease his flying fears. ‘Cheers by the way.’

‘Indeed, cheers.’

Both men took large swigs from their tumblers before they rested them on their thighs in a mirrored move.

‘My name is Levi,’ the man said, and stretched out his hand.

Rupert shook it confidently, he noted how unexpectedly warm and soft it was.

‘Have we—’

‘Met? No, well, yes, but no. It was a long time ago,’ he said, then rapidly changed the subject. ‘I read your blog and note your Twitter feeds with great interest. I also follow many of your other social pages. You are quite prolific and certainly an authoritative voice.’

‘Thank you,’ Rupert said, slightly curious that Levi knew so much; obviously done his homework. He decided to undertake some research himself; the smart suit; neat clothing, albeit entirely brown; a lack of any jewellery; and his eyes. Familiar, yet unfamiliar, purple eyes are a thing of folklore and fiction, they are witches or warlocks eyes, women with the Alexandria’s Genesis, or allegedly, Elizabeth Taylor, not brown-suited men on airplanes.

Rupert’s eyes were purple.

They were extremely rare, rarer than albino red, even against rules of science; he often attributed them to his emotional state. Of such scarcity, Rupert understood that he was the only person with such a colouring, now apparently there was someone else. He wondered whether the guy had made the same connection. ‘Well, business or pleasure?’

‘Business, ultimately pleasure, but business first,’ he said. ‘Do you realise our interests are similar?’

‘Is that right?’ Rupert dropped his gaze, aware that it turned to a stare, and focused on his drink. ‘Religion or theology?’

‘Both!’

Rupert looked back to Levi, ‘Anything specific?’

‘An all encompassing interest across the board, similar to yourself. I am never disappointed in what I read that you publish. Take your recent piece “Twenty-five Reasons Why Modern Belief is Failing”. You explored online religion to great depth and compared its growth, albeit out of sync, with the larger decline of regular worship,’ he said with great zeal. ‘Your cross-referencing of several ranges of religious thoughts and ideologies, from Anti-theism to Zoroastrianism, is impressive and conclusive.’

‘I’ve studied hard.’

‘Clearly, a natural aptitude, Rupert, which, one assumes, is why educational establishments from around the world are so in demand of your talks; Dubai this week, Geneva the next, then on to Estonia; one of the most unreligious countries in the world.’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ Rupert said, disconcerted with Levi’s in-depth knowledge of him.

‘I needed to.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re important to me.’

‘Important?’

‘Rupert,’ Levi leant forward, then in a lower voice said, ‘I cannot hide it from you; I have been monitoring you for a while, your movements, contacts, every bit of your work: speeches, conferences, seminars; your successes, and your failures.’

‘You’re not the police, are you?’

‘Hell no!’ he sat back in his seat.

‘So, why the interest?’

‘I want to share something with you, a gift let us say.’

‘A gift,’ Rupert sipped his drink. ‘Go on …’

‘An offer of a relic,’ he said and copied the sip.

‘A religious relic. Sorry, I don’t think I can help you. I’m no archaeologist, or historian for that matter.’

‘Actually, this item is recent, an electrical device of scientific interest from the last century.’

‘Well I can’t say I do much science stuff either.’

‘What about your friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Yes, your friends who study physics and your friends who study the other sciences. Indeed several friends who study many subjects.’

‘This is strange,’ Rupert looked at the man, his face calm. The plane flew through an air pocket and dropped momentarily, the man in front remained steady. ‘When you probed into my life, Levi, just how deep did you delve?’

‘I have met many people throughout my life, Rupert, I trust few, especially with what I need to show you. I make no apologies for my research and hope you will understand the importance of our meeting.’

‘Forgive me, I too, have met many people in my young life and found many of “them” to be religious, or non-religious, devotees, freaks or weirdoes,’ Rupert’s terse reply grated. ‘From where I sit, I’m unsure which category to put you in right now.’

A silence filtered between them. With ears taken over with the constant drone of jet engines, Rupert felt his body begin to give way to alcohol he had consumed. Even so, paranoia still stalked his mind.

‘You and I are alike,’ Levi restarted the conversation with a smile, ‘and I sense a connection. I trust in you, Rupert. If you have any questions, ask them.’

‘Ok, why here? Why now?’

‘Well the plane is easy, comfortable—for some,’ he signalled the barman to bring two more drinks, aware Rupert’s glass was nearly empty. ‘And, your undivided attention: you choose not to answer calls, or email; you cannot run away; or call for help. As for now; you are ready; besides, the agency is closing in on you.’

‘The agency?’

‘With an impressive online presence, you are becoming a powerful young man; too powerful for certain people. They are getting close to you, Rupert. I can help, but I need your trust and in return, your help.’

‘Who’s getting close?’

‘Have you heard of eviFive?’

‘The UN anti-terrorist organisation.’

‘Well, if you’re concerned about me, they are openly digitally monitoring you and your colleagues, around the clock.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Let us say, I cannot afford not to know.’

‘We have picked up interesting hacking activity around our websites. We’ve managed to stave it off, but—’

‘They will not stop Rupert,’ Levi interrupted. ‘You are dealing with the big boys now, an international organisation with no financial ceiling. They are determined, you better be ready.’

The barman arrived with another round of drinks. Levi slipped him a crisp brown twenty-pound note from a shiny brown wallet. Rupert detected a generous tip, and wondered if there were any other colour notes in his wallet.

‘Thanks,’ Rupert said.

‘To our successful enterprise,’ Levi raised his glass; Rupert’s remained lowered.

‘You’re confident that I’ll say yes.’

‘Of course, I am not wasting my time, your intelligence knows that you can trust me.’

‘If I agree, where is that electric gizmo of yours?’

‘Well, coincidently, just outside Geneva,’ he smiled. ‘That leaves you a week to consider. We can then meet on your next scheduled flight.’

‘You’ve got the angles covered?’

‘Always,’ he re-toasted his glass.

‘If I find something I don’t agree with, I’m out.’

‘You will not, trust me!’

Both raised, chinked their glasses and swigged back a decent measure.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ Levi stood steadily and offered his hand, ‘until our next flight together.’ They shook.

Rupert sat alone, a sudden wave of tiredness came over him, helped by Levi’s generosity, and he closed his eyes.