Scribblings of M E Lucas

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14

The Second Coming

Chapter 5

The Gift

2740 words

At Saint Genis Pouilly, they drove into a small bustling village square. Levi indicated to the left corner, they turned and pulled up to the kerb further around the corner.

The pavements, populated with locals out on daily errands: several carried groceries bought in the nearby shops, some with newspapers, others engaged in conversation with each other as they passed. For a moment, they all glanced in the direction of their car; Rupert imagined a town of zombies attracted by the scent of new untainted blood. With relief, the bloodlust gawps looked away and carried on with their own business.

‘This is it, wait here for my return, I will not delay,’ and with that Levi hopped out of the car and slipped into the streetscape unnoticed.

A few seconds passed, in the rear-view mirror Rupert observed his fellow accomplice meander along the street. His memory played back Levi’s voice from earlier, “For your own safety”. He wondered what he had meant, safe from what, or who. Levi had not expanded any further. He watched the figure shrink in the distance; Rupert’s curiosity got the better of him. He climbed out of the car, kept his eyes fixed on Levi, and followed.

A few steps held back, and careful not to lose him, he trotted along the pavement, darted between pedestrians; using them for cover. He need not have worried, Levi, fixed on the task in hand, did not turn around once. As Rupert viewed over the shoulders of an elderly man and his wife, a plume of Gauloises cigarette smoke wafted and blocked his view. When it had cleared, Levi had vanished. Rupert overtook the couple and ran to a road junction where he had last seen him, he slowed and stole his head around the corner; the last glimpse of brown suit, as it disappeared through an anonymous door opening.

Various posters and fliers covered the galvanised metal door. As he approached, he noticed graffiti and dried urine stains added to the covering. Other than a lock escutcheon, the door had no ironmongery, no knob, no handle, and Rupert possessed no key.

Over the road, back at the junction of the square, Rupert noticed a coffee shop; the recollection of a similar waft of freshly baked pastries that Levi disallowed him at the airport earlier. He made his way back to the café and ordered coffee and pain au chocolat. Seated at an outside table, he waited; eyes looked over to the side street, focused near the door. Not long now, he thought, and checked the clock on his phone.

People came and went, as did his pastry and so too his coffee. Where was he? Rupert glanced at his phone again; Levi delayed longer than a few minutes. He took euro coins from his wallet, left them on the table, and made his way back to the doorway. Absentmindedly, he rattled car keys in his pocket, he stepped towards the secure door and pushed it with his free hand. Rupert half-expected Levi to walk through, but it did not shift.

‘Great,’ he said to himself.

The lock was a straightforward 5-lever cylinder type, he examined it; the kind found on a modern house front door. He pulled out the set of car keys. To his surprise, on a separate interlocking key ring, a similar cylinder key jiggled free.

‘That’s odd, why have a house key on a hire car key fob?’ He looked around, aware he mumbled to himself, and checked that no one had heard him. He looked at the key again. ‘It can’t be.’

With apprehension, Rupert offered the key to the lock, it slipped in without resistance. He turned and the mechanism unlocked, the door clunked ajar. How could this be, he thought, had Levi left the key on the ring and how had he managed to open the door without it? He pocketed the keys, pulled the hood of his zip-through over his head, tried to absolve what he was going to do, and heaved the door wide open. Triggered by the door opening, darkness disappeared, as wall mounted light fittings, fed by metal conduits, flickered into operation. At the same time, a red light appeared above the door and began to strobe. Was the door alarmed? Rupert could not remember any flash light when Levi had entered.

Find Levi, the only answer, and quick. Rupert pulled the door behind him and stepped down a set of stairs that led to a darkened corridor; the noise of the door clunked closed echoed before him. Triggered by movement sensors, bulbs buzzed to life the further he walked. The long grey concrete passage reached another deeper staircase, similarly utilitarian in its concrete and galvanised metal appearance. Rupert peered over the handrail in time to see a cascade of lights flicker into the depths. There was no sign of Levi. There had been no other doors or corridors so this had to be the right direction; he began a descent of the first flight.

‘Shit,’ out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shiny black-plastic dome fixed high up on the wall, a masked CCTV camera, how many others had he not seen? He pulled over his hood, covered his shame. When he found him, Levi would need to explain.

Despite trying to descend with as much stealth as possible, squeaks from his trainers reverberated within the hard interior. He was glad of the hood, the temperature felt like it dropped with every step, and it was cold. After a few minutes and countless stairs he reached the bottom, his legs ached and his breath visible in the chilled air. The only way, a pitch-black opening loomed at the end of the lobby. Anxious, he anticipated the lights would turn on and stepped forward, closer and closer. Although no bloodthirsty ghoul stood there to greet him, he still jumped out of his skin when lights burst in to life.

Ahead of him appeared a small shallow room, curved like an underground tunnel, leading off out of sight to his left and right. A large and shiny pipe thread through blue metal mountings filled the space. Several other pipes, wires, conduits, and lights clung to the walls around the pipe; everything ran in the same direction as the room. Rupert moved forward and looked to the left, the pipe and its attachments continued out of sight. He entered the room and gasped at the sight, the room was not a room, but a very long corridor with a slow curve. The apparatus stretched out and disappeared around the bend in the distance, he turned to face the other direction.

‘I told you to stay in the car,’ Levi said.

‘Jesus, Levi,’ startled for a second time, Rupert jumped at the sight of him.

‘Not two names I would usually put in the same sentence,’ Levi said.

The corridor continued with the same slow-bend behind Levi and the large holdall held at his side.

‘Where are we?’

‘Do you not recognise a Hadron Collider when you see one?’ Levi looked up and down the corridor.

‘Then we are probably in serious trouble.’

‘We are now you triggered the alarm, come on,’ he said and turned back along the curving tunnel.

‘Are we not going back up the stairs?’

‘They will be waiting for you.’

On cue, Rupert heard the sound of feet, they clattered and echoed within the stair core, he followed Levi. They walked along the curving perimeter; the footfall became louder and louder. Another darkened room off the corridor appeared and Levi took it. Lights did not flicker on until Rupert entered, by that time Levi was half-way up a flight of stairs. Levi, with greater stealth, must have done this a few times before, he thought.

‘Your turn to carry the bag, and hurry, they are coming.’

‘What is this?’ Rupert asked.

‘Just take it; we do not have time now.’

Rupert obeyed, grabbed the leather handles and heaved the bag up, it was a ton weight; he put it down.

‘It’s flipping heavy.’

‘I know, come on,’ Levi disappeared fast up the stairs. Rupert pulled up the bag again, threaded his arm through the loops and pushed the bag up onto his shoulder, still heavy, but more manageable.

They climbed another similar utilitarian staircase to the top; Rupert remembered to pull the hood up further, ahead of any CCTV cameras, along another identical corridor to a set of steps and a metal security door, where Levi waited.

‘No looking back, or dawdling, when we go through this door, straight to the car. I expect it will be busy out there and we do not need to get caught up with things.’

‘But—’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘We can talk in the car, let us go.’

Orders administered, he levered a handle and out they went, greeted by the sunshine and the noise of police sirens, into a deserted side street. Levi closed the door behind them, pulled Rupert’s hood from his head and led the way out to the main road. Rupert followed and recognised the busy street; people had stopped daily errands, stood, looked and pointed in one direction, past where they had parked the car, to flashing blue lights and the source of the sirens.

Before Rupert could say a word, Levi had joined a group of on-looking shoppers and conversed in French. Languages were not Rupert’s high point, so decided to avoid speech, instead continued past them towards the car. In an attempt to eavesdrop, he picked-up two easy words: terrorists and bank.

He placed the heavy holdall into the boot of the car, relieved to shed the weight, daylight gave the first proper look at the bag. It was an old leather holdall, covered in dust and cobwebs, secured by a series of leather straps and buckles; from a different age. A police car sped past, its siren wailed; he hurried and closed the boot. Heat prickled his cheeks, he felt flushed, and an uncontrollable glow of red filled his face with guilt and worry. He hastened into the driver’s seat and closed the door; Levi joined him.

‘Apparently, a group of terrorists have broken into the vaults of a Banque Populaire des Alpes on the corner,’ Levi gave Rupert a frowned expression. ‘You look flustered.’

‘Actually, I’d gathered that much, but we were nowhere near a bank vault and we are hardly a group.’

‘Do you seriously think that CERN would admit to allowing an unknown foreign student into their Hadron Collider?’ he omitted himself from the equation.

‘Levi, you told me you had something to give me, something safe, something that you owned. Yet here we are surrounded by France’s finest, gun wielding I wouldn’t doubt, with a damn heavy bag stolen from an immensely secure world-class scientific research facility. It is all a bit Hollywood don’t you think?’

‘Talking of Hollywood, might I suggest if you do not make a move soon, it will be you in front of all the cameras. The bag is not stolen. It was stored securely and safely for me until I needed it again; that time is now,’ Levi had an uncanny ability to put Rupert in his place. ‘With all due respect, Rupert, if you had not followed me through the door, this would not have happened.’

The car fell silent. Rupert’s well-reasoned mind could not comprehend what Levi told him. How could Levi have entered the building; passed by countless security devices; acquired a hefty old bag from deep in the recesses of CERN; and still not triggered any alarm? Although it pained him to admit it, Levi was right; if only he had stayed put in the car.

He started the engine and they made their way. A gendarme hurried to reroute backed-up traffic away from the scene; they departed without a hitch.

They drove west to the outskirts of town on the Rue de Lyon, past more airport hotels, and on to the main B255 headed towards Bellegarde-sur-Valserine. The route took them on a bendy road at the foot of the Jura Mountains and for the most part ran alongside the Rhône River. At Bellegarde they joined the A40 Autoroute and after the half an hour the journey took, Rupert spoke.

‘When will I get to see this thing?’ he said.

‘At the next services, pull off,’ Levi said, his eyes closed, as they had been for the whole journey, he barely moved. ‘We will stop for coffee and I will show you.’

‘It had better be worth it.’

‘Trust me.’

Rupert drove; Levi rested his eyelids. The E21 E-road and the A40 Autoroute, Rupert noted the same, at least for the current stretch of road. Confused by the numbering, he found solace in the satellite navigation.

‘Aire de la Semine, will that do?’ Rupert asked Levi.

‘No café there, drive on.’

Rupert glanced across to the services, as they sped past, several parked articulated-trucks and sure enough, just picnic benches complete with a toilet block. How did he do that? Either, he had been here several times before, had a photographic memory, or he could see through his eyelids, Rupert thought.

The motorway continued through the country, pine trees scattered across the hillsides from crest to the dusty grey verges of a well used Autoroute des Titans. Rupert had picked out the name on the sat-nav device, he had not given it much attention, and he now glanced back and forth from road to screen. The two lanes of westbound carriageway split from the eastbound, changed proximity and elevation, as they passed over the Viaduc du Tacon; Rupert focused on the dashboard guidance.

‘Do not look down,’ Levi said.

Rupert glanced out of the window, trees and buildings disappeared beneath the road, as they sailed high above. He noted Levi’s closed eyes.

‘How do you do that?’ Rupert said.

‘It is a sixth sense thing,’ a slight condescension in his voice. ‘I could teach you sometime; I know you are receptive.’

Regular attendance at various conferences, Rupert had met many hundreds of people, along with challenging personas of those devote, yet, despite only meeting twice, Levi managed to take it to a personal level, offered up a challenge that required focus and similar retort.

‘That might be interesting, it could come in handy,’ he tried hard not to sound cynical. ‘I have a sixth sense of my own.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m a good reader of people.’

‘Yes,’ Levi opened his eyes; intrigued. ‘I am aware of that.’

‘I can tell if someone is telling the truth, or if they are wasting my time with superfluous acts or information.’

‘Well that is interesting, what—’

‘It’s not something I readily share with people, especially what I am feeling,’ Rupert truncated Levi. ‘Fifteen minutes to Aire de Ceignes services.’

They disappeared into the Tunnel de Saint-Germain. The glow of red taillights ahead of them filled the car’s interior. Rupert stole a peek at Levi to read the expression on his face and there it was again, not what he had expected, a smile.

Once more, with eyes closed he remained that way until they pulled into the motorway services at Aire de Ceignes, Haut Bugey. Greeted by a flamboyant cladding of red and yellow graphic panels, the Agip service station, a welcome interlude from the dull greys and browns of the tarmac and mountains that surrounded the landscape. They pulled into a parking space outside the main building and jumped out the car.

‘I will arrange coffee, you bring in the holdall,’ Levi said, he marched his way to the door and did not wait for an answer.

‘You really know how to push your luck,’ Rupert said to himself, he turned to the back of the car and opened the boot; not aware Levi was out of earshot.

He looked up. ‘Great, I’m talking to myself, and not for the first time today. Jeez, this bag is bloody heavy.’

Preparing his attempt to move it, he studied the rows of buckled straps for a second, and although tempted, realised it would take too long to unfasten the thing, have a sneak peep, and buckle it back up again. He lifted the holdall clear, closed the boot, and locked up the car.

Existing cover:

Proposed cover:

What do you think?

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.