by Paul Cude
"I know it seems strange Pete, but perhaps Manson is just doing his job. Maybe armed guards are a little over the top, but the Cropptech industrial unit does house a variety of valuable metal and gems. Not to mention the reason you and I are here... the laminium! We both know how valuable that is," she added, raising her eyebrows.
"It's much more than that, it really is," Peter pleaded with his friend. "Don't ask me how I know, I just do."
Not wishing to press the point any further, whilst also recognising that Peter seemed to have reached the end of his tether, Richie leaned over and kissed her friend smack in the middle of his forehead.
"Well if there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to let me know. I've got to get back to work. Think you can find your way out?"
Waving his mobile phone in the air, he replied,
"I'll call you if I get lost."
The two friends waved goodbye to each other, with Peter remaining in the courtyard a little longer, trying to decide on a course of action. What could he do? Ranting and raving at Manson would clearly get him nowhere, and it might even get him fired like Dr Island. Al Garrett was about as visible as a needle in a haystack at the moment, so it wasn't as if he could just bump into him somewhere and raise the issue. What he needed was an excuse, an excuse to go and see Garrett and then tackle him about these armed guards and Manson in general.
Peter racked his brains trying desperately to find the answers that he needed, but after a few minutes he gave up. Nothing he could think of would be important enough to get him a one to one with the boss and still be credible enough to fool Manson, or at least not give Manson a reason to have him fired.
Sitting in the shade watching the fish glide gracefully through the water, Peter started to think about all the other things he had to do outside work. Top of his mental list was to go back to Mark's house and finish the packing, after which he had to go and visit the solicitors. Before he did that though, he was waiting on Gee Tee and Tank to see if they'd made any progress in finding a mantra to rid the house of whatever evil loitered inside.
Out of nowhere it came to him.
'That's it!' he thought. 'Mark.' Why hadn't it occurred to him before? The perfect excuse that he needed to visit Al Garrett was right in front of him: a memorial in Mark's memory. It had been done before, plenty of times in fact. Cropptech's grounds were littered with beautiful wooden benches, many dedicated to former employees who had passed away. Better still was the thought that Manson wouldn't even object to the idea, as he'd already claimed to be Mark's friend when Peter had caught him at the house.
'Perfect,' he thought, 'absolutely perfect.' So perfect in fact, that he was going to march up to Al Garrett's office right now. Ducking in between the giant green leaves, he made his way back to the glass door. Instead of turning left and heading back towards the restaurant and his office, he turned right and headed for the nearest staircase. Once there, he climbed to the top floor, made his way through the open plan offices of the accounts department, and into the executive part of the building.
A rueful smile crossed his face as he exchanged the world of notice boards and narrow corridors filled with photocopiers and printers, for a world of lush carpets, hi tech coffee machines, oak panelled walls and polished brass fittings. Turning the corner, he spotted the shiny lift doors that he normally used. Swaggering confidently down the corridor towards Al Garrett's office, he knew that whoever was in there would already know he was on his way. He'd already noticed a couple of the security cameras tracking his every move. Rapping on the door, he forced himself to stand up straight. A husky voice resounded from inside.
"Come."
Taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto his face, he turned the handle and entered. Just as last time, it was dark, only tiny slivers of light finding their way through the blinds on the full length window. Peter was struck dumb by the overpowering stench that pervaded the room. If he hadn't been totally convinced before that it was the same smell as in Mark's house, he was nothing short of one hundred percent sure now.
Stepping through the gloom, he stopped in front of Garrett's desk, staring intently at the old man slouched in the chair behind it. Although it hadn't been long since he'd last seen the ‘bald eagle’, the physical change in the man seemed quite remarkable. Previously, Peter would have regarded Garrett as being in pretty good shape for someone of his age, but now... he looked positively ancient. His skin seemed pale, clammy and gaunt. The trademark moustache and the small amount of hair on his head looked slick with grease, as if he hadn't washed in weeks. A closer inspection suggested Garrett's eyes were overly bloodshot and that the smell of severe body odour was so bad, it could nearly walk out of the room on its own accord.
Standing up tall and straight, he waited patiently for either the seated Garrett, or Manson who was standing by the window at the back of the room, to address him.
"It's... it's... Bent-thistle isn't it?" Garrett babbled, leaning across the desk to try and get a better view.
"Bentwhistle sir," replied Peter loudly.
"Ahhhh... Bentwhistle," said Garrett, as if trying to remember something important.
"What is it you want, Bentwhistle?” Manson demanded, facing away, looking out of the window.
Addressing Garrett, Peter said,
"It's about Mark, sir. Some of us in the security department wondered if you'd made any plans for a memorial of some kind?"
Garrett looked bewildered.
"Mark. Who's Mark?” he asked, puzzled.
"Mark Hiscock sir," replied Peter. "You know, the ex head of security, who died about two weeks ago."
"Died! Why wasn't I informed?” snapped Garrett angrily.
Peter took a step back, shocked and outraged.
'How could he not know?' he thought.
Manson moved away from the window, wisp-like. Putting a hand on Garrett's shoulder, he whispered,
"It's alright Al. You've had a lot on your plate. We did tell you, but you've been so busy that it must have slipped your mind."
With Manson so close by, Garrett's mind seemed to be struggling to cope with the situation.
"Yessss... slipped my... mind," uttered Garrett, groggily.
"I'll personally make sure he gets the memorial he deserves," assured Manson, his hand still firmly connected to Garrett's shoulder.
"Was there anything else, Bentwhistle?"
Peter knew there was no point in bringing up the business with the armed guards, here and now. From the look of it, Garrett looked as though he was struggling to stay awake, let alone hold a meaningful conversation. Peter looked Manson directly in the eye, and said,
"No, I think that was everything."
"You'll have to excuse us then, Bentwhistle. We have a lot more work to be getting on with," stated Manson, waving his hand as if to dismiss Peter from the room.
Turning around, Peter headed straight for the door, determined not to show the worry that he felt for Garrett's safety on his face. Grasping the handle, Manson called out from behind him.
"I do hope you like my new guards, Bentwhistle."
He always managed to make the word 'Bentwhistle' sound like something you’d scrape off your shoe after a walk in the park. Turning the handle without looking back, he contemplated everything that had happened on the walk back to his office. Things seemed so wrong. He felt so helpless. And worst of all, he had no idea just how to put things right.
Filled with concern, later that evening Peter decided he was going to keep a diary of all the things that happened at work, relating to Manson and Garrett. Despite not needing to because of his eidetic memory, he thought it wise to have a back up and have something to show others if necessary. Finding a nice notebook that he'd won in a raffle, he opened up the front cover and began jotting down all of the details of today's encounter. Just as he'd finished writing up the day's occurrences, his phone chirped to indicate an incoming text message. It was from Tank. With a mixture of relief and disappointment f
looding through him, Peter read that his friend would be coming round later to drop something off, and that he'd had no luck in procuring tickets to the much anticipated match that they'd both hoped to see.
Deleting the message, he decided to unwind by playing one of his favourite computer games, an MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game). He'd tried out a few different games before settling on this particular one, which he really liked. What they all seemed to have in common though, which amused him no end, was the fact that at some point in each and every one of these games, you would wander across a dragon and no doubt have to slay it.
'If only they knew the truth,' he thought, as the start screen flickered into life.
At twenty to nine there was a loud knock at the front of the house. Peter pulled open the front door to reveal a very out of breath Tank in a garishly red tracksuit, all sweaty and dishevelled. Briefly, the man mountain of a rugby player explained that he had run over from his house, in preparation for rugby training which started in less than two weeks time. Peter rolled his eyes and gave his friend a 'you really don't need to be doing that' look, but it just went straight over Tank's head.
With his breathing slowly recovering, Tank handed Peter a wooden prism, or as Peter liked to think of it, a Toblerone-shaped box. Tank explained that his boss had gone to great lengths to obtain both the box and its contents. He added that the items were very old and possibly unstable, and that the fine powder needed to be used in conjunction with the first item, but both should be fit for purpose. Ever so grateful, Peter thanked his friend and asked him to pass on his regards to his boss. With a wave and a nod, Tank headed off into the night, on the return leg of his run home. After watching his friend's giant frame disappear off into the distance, Peter returned to his gaming, not the least bit tired.
10 An Unusual Request
Eight hours later, Peter sat in his kitchen devouring his breakfast, tired from the hours of gaming. Although weary, he was happy that Tank had come round and dropped off a mantra for him to try at Mark's house.
Gee Tee had said that the mantra, if used properly, should get rid of any toxins throughout the house and the surrounding area. He'd also passed on a second mantra that would confirm everything was totally safe and free from any contaminants. Peter was eager to try it, and had planned to take the afternoon off from work this coming Friday, to finish off clearing the house and try out his friend's hard work. Not only would it be a job out the way, but any time away from Cropptech at the moment seemed like a complete bonus as far as he was concerned.
Chomping on another mouthful of cereal, he decided he'd grab a copy of the Daily Telepath and put it away to read later. Closing his eyes, he used all his will and concentration to send off his mind on its usual route to find the newspaper. Doing it on autopilot so to speak, meant that he was free to finish off his breakfast. Halfway through another giant mouthful, he realised something was dreadfully wrong with the download. Squeezing his eyes together tight, his conscious mind managed to catch up with the part of him that was off in the ether, desperate to see what the problem was. Problems like this were fairly commonplace, generally tending to be difficulties at the other end, complications due to weather conditions or the individual newspapers themselves trying out something new to improve their services. When he'd encountered these problems in the past and caught up with his outstretched mind, he'd always found giant worded messages floating around the filing cabinet area, informing everyone of the problem and announcing when a fix would be in place. Although this produced the same feeling in him, it did feel slightly more... urgent!
Linked fully with his mind once more, he expected to see the giant messages flying around in the air. But this was not the case. Instead, he found a huge blinking red arrow pointing only him in the direction of an old wooden filing cabinet that looked as though it had seen better days. With an air of caution, he guided his mind over and very carefully opened it up.
Instinctively he pulled back a little, expecting an array of information to come screaming out over the top of the drawer at him. But not so. Out flew a little paper plane, dancing and swirling in the air, doing loop the loops, shaped like the iconic Concorde itself, right down to the very last detail. He could have sworn there was even a cabin crew inside the cockpit. Without warning, the plane bucked, headed straight upwards, inverted on itself and, putting on a spurt of speed, flew directly into Peter's consciousness. Overwhelmed and surprised at first, it took him a few seconds to realise that he had to unfold the plane to read the message within. On doing so, he was surprised to see a very unexpected invitation.
YOU ARE SUMMONED TO A MEETING WITH COUNCILLOR HITCH ROSEBLOOM OF THE DRAGON COUNCIL ON SATURDAY AT 5.30PM ROOM 54367 OF THE COUNCIL BUILDING. PUNCTUALITY IS EXPECTED.
After recovering from the initial shock, Peter filed the message away in his subconscious and whizzed off to retrieve the newspaper he'd been looking for in the first place. On his return he finished his breakfast, all the time wondering why he'd been asked to meet the councillor. The rest of the week passed without event and although Peter had tried extremely hard to keep tabs on the ever elusive Manson, it had proved all but impossible, with just the occasional glimpse of him coming and going in and out of Garrett's office. Friday afternoon came along and after changing into some casual clothing, he drove straight from work to Mark's house.
After a couple of hours, Peter had logged and neatly packed the remainder of Mark's belongings (at least those that would fit) and put them safely in his car. He had searched the house as thoroughly as possible and had not come across Manson's lost book, or anything else that would have interested him. The only thing he'd really discovered was that the foul smelling toxin was absolutely everywhere, even in the dank, dark old loft and the tiny cupboard under the stairs that contained only the gas meter and the vacuum cleaner.
With the house all but empty, apart from the larger furniture which he'd arranged to be picked up at a later date, he opened up the wooden prism that Tank had given him, in the middle of the living room. As he did so, Tank's words about Gee Tee being incredibly old and more than a little forgetful rang in his ears. Combined with the worry that he might not be up to the task (after all he was still in his infancy in dragon terms) he could positively feel the butterflies fluttering around inside his stomach. Pulling out a small packet of powder that was wrapped in a flimsy sheet of parchment, he unfolded it, noticing that Gee Tee had written on it to make sure that all the windows and doors within the house were open. Making sure they were, Peter opened the packet and poured the powder into the palm of his hand, having already memorised the mantra from his brief glimpse of it. By the look of things, the master mantra maker had not only translated the mantra into English, but had also made it rhyme to add more power to it. No wonder it had taken the old dragon a little while. Translating was one thing, translating and rhyming, that was something altogether more complicated.
'No surprise he's the best in the business then,' thought Peter. Changing his focus from the old shopkeeper to the matter quite literally at hand, he closed his eyes and started to recite the words of the mantra.
Powder of bat, essence of lynx,
Do your job and be rid of this jinx.
Seek it all out and blow it away,
Once gone for good, away it will stay.
Feeling the cool rush of air on his skin, Peter opened his eyes to see several cyclones whirling around the room, causing the cushions on the sofa to fly and the old wooden legs on the dining table to creak in despair. After three circuits of the living room, the cyclones shot out of the door and scattered in different directions. Retrieving the cushions, he sprawled out on the sofa, waiting until he could no longer hear the flapping of curtains or the rustling of blinds. It didn't take long. A quick tour of the house revealed everything was back to normal, with absolutely no sign at all of any horrible smell. Opening up the prism once more, he removed the second mantra, the one that would check just how safe the hous
e and surrounding area were. Reciting the words, he chuckled to himself on noticing the old shopkeeper had done the same with this one as he had with the last.
Oh wonder of wonders, check all of this dirt,
And see that there's nothing to cause any hurt.
Check everything here is protected and clean,
A message from you we will wait to be seen.
As the last word rolled off his tongue, a small ball of intensely bright light appeared in the centre of the room. Abruptly, two dozen fluorescent blue dragonflies emerged from it, swiftly zooming off in every different direction. Again, Peter chose to wait in the living room, hoping that whatever sign would appear, he would be able to spot it when it happened. Some of these mantras were renowned for being unreliable, or for having a message that lasted half a second. Even as a dragon, it was easy to blink and miss it. He was determined that this was not going to happen. A few minutes after having left, the dragonflies, one by one, all started to return.
As the last dragonfly entered the brilliant ball of supernatural power, it began to spin violently. Beams of light started to erupt from it, causing Peter to have to shield his eyes. Suddenly a loud 'POP' shattered the silence, revealing a giant worded message that ran mid-air around the room, again and again and again. In the same colour as the dragonflies, the words 'ALL CLEAR, ALL CLEAR' soared through the air, weaving in and out of lampshades, lifting the curtains almost clear of their rails, and once again bringing a whole new meaning to the words 'scatter cushions'. After a minute or so the letters started to fade, with the words eventually fizzling out about half a minute later. Standing in the middle of the room, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. The house had been made safe, and could now be sold without endangering any innocent bystanders, the clearance men could now safely collect all the furniture to be sold, and the monies from all of that could be transferred to the children's hospital as per Mark's wishes.