A prolonged burst of applause arose as the delegates stood to their feet en masse. The Security Council had experienced nothing as momentously moving as this during its 65 year existence. There was not the slightest hint of a veto, which would have brought any progress to a thundering halt. Instead handshakes were being exchanged. Arms were being wrapped around receptive shoulders; smiles as broad as the longest day were worn without a semblance of embarrassment.
The Creator, through His surrogate Richard Moss, had enlisted the support of a normally recalcitrant world organisation. Because of far-reaching resolutions tabled, accepted and signed off by the Security Council’s five permanent members, Earth may yet be saved.
Chapter Sixty Eight
The world’s media has reacted with alacrity to the news emanating from the United Nations press office. A lengthy press release, incorporating all the agreements reached by the Security Council, has resulted in a media frenzy. Television, radio and newspaper organisations are clamouring for interviews with the major players. The internet, instantaneous as ever, is setting the world alight with the momentous story of national interests being permanently shelved. Religious leaders throughout the world are committed to the quest of supplanting one God in place of a multitude of deities which, since the beginning of time, have been a major cause of war, strife, torture, persecution and misery. Politicians are discarding party interests. Coalitions are being forged where, in the past, the motivating factor was a political party’s narcissism prevailing above the interests of the people it was elected to represent.
Richard Moss, despite his elevation to a stature approaching sainthood, is about to be reunited with his partner Julia and their son Alexander. A period of several weeks have passed since Noah’s spacecraft landed in Windsor Great Park. The only personal contacts between them during those hectic weeks were infrequent, often strained, telephone conversations. The frustration of seeing Richard on television and listening to his radio interviews didn’t help. To be honest they caused Julia to have doubts as to whether their fragmented relationship had the strength to survive for much longer. Consequently nothing seemed right. She had felt more confident about Alexander’s future and her own, as a matter of fact, during those six long years when Richard had vanished without trace. The heartache which accompanied his disappearance was eventually suffused by the birth of her baby boy, who then grew to mirror Richard in looks and mannerisms. It was as if providence had provided a substitute for that which she had lost.
‘Mummy,’ Alexander wandered over to his mother who was slouching, disconsolate, in her favourite armchair. ‘When is daddy coming home?’
Julia picked up the little boy, cuddled him tightly and kissed a cheek several times before answering.
‘He will be home soon my love. I spoke to him this morning.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He said to expect him before your bedtime. That means he should be here very soon. Why don’t we count each passing minute on our fingers and we will then know how long it will be until he comes to see you? You go to bed at seven o’clock, that’s in ten minute’s time so we have enough fingers to count to ten. Okay?’
Alexander smiled his understanding and looked closely at the second finger moving jerkily around the face of his mother’s watch. ‘It goes very slowly,’ he muttered while waiting patiently for the first minute to pass. ‘There,’ he said, holding up the little finger on his right hand. ‘One minute gone, nine to go.’
The minutes passed until the scraping sound of a key being inserted into the front door lock interrupted Alexander as he was about to raise his tenth finger. ‘It’s daddy,’ he shouted. ‘It’s daddy, he’s here just as I held up my last finger.’ He rushed to the door. ‘Daddy, daddy, you’re home!’
***
Some three hours have passed since Alexander was tucked up into bed by his father, who was now relaxing in Julia’s armchair browsing through today’s copy of the Daily Mail. He looked up as she emerged from the kitchen holding two mugs of steaming coffee.
‘Hey, I was going to do that,’ he said, smiling, as she handed him one of the mugs. The serious look on her face quickly erased his smile. Holding her mug securely in the palms of her hands it appeared as if she was shielding the contents from that which she was about to say. She eased down onto an arm of the chair, took a sip of coffee and began to speak, her voice quiet yet determined.
‘We have to talk!’
‘Oh oh, sounds serious.’ answered Richard, setting the newspaper aside on the adjacent coffee table.
‘Serious? Perhaps, it depends - on your reaction.’
‘My reaction?’
‘Yes, on your reaction.’
Julia paused while Richard set his mug down beside the newspaper.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ she said. ‘It has been too long already and now you’re back all I see of you is on television or in the papers. You cannot begin to understand how difficult if has been for me. Bringing up Alexander, coping with the loss. The ceaseless waiting and wondering. The not knowing. Where you were. Dead or alive. Would we ever see you again? Our future.’
She paused, stood up and brushed an eye with the back of her hand. Placing her mug on the table she began pacing the room. Richard remained seated, impassive, not wishing to interject, until he understood the problem and was able to confront it.
‘Your coming back was such a relief. For me, Alexander, our families. I know it was none of your fault but that didn’t help as the days, the months and the years passed. I was getting used to being on our own. Alexander wasn’t affected - how could he miss someone he had never known?. But now you’re back all he ever asks is, where is daddy, when is he coming? It tears me apart every time he says it and I don’t know what to say to him any more!’
Richard stood up, wrapped Julia in his arms, and kissed her gently on the lips.
‘Jules, I love you and, believe me, I do understand what you have been through. But I have been set a task which, if I fail, will result in calamity for us and for everyone throughout the world. Time is not on my side. I know it sounds selfish but it’s what I have to do. You speak of our future. There will be no future unless I continue to build on what has been a very encouraging start. I need you to understand that I do this for you and Alexander; saving the two of you means everything to me. If I can achieve that then, as a consequence, my task will have been successful for everyone will be saved. All I ask is for you to bear with me while I do what I must do.’
He paused.
‘Does my reaction answer your question? Are you prepared to wait until I have done my best to accomplish my mission?’
A nod plus a big smile from Julia spoke volumes. He kissed her again.
‘C’mon Jules,’ he said with a grin and a wink. ‘Let’s get ready for bed.’
Chapter Sixty Nine
Late September and a chilly breeze, coming in the wake of a lovely warm summer, stung Richard’s cheeks as he was ushered into the rear seat of a large, shiny black Mercedes by a poker-faced driver. Richard waved goodbye to Julia and Alexander who were standing, looking lonely and forlorn, at the main entrance to the apartment block where they live. The Mercedes purred off as if borne on a duvet containing the finest selection of duck down; that was until it encountered a chaotic succession of large potholes, an unwanted legacy from the exceedingly harsh winter of the year. The driver, silent save for an occasional grunt as the car bounced unceremoniously over the scarred roads, glanced in the rear view mirror to see Richard looking pensively out of the side window.
I wonder what he’s thinking about? Looks a bit worried to me!
In fact Richard’s thoughts were upon nothing more serious than the state of the roads leading to the M 25 motorway which would eventually speed them towards London and their destination, Number 10 Downing Street.
Global warming? Makes you think doesn’t it? We’ve
just had the coldest winter for years, followed by the hottest summer, and the result? Roads and pavements riddled with potholes and no likelihood of them being repaired. Do I wish I was back on Terra Nova? Hmmm, not really but, unless I am able to continue persuading the world’s populace to dig themselves out of the debilitating apathy which appears to affect everyone and everything, it’ll be a safer place to be than here!
Earlier this morning, a noisy, continuous rap-rap on the door of Julia’s apartment, had woken Richard and Julia from a deep sleep. Alexander, however, slumbered on unaware. Upon opening the door he was confronted by a serious looking man, dressed formally in a dark grey suit, white shirt, highly polished black shoes and wearing a subdued-looking tie. The man flashed what appeared to be a Special Branch identity card in one hand and, with the other, handed over an official-looking letter. After signing for it, the man departed without a word, leaving Richard studying the reverse of the letter which bore the imposing imprint of 10 Downing Street, the official residence of David Buckland, Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The envelope was addressed to Richard Alexander Moss; no address given, just the bland, starkness of his typewritten name.
He sliced it open with a kitchen knife and read it to himself. Julia, standing at his side, wearing a white dressing gown over a crumpled, pale blue, night dress raised her eyebrows.
‘What is it,’ she eventually asked, pushing her feet into well worn, red, carpet slippers.
Richard breathed out before answering.
‘The Prime Minister wants me to attend a meeting of some of his cabinet this afternoon at Downing Street. He has arranged for an official car to pick me up at noon. It’s an order. Seems there’s no room for argument.’
***
The Mercedes drew up to a smooth halt. The shimmering black door fronting the Prime Minister’s official residence opened. A tall, slender man stepped out. He walked towards the car and opened the rear door. Richard clambered out, offered his thanks, and strode the few steps to the still open door. He entered and was greeted by an attractive, perfectly groomed, smiling woman. Although dressed in an immaculate, severe-looking black jacket, perfectly creased black trousers and black high heeled shoes, her long blonde hair offered an appealing distraction which caused Richard to draw in an appreciative breath.
‘Good afternoon Mr. Moss. I am Claudine Leigh-Smith, the Prime Minister’s personal assistant. Would you follow me please?’
The magnificent winding staircase leading to the Cabinet Office was lined with portraits of the country’s past prime ministers. Although Richard was highly impressed by the sight of the array of serious looking men, and only one woman, who once held the highest political office in the land, he was equally impressed by the sight of Ms. Leigh-Smith’s rear as she mounted the steps ahead of him. She looked around and gave him a smiling, naughty-naughty, shake of the head which caused him to flush with embarrassment.
The Cabinet Office was located at the end of a long, wide, plush carpeted corridor. Ms. Leigh -Smith knocked lightly on its door and entered.
‘Mr. Moss is here prime minister.’ Her entry caused David Buckland plus two men and a woman, to push back their chairs upon which they had been sitting. All four rose to their feet, wearing smiles.
Richard entered the imposing, oak-panelled, room. Stretching impressively towards an array of Edwardian windows situated at the far end was a long, highly polished, oak table. A commanding portrait of George ll stared impassively as if demanding who had the damn nerve to disturb his royal reverie. A magnificent white Adam fireplace competed with the intricately-carved, vaulted ceiling for one’s attention. The room smelled of a pleasing mélange of feminine perfume and the residue of this morning’s assiduous cleaning session.
‘Thank you Claudine,’ said an immaculately dressed Buckland. His dark grey bespoke suit, white shirt, dark blue tie patterned with white spots and highly polished black shoes, demonstrated his firm belief that those selected to head a government had an obligation to dress appropriately. He stepped forward and held out a slender, manicured hand. Richard grasped the hand, shook it confidently, and waited until the prime minister spoke.
‘Glad you could come Mr. Moss, or may I call you Richard?’
Richard grinned. ‘Only if I can call you David!’
Buckland beamed. ‘David it is. Now, may I introduce my colleagues?’
He motioned towards a tall, slim, handsome man about the same age as himself. He was clothed in the same elegant, formal style as the PM.
‘This is the Mark Oldfield, Deputy PM.’
Oldfield offered his hand. Richard shook it firmly.
‘And this is Peter Hemsley, Minister for the Environment.’
Hemsley was suited just as immaculately but, unlike his male compatriots, his white shirt was open at the neck, revealing an overly-large Adam’s apple. It moved up and down his throat as he mouthed a welcome. The PM then motioned towards a brown-haired, attractive woman whom Richard presumed to be in her late thirties.
‘And last but not least, Joanna Regan, Peter’s personal assistant.’
A warm smile accompanied her offered, fragile looking, hand. Her two piece dark grey suit, dark stockings and black court shoes were in keeping not only with her surroundings bus also with her position as confidential secretary to one of Buckland’s foremost Cabinet ministers.
‘Tell me Richard,’ asked the PM, introductions completed. ‘Would you care for some tea and biscuits, or would you prefer something more substantial?’
‘Tea and biscuits would be perfect. Thank you.’
Buckland picked up the receiver of a nearby telephone and mumbled inaudibly.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Refreshments are on the way. Let us take our seats and take a look at the agenda that is on the table before you. Richard, would you please make yourself comfortable at the seat between Peter and Joanna? Mark and I will sit opposite.’
The unexpected informality revived memories of Richard’s visit to the White House. He had expected something much more reflective of the reserved British stiff upper lip, especially from the PM who was a product of privileged Eton schooling. David Buckland had become prime minister five months ago in the wake of the crushing general election defeat of the thirteen-year long reign of the ousted Labour Party. Unfortunately for Buckland, his Conservative Party fell disappointingly short of an overall majority and was obliged to enter into a tenuous, hard-bargained, coalition with Mark Oldfield’s Liberal-Democratic party. The voting public is still awaiting discernible evidence that a coalition was the best route to solving the UK’s perilous financial and social difficulties. The country was flat broke as a result of the Labour government’s gratuitous spending on a multitude of social projects designed to curry favour with its supporters. Additionally, uncontrolled mass immigration during the party’s 13 years in office, has led to a high level of social unrest and vastly increased spending on welfare benefits for those immigrants who are unable, or unwilling, to find work.
***
‘It’s a very short agenda, as you will see,’ opened Buckland once all five were seated. ‘Although two of the items, I suspect, will require rather lengthy answers!’
Just then the door opened and into the room stepped a young woman dressed in traditional maid’s attire. She was carrying a large, ornate, silver tray, which she placed with practiced ease on the table to the right of the prime minister.
‘Thank you very much Miranda,’ said Buckland, affability apparent in his quiet cultured voice.
With a nod and a slight, obsequious bow Miranda turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Buckland rose from his chair and began arranging the cups, saucers, plates and cutlery before pouring the tea.
‘Milk everyone?’ he enquired. Receiving a quartet of nods he tipped a measure of milk into the five cups. ‘You can add your own sugar,
according to taste!’
A plate laden with a variety of biscuits was passed around. Dipping and crunching took place before the PM rapped gently on the table with his gold fountain pen.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
***
The world’s media is awash with the story of an unusual incident occurring on the banks of a river in North America. An estimated 85,000 carnivorous drum fish were reported washed up on a 17 mile stretch of the Arkansas River. Local experts could not recall a previous occasion when so many had perished so suddenly and, because the phenomenon was confined to only one species, they could offer nothing sensible to explain the cause. Then, only 100 miles away, thousands of birds began falling from the sky over the town of Beebe, Arkansas. An estimated 5,000 red-winged blackbirds fell to earth over an area of 800 yards, coating roads, yards, rooftops and pavements with spine-chilling, black-feathered, corpses. Residents of the town were shocked again when the local council’s environmental workers arrived dressed in white hazardous suits, helmets and gas masks. The bird’s remains were cleared away, leaving many questions unanswered. Preliminary laboratory tests concluded the deaths were due to ‘multiple blunt force drama’ suggesting the birds had flown into something unspecified. A physics professor in New York speculated the deaths could have been caused by the birds being caught in a “microburst” - a sudden, fierce downdraft of wind previously proven to have brought down large aircraft.
The deaths didn’t end there however. Some days later 500 birds - mainly starlings and blackbirds - were found dead 300 miles south, along a highway in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Signs of internal injuries and blood clots suggested contact with power lines. Shortly afterwards wildlife officials in Kentucky reported several hundred birds were discovered dead in the western area of the state. And then, adding yet more to the growing speculation, an estimated two million fish were found dead in Chesapeake Bay on America’s east coast. Cold water stress was blamed. It occurs when the temperature of the Atlantic drops to a level beyond that which fish could survive. The explanation then became fatuous when thousands of dead fish were found on the surface of a warm creek in Port Orange, Florida!
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