by Sam Nash
I poured some juice for Mary, and settled her in front of the TV with Mubbs. Percy possum was waiting for her on the back of the couch.
Wildman and I sat and mulled things over for another hour or so, before he had to leave. I am ashamed to admit it, but I am curious as to how much the assets amount to, and the contents of the bank box is tantalising.
One thing is for sure, no amount of money can replace my son, or my grandchildren. The thought of that traitorous minister having power over David’s life consumes me, but I need to play this game of his with care. I will take the Earldom, and all that it entails, but I must find a way to circumvent Knight’s influence over me. All that matters, is David’s safety.
The solicitor, Mr Bunyan, telephoned from his hotel room at around seven o’clock. I told him of my decision, and that I would sign the papers first thing in the morning, but he insisted on getting a taxi to my house immediately.
Mr Bunyan witnessed my signature and said that he would catch the first train back to London, where he would expedite my documents through the various legal stages as a matter of urgency. All being well, he said, I could have access to the bank box and details of assets within a few days.
Saturday 28th July 1990
An early start, I glanced into the spare room. Mary was making that cute rasping sound in her sleep, so I padded downstairs in my socks and opened the front door. The blue metallic paint of the Bentley was just visible through gaps in the shrubbery. Tip-toeing shoeless down my drive, I could see Fletch shifting in the reclined front seat, his torso covered by his jacket.
How does a doctor switch off compassion? Answer – he doesn’t. I tapped on the window. He jumped, then pressed the window controls until the glass lowered all the way down.
“Why didn’t you stay in a hotel?” I enquired, mildly bemused.
“I couldn’t leave the car on the road, unattended, sir.”
“Come in for some breakfast, then drive that monstrosity back to wherever it came from.” I ordered, then returned to the house, leaving the door ajar.
I heard his heavy steps on the tiled floor of the hall. He called through to the kitchen. “My lord, may I borrow your bathroom?”
I called back; “Top of the stairs to the left, and my name is Phillip, not my lord.” I put the coffee machine on and got the bacon frying in the pan. The sweet, salty fumes wafted up the stairs and enticed Mary from her bed. Warm bread, buttered and layered with crispy bacon, cut into bitesize portions, a dash of ketchup and crusts removed and she was in breakfast heaven. She swung her legs under the table as she chewed and rubbed the sleepy dust from her eyes.
I kept Fletch’s share of bacon warm under the grill, while I tucked into my own sarnie. Then, I made an apologetic call to the surgery manager, offering to pay for the locum service out of my pocket. She was not best pleased with me. Fletch appeared in the kitchen doorway and joined us at the table. “Oven glove is there, bacon sandwich is under the grill, sauces over here.” I said, pouring coffee into the empty mug I had set out for him.
“Thank you, sir.” He said, with exaggerated humility. If this was an attempt to suborn me, it failed. He took a bite, savouring the mouthful as though it was the first food he had seen in days. “Sir, won’t you please reconsider my appointment? I am a good driver, and I can find accommodation locally and I am very discreet.”
I squinted at him. He had that wide-eyed look of a Labrador about him, probably planned and perfected during his uncomfortable night in the car. “Tell me about The Consortium. Who are they exactly, and what do they want from me?”
He shrugged. “All I know is that they are keen to have you on board. They called the Bentley, a golden handshake, and said that it was the tip of the iceberg in benefits.” Fletch stopped eating and folded his hands together on the table top. It was obvious that he considered this his job interview.
“Yesterday, you said that you could take me directly to them. Where is that, precisely?” I analysed his body language and eye movements. He seemed quite relaxed despite the interrogation.
“The Bentley has a car phone, sir. I was to call ahead and then take you to a private jet at Stansted. It has been on standby since I arrived here.”
“And you have no idea where the jet is destined for, I suppose?”
“No sir - sorry.”
“You must know who hired you? You met them, surely?”
Fletch shook his head “All done over the telephone, sir.” My frustration erupted in a noisy exhalation. He finished his sandwich and I cleared away the plates. As I was stacking the dishwasher, I heard Mary giggling. Fletch was entertaining her, pulling faces and crossing his eyes. I had no time for his antics. No doubt this was an attempt to ingratiate himself with my family.
Anthony Knight was clear with his threat. Join another group and my son gets the chop. My stomach pitched at the thought. If Fletch could provide no information about The Consortium, he could be on his way. I looked up from the machine. Mary was leading Fletch by the hand into the living room. I followed. What prompted her to go straight to the credenza and start pulling out old photo albums, I will never know. Perhaps Fletch put the idea into her head. He sat cross legged on the floor and helped her lift the albums from the cupboard. She wriggled on her knees next to him, pointing out the people on the first page.
“Come on, Mary love. Fletch has to go now. We can look at old photos together later.” It’s hard to create a light-hearted tone of voice, with anger in your heart. She ignored me, as did Fletch. “Mary…come on, sweetie pie. Put the albums back. We could do some cooking, how about that?” Her gluey bacon-greased fingers slid over the fading pictures of my Minnie, and the more recent ones of her parents’ wedding. Fletch turned the thick card pages over according to Mary’s instructions. He was completely beguiled. I was losing my temper.
“Mary. Put the album down. Fletch has to leave.” I made a grab for the folder. Mary tried to keep her grasp on the edges, putting her stubborn weight against the strain, until her slippery hands lost traction. She fell onto her bottom with a thud. There was a split second of surprise, before the wailing began. I threw the album down on the credenza and went to console her, but she pushed me away. The screaming grew louder and shriller, enough to pierce eardrums.
The television flickered into life, changing its own channels at random, then the table lamps followed suit. Fletch panicked, jumping to his feet, snapping his head this way and that at the electronic disturbances. I grabbed him by the arm and marched him into the hallway to the door. “Dodgy wiring” I said, but lacked the conviction to make it sound plausible. “Please take the car back to wherever it came from and tell them I am not interested.” I shoved him through the door and slammed it shut.
***
A second, or perhaps third, emotional outburst from Mary, and another round of electronic anarchy. The longer I leave it unchecked, the greater her power will be. I had to put a stop to it before she becomes a target for every unscrupulous group in the world. I have no doubt that Fletch will report his findings back to The Consortium. It’s only a matter of time until every interested party learns of her potential. She is so young. How could I make her understand?
Sitting in the armchair next to the sideboard, I said; “Mary, love. I need to talk to you about something.” She looked up at me with those huge chestnut eyes that glistened with waning tears, then scrambled up onto my lap. Her head lolled against my collarbone and I kissed the crown of her hair. Where to begin?
“Sweetie pie, you know when you get very cross and angry?”
“As cross as mummy gets?”
“Yes, darling. When you get like that. And then lots of things get broken and sparks come out of the wires…”
“And when the television comes on without touching it?”
“Well, um, that is very bad. It is dangerous. You mustn’t do it anymore.”
She shifted forwards on my knees and twisted to face me. “I don’t mean t
o, Grampy. It just happens.”
“It mustn’t happen again.”
“But, why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“But, why?”
I stopped myself from being sucked into a repetitive cycle of but whys. I know this trick of old. It was a favourite of David’s at that age. Reply with a volley of but whys, until the adult loses their composure.
My tone altered to solemn. “Mary. You know that I love you, and I would do anything to keep you safe.” I paused while she slid down my legs to retrieve her teddy, Mubbs and climbed back up on my lap. She looked so tiny and frail, wrapping her arms about the ragged stuffed bear and squeezing tight.
Even if it meant scaring her, I had to make it stop. “If you keep getting yourself all angry, and making sparks, bad men will come and take you away.”
Her little mouth hung open in terror, the tears poised to fall. I confirmed my words with a pained expression, then continued. “So, the next time you feel yourself boiling up inside, think to yourself, be like daddy, and make yourself calm. Can you do that for me?” A solitary drop escaped from her lower eyelid, and tumbled down her cheek. She nodded. I threw my arms about her and Mubbs, and rocked us all softly. “That’s my girl.”
I hated frightening her. It was a cowardly thing to do, but how else could I keep her safe. With the intense interest of at least three separate groups of ruthless people watching our every move, manipulating our life choices and threatening us, Mary needs to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
Lily came to pick up Mary wearing the same clothes as she wore yesterday. A dazed, pink cheeked grin spread across her face as she apologised for her tardiness. Mary is not alone in having to rein in her temper. I wanted to grab Lily by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. She flaunted her infidelity like a badge of honour. Sauntering into the lounge, she flung herself down on the settee. Mary made no attempt to get off my lap and greet her mother. That, to me, speaks volumes.
“Have you heard from David?” I asked, watching her features as her thoughts ran from misted memories of her night to the object of her failed marriage. Gone was the dreamy dopamine filled expression, replaced in a second by petulance.
“No. And don’t expect me to wait by the phone for him either. I have a life too, you know.” She snapped at me, with a stare that could melt ice.
“I just wanted to know that he is okay, that’s all. Will you call me if you hear from him, please?” I waited for her to consent and then added, “Can you tell him to ring me? It’s important.”
“Fine I will. Mary, get your things together, we’re going home.” She stood up from the sofa and held out her hand to her daughter. Mary put her thumb back into her mouth and pulled my arm further around her. “Mary, I said come.”
I kissed her forehead and then moved forward on my chair, lifting her to the floor. As I did so, I heard Mary whispering to herself, “Be like daddy, be like daddy.”
I could feel it crushing the cavities inside my heart. No one must know of Mary’s ability, or her life will never be her own. I stood in the hallway as Lily rushed around my house, gathering up tiny items of clothing, before collecting Mubbs from the armchair. Mary took Percy the possum from beneath a cushion and gave him to me. “He has a nasty bite, Grampy. He’ll protect you from the bad men.”
When, at last, they had gone, the house seemed to radiate the echoes of Mary’s laughter. Traces of a life of pure love infused in the walls. I basked in the remnants for a while, before the damp chill of quietude forced my focus to the A4 brown envelope containing the ticket to Rome. Even if I wanted to make use of the flight, it was too late. It left at ten-thirty this morning.
I put my slippers on and walked down to the bottom of my drive. The Bentley had gone, but the blue van was still parked a little way down the road. I chastised myself. It could be the van of a tradesman, called to complete some work at my neighbour’s house. On closer inspection, I saw the silhouette of a driver, and the van rocked as though more than one person were moving inside the rear portion. Which of the interested parties were they spying for, I wonder?
I went back inside the house and tidied up the photo albums that were sprawled across the floor. Records of our family as it grew and diminished with time or illness. Locating the oldest and most fragile album, I pored over pictures of my parents until I found one of my grandmother, the woman who provoked such mystery in the old War Offices. Grandma Phebe, was an enigma to me too. My fleeting memories of her were of strict etiquette and primly laced gowns. I am sure that there was an abundance of love in her heart, especially for my father, but it was not the done thing to express emotions in those days. Why did she elope and disappear into obscurity? What was her reasoning for denying her son his rightful inheritance?
The sepia tint of Phebe showed her mound of hair piled high and loose, secured with jewelled combs. Her dress of pale fabric garnished with a distinctive brooch, a circle fashioned from gold, intersected with the Greek letter lambda. Orbiting lambda was, a small black jewel. I’m sure I was imagining things, but to me, there was a resemblance to Mary - the shape of her nose and chin, the dark of her eyes, the high cheekbones. Perhaps it was just my confused state of mind. I stacked the albums together and knelt down to the credenza to slide them home.
It was then I found the first of them. An audio device stuck to the fretwork of my sideboard, the handiwork of Fletch. Seething, and spitting expletives, I retraced his steps into the kitchen, finding two more bugs. There was one under the table and one near to the telephone. I checked all the way up the stairs and in the bathroom but there were none that I could find. The study yielded two more, one inside the phone handset itself. He must have sneaked in before coming into the kitchen. So much for my compassion. I should have left him out on the street.
By now, The Consortium will know of Mary’s ability, and will have my little talk to her on tape. I checked the other phone handsets in my bedroom and the one in the lounge, but they seemed clean. The Consortium may need to plant physical listening devices, but I suspect Anthony Knight, and his government cronies, employ a less noticeable approach. An invasive technology to intercept our telephone calls as they pass through the exchanges. After all, he did make reference to how this new linked computer system would by-pass their monitoring if action was not taken to counter the World-Wide-Web.
The interested groups will now be searching for evidence of Mary’s abilities. I hope to God that she stays calm and exhibits no more electromagnetic tendencies. That could prove disastrous. With any luck, the gift will become dormant once more, and this whole episode forgotten in childhood.
A part of me wants to keep Mary here, by my side, where I can protect her in her father’s absence. Another part of me wants to make life difficult for Lily, and leave Mary in her charge. I should be more understanding. David has prioritised his work over their marriage for a number of years and there are always two sides to every story, but to have an affair to spite him is just cruel.
The news broadcasts on TV are highlighting the endeavours in the Gulf. Repatriation of European and US citizens from Kuwait and Iraq: another step towards war. Some of the US agencies are reporting options for allied forces, should the talks in Jeddah break down. There are suggestions such as placing a naval blockade at the Strait of Hormuz, preventing passage of any ships from Kuwait. As many as fifty-thousand British troops could be sent into the region and countless more from other countries. Even if they stay within the confines of aircraft carriers and jets, they would still be subjected to Knight’s vaccination schedule. His precautionary measures could have devastating and far reaching medical implications for many thousands of families. What if other countries follow suit and inoculate their military personnel in the same vein? David would most certainly be targeted as one of them.
Another brown A4 envelope dropped onto the doormat in the hall. No stamps, hand delivered. I ripped it open and found several large glossy photographs
of Lily, a bedsheet partially covering her naked body. She was sharing a cigarette with the man lying next to her in the bed. I felt sick. Knowing about her adultery and seeing evidence of it first-hand are two entirely different things. Tucked between the pictures, a compliments slip from the office of Anthony Knight. The scrawled handwriting said:
The bloodline must not be polluted with pretenders. Get your house in order, or we will do it for you. AK
He would, ‘do it for me’. A barefaced threat against my daughter-in-law, to add to that of my son’s. Another reminder of his power over me. It was as if he had no need of my consent. My full cooperation was a foregone conclusion. He had David in his despicable grasp and I had no leverage left to play. He could make or break my family and my name at will. Hold me responsible for the sickness pervading the Gulf troops from my vision, or appoint me to the House of Lords. Send through the order to shoot David in the head, or have him sent home.
I flopped into the armchair, exhausted and frightened, the restless nights catching up on me. Muting the TV, I leaned my head against the high wing of the chair. I could not see a way out of this predicament. All I could do, was wait for the phone call from Knight, verifying my obedience. It was hardly worth giving me time to think it through, making me believe that I had a choice. God knows what underhand and fraudulent scams he will have me front for him.
Closing my eyes for a moment, the picture of Grandma Phebe coalesced in my mind’s eye. From the dates listed on the family tree, she disappeared from the estate long before her brother, the Seventh Earl of Sedgewell, died. She would have been a young woman with all the eligible suitors of the day awaiting her debutant ball. What drove her to abandon a life of luxury and marriage into another distinguished family? Not that she, or my father were left in penury. By all accounts, my grandfather was a skilled orator, working his way through chambers, then Queens Council to finally end his career as a respected High Court Judge. My memories of him are scant, but I do remember his powdered wig, sitting on a domed wooden shape in his home office. How he scared me as a child, his deep booming voice reverberating through my chest, sending me scampering away to Grandma Phebe for protection.