She was unaware that it was not God’s bidding.
Chapter 16
Derrick Hodge, Robert Dilan, Dennissa Cole, Nikola West, Nate Smith, Lonnie Lynn and Germaine Cole are all in the office. Their eighth member is working on the next course of action. The time is 13:45.
As always, the computer-lit room was filled with an eerie atmosphere and freezing temperatures, but the group persisted to meet despite the non-existent heaters. In the corner of the room, lay a melodica next to Lonnie Lynn, a brooding, Swedish-Somali man, who sat quietly whilst playing with his Rubik’s cube as if he was completely oblivious to the discussion between his peers. He was a hacker, a fugitive and criminal but an overall kind gentleman. His past was a dark mystery fuelled by his hatred for the system that he had been stuck in from birth. The first epiphany Lonnie had was after reading the opening excerpt from a book titled ‘Honey Theory: The illusion of free will’ which read:
’Honey is flower nectar collected by bees which is broken down into simple sugars and stored inside honeycomb. The flavour, texture and colour of honey are dependent on the environment of the bee, because different flowers have different nectars.
Free will is and always has been a myth since the fall of man. It has been programmed into us psychologically to absorb knowledge from our surroundings constantly. To some extent, we live in a time where freedom is even more non-existent than ever because at each second of our lives—even during sleep—we are being bombarded with information from music, TV shows, movies and by communicating with other people. They subliminally convey their experiences to us to a point that we are no more ourselves but a product of the memories of our experiences.
We are just like honey.
Whilst writing this book, there was one troubling fact that I hadn’t quite considered: if we (as human beings) are products of information (primarily the media) then those who control the media control us. If this part of my theory is correct then there is truly no hope for individuality or human rights.’
Lonnie’s response to the excerpt was radical yet simple: for him to find freedom, he was to take away the power from those who controlled the media. It was a Goliath of a task, which was almost impossible to complete alone.
He was unaware of the irony in his ambition.
For the first five years, Lonnie had been beyond successful in his mission. Somehow, he had been able to uncover secrets of the existence of the clandestine oligarchs who ruled over publishing companies, record labels, journalists and the likes for years. His weapon of choice was usually a laptop which he utilised to hack into endless numbers of databases. However, on one of his most dangerous of missions his only option was to break into the home of a TV mogul who was the key for him to finally complete his greatest work. His aim was to cause a crisis that would practically erupt across all forms of media and would result in the end of the tyranny of ‘information’.
Lonnie’s break-in was successful. He crept in through an open back door which he had borrowed the key to. In the unlit and opaque room, some golden vases and ornamented paintings glimmered. The minute sparkles latched onto Lonnie’s attention, but he reminded himself that he was there to steal documents and not valuable possessions. He was aware that the owner of the home was on a date with his ex-girlfriend’s sister, but he still crept silently. He found his way up the velvet stairs and into an office on the third floor of the house.
A pair of footsteps flittered in a bedroom across the corridor.
Lonnie fell into the office, grabbed the large envelope from an adjacent shelve, which he had come to take and zipped towards the stairs. The bedroom door opened and out came a muscular man who was dressed only in boxers. The man held a samurai sword in his hand that looked like its primary purpose was to be a piece of art on his wall. Regardless, he was still able to use it as a weapon. No one was supposed to be here, thought Lonnie. An almost nude woman stood behind the man and cried:
“Babe! I’m calling the police. Catch him!”
This was not Lonnie’s plan. He sped down the stairs at light speed, but the envelope dropped out of his hand halfway. He grabbed it and tried to continue running, but he fell painfully. The boxer-clothed man swung his sword down onto Lonnie’s leg. His foot was crushed and his ankle peeped out of his skin. The agonising pain was heard in his cry. The samurai-sword wielder took advantage of the fact that Lonnie was unable to move so he took some ropes from his rooms and tied him to the hand railings. His friend on the phone cried:
“Come quickly please! This man just broke into our house.”
The officer who came to collect Lonnie had a scar from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. He looked as if he had been excited to catch Lonnie (which was something Lonnie later learnt was true).
Eight years later, Lonnie Lynn was found guilty of theft, breaking and entering and accused wrongly for an assault. His home was a prison cell. He had utterly failed his mission.
Or so he thought, until the eighth member had gotten him out.
Through the involvement of the eighth member, Lonnie had found another means to complete his mission as part of the ‘Uncensored Change’.
“We can’t be so laid back and wait for things to happen. There are people out there that are onto us, and they will be ready to wipe us off the face of the Earth once they have the chance. We need to begin this now and get this over with,” stressed Nikola West.
Lonnie dropped his Rubik’s cube whilst shaking his head vigorously.
“Don’t be stupid, Nik. We all want this as much as you do, but precision is key. Rushing into things like that will get us into even deeper chaos. When 8 comes with the boy, we’re sending him back. It’s our only choice,” he commanded.
After Lonnie had spoken, all discussion had ceased, and all members returned to where they had come from.
Chapter 17A
Remel has made his way back to the university. The time is 14:00. Keys is in the poet’s room.
Despite the fact that Remel didn’t intend to go anywhere in particular, he had inevitably ended up in ‘The Poet’s Room’. The door was open slightly, silently inviting Remel in. Keys was standing in the middle of the room, which was empty, with open arms. For the first time, there was a smile on Keys’ face. The light bulb which was usually off during the daytime, went supernova on Remel’s arrival. He struggled to keep his eyes open as the warmth attacked his face.
“Shift forward,” he said to Remel (who was already in the room).
Unsure as to how to react, he could only step forward. His next step, however, was nothing of the ordinary. Before he could land his foot on the floor, he dropped. In the first fraction of the second, Remel assumed that he had just taken a false step, but he struggled to regain footing. His eyes were unable to open, and he zoomed downwards into an invisible abyss. He wailed for help, but there was no one at his disposal. A cold spot fell on Remel’s forehead amidst the radiance of the light which still shone on him as he tumbled downwards into nothingness. He could only be mortified during his beyond abnormal descent to death. Within a minute of falling, and a throat aching from screaming, he was able to open his eyes to find himself on a metallic floor completely unlike the one in ‘The Poet’s Room’. The cold spot on his forehead materialised itself into a finger as Remel’s vision cleared. He lay on his back analysing the foreign surroundings with a group of people staring at him in the dark.
“He’s up and running!” shouted Keys as he lifted his finger from Remel’s forehead.
The room that they had been transported to was roughly the same size as the poet’s room, but this one was filled with state-of-the-art technology and devices. The room was dark, and the little amount of light that came from the computers was absorbed by the black metallic walls. Remel could barely make out an emblem on the wall which read ‘Uncensored Change’.
“Send him back. We’re not ready!” replied a deep and coarse voice.
And so Remel took the journey he had just fallen into with reversed ef
fect. He found himself on his feet again in the poet’s room.
“What was that!” shouted Remel, when he returned to the empty room before fainting abruptly.
Chapter 17B
Remel makes his way back to the university. The time is 14:00. He is alone in the poet’s room.
Remel woke up with his head on a desk in the poet’s room. He remembered coming into the university after a mystery call. He was unsure as to why it had bothered him so much, but he guessed King Keys would’ve had some answers. On his arrival into the poet’s room, Remel remembered not finding anyone so he waited at the desk patiently. He must’ve fallen asleep. King Keys made his way into the door as Remel woke up. His appearance reminded Remel of the absurd dream he had just had.
Keys chuckled at Remel’s thoughts.
“Interesting imagination you have there,” King Keys joked.
Remel laughed before remembering his reason for coming. He showed Keys his call log and pointed to the mystery call. Keys shook his head vehemently. He claimed to have nothing to do with it. Remel was ready to pack his stuff and leave before his phone started ringing again. This time it was ‘no caller ID’.
“Something is happening,” sighed Keys.
And so they left the university and made their way to the skies.
Chapter 18
Somewhere in the clouds over London around 15:00.
The feeling was unnatural to Remel. He felt uplifted, both literally and figuratively. He was free. It was a brute fact that he felt in his body as he flew. Nothing stood against him apart from the wind greeting his face. Whilst he was level with the clouds, Remel realised that he had forgotten what happiness was. The sky had helped him to remember. He could touch the heavens. It was an aspiration from his childhood dreams that he gradually believed to be unrealistic. Being five again was amazing, and he didn’t want it to end. But it did.
Keys and Remel landed on the floor heavily as gravity ended the fun. Remel looked around to see if anyone was surprised to see a masked man and sidekick fly down from the clouds. No one noticed. Remel assumed that this must have either been due to Keys’ abilities or that he had someone working with him to ensure that they didn’t alert anyone’s attention. Without walking for more than a minute, Remel could see what Keys had brought him to. He was familiar with the area, because it was where he used to come to meet Rasharn. Where the White household should have been, there was a half-burnt house surrounded by fire engines and police cars. Rasharn White lay on a stretcher. He was a chubby boy, but on the stretcher he had been reduced to a skeleton. He had been famished, abused and bruised. Hastings White stood 100 feet away, handcuffed, next to a police van. Miranda and Steven White, the parents of the twins, cried heavily at their family home which was turning into ashes and at the state of their sons.
Remel felt sick at the sight of the destruction unfolding in front of him. It was painful for him to watch. It was painful for anyone to watch, but a crowd still amassed. They always did so. They took out their smartphones and recorded all they could for social media to see. The other parts of the crowd were neighbours coming in the frenzy with the intention of helping the White parents along with the medics, policewomen/men and firewomen/men.
James Cooder was one of the medics at the scene. He was stressed and tired. The NHS had practically been his home for 30 years. During this time, he had seen some gruesome things. There were also occasions when he arrived on scene once the damage was done, and no lives could be saved. The miserable scenery around James supported his decision to quit his job. He had considered it for a long time, but the working conditions and lack of government funding pushed him further towards sending his resignation letter. He had already applied to work a paid position in ‘The Change Maker’s Charity’. As he helped lift Rasharn’s stretcher into the ambulance, he saw a young gentleman arrive alone and stare at the mayhem that was happening. James thought the gentleman looked familiar (like a patient or the family of a patient he had once treated). The gentleman’s familiarity distracted James for a second before he carried on his work.
The police handled the situation relatively quickly: Rasharn made his way to the hospital by ambulance; The White parents made their way to a hotel by police car; and Hastings made his way to a prison cell by police van. The crowd disarticulated itself when the fire was put out, and there was nothing left to do, but some people stayed to weep at the tragedy. Others comforted their families.
“What happened?” asked Remel, the inquisitive.
“Hastings killed Emmanuel,” started Keys bluntly.
“Rasharn disliked his brother’s actions. He couldn’t handle the paranoia and threatened to call the police. Hastings beat him up and locked him in his room. Rasharn somehow managed to call the police. When Hastings caught his brother, he locked him in the wine cellar with a box of burning matchsticks and tied him to a carton of petrol. He tried to run away, but his neighbours stopped him when they smelt smoke.”
Keys pointed at two tall, muscular, adult twins with identical Rottweilers. They turned to him and waved kindly. He did the same back.
The twins who lived across the road from the Whites were in their thirties, and they both stood straight in identical stances staring at the scene of chaos which had now calmed down. Hastings had no chance of running away.
Remel shivered whilst he wondered what would’ve happened if he still had been close friends with Rasharn. He searched for words to encompass his sadness or pity, but in truth, he felt none of the two. The only victims were the White parents who had lost their home after coming off a two-week cruise holiday. The path of gang member/affiliate was a destructive one. Hastings, Rasharn and Emmanuel had done all they could to become the most evil and notorious possible. They had searched for their own demise. Remel’s thoughts were screaming out of his head. The noise gave the poet a headache.
“Can’t you empathise with them? All of these young men haven’t had easy lives. They’ve gone through difficulties that would be hard to bare for anyone. The problem is that they haven’t had any support to help them cope with what they’ve gone through. The only help they’ve received is from those who have set them on this path. Maybe if there were governmental schemes or family members who had been there to help these young men, all of this wouldn’t have happened,” Keys argued.
He wasn’t lying. Remel could see it, but he was firm on his stances. He rarely changed his mind.
“There are people who have been in the same position and have made the best of their lives. There’s no excuse,” Remel replied with an attitude that showed that he had almost been offended by Keys’ contrasting point of view.
Keys almost agreed with Remel’s argument, but he had to try not to laugh at the irony of Remel, someone who was recently amidst their conflict, being so firm in his condemnation.
“I have something else for you to see,” stated Keys, quickly changing subject before flying back into the clouds.
Remel learnt rapidly to savour the moments he spent in the sky. He was sure that he was dreaming, but he had no care. It was a vivid illusion utilising every single one of his senses. He started to cry tears of joy. The reason for his doing so was vague until the memory of his superhero father appeared in his mind. Remel once believed his father could fly and that he saved lives on a daily basis. In Remel’s mind, his father was invincible. When he was a child watching his father die, he wasn’t just watching his father: it was the end of the greatest comic book arc ever. Remel’s father, Remel sr. was the most powerful, courageous and loved superhero ever, and he died in front of his son. Remel grew to be cynical of flight without technology or aircraft, but as he soared through the skies, reaching the boundaries of the atmosphere (against all scientific reason), he realised his father may truly have been everything he believed him to be.
Gravity seized Remel and the poet. They landed in Westminster. It was busy as usual with tourists taking selfies next to the Big Ben. Just as they landed, a speck of snow landed on Re
mel’s shoulder preceding a shower of light frost. The people of central London loved the weather. Keys nudged Remel and pointed at Westminster Central Hall. The masked telepath waved his finger from left to right like a painter putting all of his effort into a single line. Remel failed to understand what King Keys was doing until the scenery started changing. The weather stayed the same, but a mass of people started flooding into the central hall. Remel and the telepath followed them in. Once they walked into the hall at ground floor, they walked upstairs to where there was an audience of people, some seated and some standing, watching a young, sharply dressed gentleman speak. The young man spoke with anger and passion. The young man was Remel. This was not the speech he had written. He turned to King Keys to ask him what was happening.
“This is a shared illusion. You are also feeding it. That is why you can hear your speech. I however cannot hear it. I just see a young man moving his mouth with no sound. So the answer to your question is I don’t know.”
Remel’s interest in his doppelgänger diminished just as the illusion did and was replaced by a hazy sense of uncertainty and confusion. Westminster returned to its usual identity as a tourist hotspot, and the duo left Westminster Methodist Central Hall. Remel went home. By tube. Words were inadequate to depict Remel’s time in the sky. Time inefficiently attempted to sustain Remel’s joy. Alas, flying was like an opium that gave the most exhilarating feeling whilst it lasted but quickly faded.
Chapter 19
Remel arrives home around 17:00 after a long day.
The Escape Page 7