North Prospect

by Les Lunt

  Later, coming out of Mas y Mas Supermarket, I noticed the car again. Earlier, driving through the orange groves, we had passed a blue car at the junction of Cami les Bases and Cami Ador. Not unusual I know, but it had trailed behind us for four miles: then, arriving at Mas y Mas, I realised I had lost it. When we left the supermarket I drove to the pool shop for chloro tablets for the filters. As I left the shop, the car was there across the road by the car wash, waiting. I felt I ought to challenge them, but Francesca was quite scared by then and urged me just to get her home as quickly as possible. When we reached the village turn off, the car sped past. We convinced ourselves it was a coincidence.

  The following week we moved out of our villa into a friend’s house. They had decided to spend twelve months touring Australia and we were going to house-sit for them. This suited us very well as we could then do the maintenance and changeovers on our own villa thus saving ourselves a lot of money this year on staff costs. Doing holiday lets can seem lucrative but it’s hard work. People are fussy, but they have paid a lot of money for a quality holiday and we have always tried to ensure that they got quality. Our villa was blessed with a large pool, lots of fruit trees, grapes on the vine which would be ready to pick by July and, right beside the pool, a very large BBQ. There was a large, shady terrace with six ‘nayas’ (arches) which ensured a cool afternoon despite the outside heat, and in summer we placed a large refrigerator on the terrace for keeping the beer cold. What more could you need? In fact, many of our guests (mostly Brits and Germans), rarely ventured out: bread was delivered daily, hung in a plastic bag on the gate, and the village had a little shop which pretty much sold everything else.

  The date on the calendar which was outlined in red finally arrived: the day our Asian guests were due to arrive. I say ‘Asian’ but in fact they were from London. The address was given as King Charles Street, London, quite a salubrious address I would imagine. But then, I thought, they could be from anywhere in the U.K. and using an accommodation address. Why was I so anxious?

  I had been nervously checking the pool filters when the vehicles arrived; first, a Guardia Civil truck, followed by a car. I say ‘car’, it was a large Mercedes limousine. I opened the gates and the large silver Limo swept in, I approached, wondering who could possibly own such a lovely car and want to rent a modest villa in Ermita? I stepped forward to introduce myself. Cap in hand, I felt like one of those movie Mexicans who wear pyjamas and clutch their sombreros to their chests mumbling, ‘Si si, Senor.’

  The driver stepped smartly out. He was obviously Spanish. He smiled and wished me ‘Buenos Dias’ while opening the door for our guest; he then leaned into the car to help. Our very elderly guest needed assistance. This was a shock. I was expecting three guests, and for some reason, much younger men. Our guest emerged and said a few words which I guess were in Arabic. He smiled. But where were the others? The two other guests were missing.

  The driver assisted the elderly man up the six steps to the terrace. Once he was settled in a cane chair Francesca emerged from the shade of the villa. Earlier she had placed some fresh orange juice in the fridge. She turned to the elderly man and proffered the large jug of ice-cold juice.

  He nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said in English. Cultured English.

  It was then that I noticed another car at the gates. Francesca dashed down the steps to open them. Another Limo swept in. This time there were two people in the back.

  I noticed that the Guardia Civil officer was standing outside his truck watching us through binoculars.

  Then the people in the second car got out. A very smartly dressed young woman stepped forward and addressed Francesca (who was still wearing her ‘cleaning’ clothes).

  ‘Mrs Galloway?’ she asked. ‘My name is Zakala, Mrs Zakala, from the British Consulate in Madrid.’

  She turned to the colleague who had accompanied her in the Limo. ‘And this is Mr Simkins, he’s from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London. Has anyone explained to you what is happening?’

  We both stood there, conscious that our jaws had dropped so far that they practically bounced off the freshly-raked gravel.

  *

  Later that afternoon the last two men arrived. They were accompanied by a National Police car. The British Ambassador to Spain stepped out and was greeted by Mr Simkins and Mrs Zakala. I now understood who the people were in the car watching us; one was an MI6 officer from Madrid, the other a Spanish Special Branch officer.

  On the Friday afternoon, a ceremony was held at our villa. Our three guests, two of whom were too frail to travel to Madrid, were to receive the King’s Medal for Service. Two of the men sat, one stood to attention. All three were in their late eighties. The Ambassador gave a little speech, outlining the service the three men had performed for the Crown.

  ‘I am commanded by Her Majesty to invest Captain Mohammed Bin Shakara, Lieutenant Abdul al-Latif and Trooper Mohammed Yacine with the King’s Medal for Services to the Crown.

  During World War Two, these three gentlemen began working with the Indian section of the British Long Range Desert Group in North Africa. In October 1942 they were attached to the Indian Patrols, S and M. The S stood for Sikh and the M stood for Muslim. They were all volunteers from the 2nd Lancers and the Indian Motor Brigade. As many people know, and I suspect I can include Field Marshal Rommel in particular, The Long Range Desert Group were a formidable force and had a fearful reputation. Ask any German soldier who served in the Africa Corps.

  The reason why this award comes to these three gentlemen so late in the day is that all three men were incarcerated in Libya when Colonel Gadhafi came to power. They were, in effect, lost, imprisoned by the Khamis Brigade, only emerging thanks to the work of the National Transitional Council of Libya, the Spanish government and, of course, some of the people in the recent revolution. Captain Mohammed Bin Shakara fought with the British in the Long Range Desert Group but after the war he disappeared. There were various dictatorships in Algeria which effectively prevented him from returning to the United Kingdom. After the revolution, he felt it was safe to leave, so he came to Spain.’

  I stood watching Francesca, tears trickling down her cheeks. She looked at me and whispered, ‘How could we get it so wrong?’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘Assumptions, we just made assumptions.’

  The End

  * The King’s Medal was specially issued in 1945 to foreigners serving in the British armed forces, ‘For Courage in the Cause of Freedom.’

  Lost and Found in Sacramento

  They must have been aboard the bus when we left San Francisco Airport. But I didn’t figure that out until later. By the time we reached Fairmount bus station Suzie, my 8 year old daughter, wanted to go to the restroom. I couldn’t take her myself of course, so I said I’d wait in the door-well of the bus. Only a couple of passengers got off to use the services and I stood to let them pass. Suzie turned to look at me to make sure I was watching her. I waved and she smiled back at me.

  Suzie’s missing her mother terribly, although my wife died nearly five years ago now. But Suzie remembers her well. Now we were off to see the woman who had entered my life three years later. Sadly, things went wrong between us after about nine months but Petra has kept in touch with Suzie and they have maintained a close relationship, which I think is important for the kid. And that’s why we were now on the Greyhound Bus heading north to Sonoma County.

  When Petra and I broke up, she returned to the United States. She was a lawyer and found work in the State Legislature Department up at Sacramento, California. It was while working in California that she met her present husband, Federico. I didn’t know then what he did for a living, only that he was pretty high up in local government. Oddly enough, we get along fine.

  As for me, I kept my job at an American airbase in Suffolk. English by birth, and an ex-regular British soldier, I was now the Director of American Youth Activities there.

  I was still watching for Suzie when, in my perip
heral vision, I thought I saw the driver being hoisted out of his seat. The doors swished shut in front of me and the vehicle began to pull out of the parking bay. I turned, but before I could speak a gun was thrust under my chin.

  A very calm voice said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Now, I don’t like that. In 1986 I had been a member of the SAS squad that was involved in the Iranian Embassy siege in London; Lead Captain in ‘A’ troop in fact. And I don’t like guns being thrust into my throat.

  My first thought was for Suzie. Where was she? Would she think I had abandoned her? She would be terrified. She wasn’t a street-wise kid and she was being left alone, a long way from home, in a strange place.

  At gun-point I accepted the seat which I was being shoved into. Then my training kicked in and I began to assess the situation.

  Targets: three men in addition to the driver; youngish and agile. Caucasian. Possibly a fourth or even a fifth sitting amongst the other 34 passengers, depending what the motive was.

  Weapons: the guy who had taken over the driving appeared to be unarmed. Another guy was waving a pistol about: he looked uneasy. The weapon was a Sig Saur 17, which fires 17 x 7.9 parabellum, pointed silver point bullets: a close quarter weapon.

  I named the three for identification purpose; Curly, Larry and Mo. Stay cool. Mo was still pointing at me with a Glock 17, another close quarter weapon. Why me? If he started shooting it would do a hell of a lot of damage not just to me but to other passengers. One thing, he was amateur: the safety was still on. So far, so good.

  Motive. Robbery? Unlikely. Four guys to rob a bus travelling from San Francisco airport to Sonoma County? There had been a measure of efficiency in the way they boarded the bus, a little talent involved in the planning.

  Larry was very jumpy but I was pleased to see he still had the safety on as well. I assessed him as being the weakest component of the team. He waved the Sig Saur around, shouting. Pros don’t do that. Mo looked the part; tall, fit. He looked as if he worked out: cool, not wasting energy. He was the dangerous one. The man to go for first.

  Looking around the passengers there were a number of young people; students probably, no doubt returning to Sonoma University. I would guess about 15 in all. The rest were families off to see folk for the Thanksgiving holiday. Why was I the one with a gun at my neck?

  By now we were well clear of the bus station and joining Highway 101. My thoughts returned to Suzie. What would she do? Would she remember to go to the nearest policeman or official in uniform?

  Assess the situation.

  I looked at Mo and mouthed the word, ‘John.’ I had to go to the toilet.

  We were travelling towards the Bridge. I hadn’t done this trip very often but I guessed Petaluma would be the next stop. If they stopped for me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Larry shouted from half way down the bus.

  ‘I left my daughter at the bus station…You have to let me out.’

  That was when Mo hit me with the Glock. Several of the passengers screamed. Cut above the eye. No problem.

  ‘Shut your mouth asshole or you die,’ he said.

  Assess the situation.

  We had now passed Petaluma and were turning off Route 101 and up the ramp.

  ‘I have to pee,’ I repeated, standing.

  My luck was in. Mo lost his nerve for a split second and looked across to his mate for advice. That’s when I hit him. He dropped like a stone. More screaming. Larry was coming at me fast: I turned and butted him in the face. It smashed his jaw. I heard the bones crunch and teeth popped. You have to get that right or you kill a man. He too dropped to the floor.

  Curly’s fatal mistake was to have a weapon he didn’t know how to use. He was fiddling with the safety when I hit him. He didn’t drop. He raised his arm to protect his face. He was a sucker for a chop, when all you can think about is your little girl and what trouble these cowboys are causing you. I broke his arm with that chop: felt and heard the ulna crack. He screamed and fell to the floor clutching his arm, that’s when I kicked him in the ribs, then for good measure I stood on his broken arm. Broken ribs render you useless, every move is agony. Just to make sure, I kicked him again.

  The driver meanwhile had slowed up. I saw fear in his eyes. He knew he was next. But it didn’t happen. Not because of me, but because as I looked out of the window I could see a Highway Patrol cruiser pulling alongside, lights flashing. On our left another edged forward, then another broke ranks and pulled in front of the bus.

  I heard later what had happened. A woman had followed Suzie into the rest room. Suzie heard the bus go and ran out. The woman ran after her and made the mistake of trying to grab her. That’s when Suzie screamed the place down. A security guard intervened and called the cops. The cop, fortunately, was switched on. He sussed what was happening and called for back-up. Back-up in this case turned out to be the FBI.

  I learned that Federico was in fact the State Attorney in Sacramento and had just announced that he was to stand as prospective Attorney General, alongside President Barack Obama, in the forthcoming elections in November. The kidnap attempt on Suzie was intended to procure the release of a Columbian drugs baron. Drug money had bought the four clowns.

  I found Suzie drinking a very long milk shake in the Police Headquarters canteen in Sacramento with Arnie Schwarzenegger who just happened to be visiting old pals. I knew Arnie from way back in the U.K. Turned out he was filming in the area. I overheard the Police Chief talking to the State Governor; Edmund G. Brown Jnr. One of his crew, he said, was wondering how such injuries could have been inflicted on the kidnappers without a weapon. I shrugged and muttered something about Hereford. It was lost on the Governor but it wasn’t lost on Arnie, or the ex-Marine, Sacramento Police Chief.

  As for me and Suzie, as guests of Federico and Petra, we had a great week in Washington meeting the President and, if things worked out well for him, we looked forward to an invitation to his Inauguration in November.

  The End

  The Woman Who Died Twice.

  An excerpt from Zen and the Art of Social Work to be published in December 2012.

  Devon, England

  A high sandstone wall surrounds the ancient church of St Hilda’s, in the village of Otterton St Mary in Devon, England. Situated some seven miles from Exeter, and nestling in the lee of Dartmoor, the village is the kind of tight-knit community frequently portrayed in radio serials and television murder mysteries.

  In the churchyard, hidden behind the high wall, a camping-gaz lantern had been placed atop a mound of freshly dug earth. With each breath of wind the light cast shadows that danced against the ancient church walls. Higher up, the light flickered on the lower half of the fourteenth century stained-glass window and the reflection glowed like burnished gold.

  The grotesque dancing shadows were being made by a person digging. The lantern was conveniently placed so that whoever was working in the churchyard could see exactly where he was digging. This was very important because to disturb an old grave without first spreading lime means that there’s always a distinct danger of disease. A few days earlier, while digging the new grave, the Sexton had had to be extra careful because, buried just two feet below the coffin occupied by Mrs Helen Ascot-Brown, lay another coffin containing the body of her husband who had pre-deceased her by some two years.

  Mrs Helen Ascot-Brown had died suddenly and unexpectedly. Being aged only 51, the coroner had felt it necessary to determine the cause of death. Mrs Ascot-Brown had always presented as a very fit and healthy woman: she was neither a smoker nor a drinker, although when attending dinner parties she was known to enjoy a glass of wine with her meal. She exercised regularly and was a keen cyclist and was often seen out on one of the many bike paths in and around the village. She certainly wasn’t overweight at the time of her death although presumably she had been at one time since she was a founder member of Weightwatchers, a thriving and popular group in the
village.

  The subsequent post mortem indicated a cardiac infarction. It had occurred while she was alone, her son being out at work, and no-one was around to administer any kind of cardiac resuscitation.

  In the evening, when her son returned home, he found his mother sitting in an armchair; a cup of tea, untouched and long gone cold, beside her on a table. The radio was on: Mrs Ascot-Brown had been listening to BBC Radio 2. At first her son thought that she was simply asleep and, as was usual on his return from work, he put the kettle on to make himself a cup of Nescafe. Only when he tried to wake his mother did his world come crashing down.

  *

  Mrs Ascot-Brown’s son, Gerald, presented at the funeral as a solitary and lonely figure, walking solemnly behind the cortege, dressed entirely in black. He kept his head down and looked at no- one. Many people watching felt saddened by his very countenance. He was joined by many dignitaries from the village; the Women’s Institute, the Townswomen’s Guild and several members of the Village Hall committee as well as many neighbours and friends all walked through the village. By the time they reached the church there were over a hundred mourners, all crowding into the churchyard. In a rather macabre way, in this tiny Devon Hamlet, the funeral was the highlight of the year. But matters did not end there...