The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1)

by Haines, Derek

  'Dear Mr Garret,

  We fully understand that you must be rather surprised by the events leading to your stay with us. Please make yourself comfortable and rest, as you are certain to be fatigued. You will be contacted once you have recovered from your journey. Please avail yourself of our hospitality in the meantime. You will find all you need in the buffet cabinet located in the wall above your writing desk.'

  I was getting used to not knowing anyone's name so was hardly surprised that the note had not been signed, but I was very pleased however when I found a button on the wall above the writing desk and it opened the buffet cabinet that was set almost invisibly into the wall. When the wall opened to the right and left it revealed a fully stocked refrigerator, fresh fruit, as well as cutlery, plates and glasses. On the right though was something that attracted my immediate attention – an automatic coffee machine. I placed a cup under the nozzles and pushed the button for an espresso. It ground into action and started oozing out freshly made coffee with a rich creamy yellow foam on top. I sipped my coffee as I walked over to the door and only tried to open it once. There was no point trying again as there was no doubt I was being held captive, so all I could do was enjoy my coffee, have some breakfast then a shower and get some rest – and wonder what in the name of fucking hell was going on.

  It was after my breakfast and while I was taking off my clothes before getting into the shower that I looked down at my right ankle and wondered about the bracelet the young man on the plane had fitted to it. It was almost transparent and thinner in diameter than a pencil. I felt around it looking for a join but couldn't see or feel one. When I put pressure on it with both hands trying to bend it, or perhaps break it, the bracelet changed to a translucent pale green colour before giving my fingers a nasty electrical shock that sent me tumbling onto my backside. Recovering from the zap, I looked down at the now reddish coloured bracelet, which had tightened quite painfully around my ankle. I stayed seated on the cold bathroom floor, half dressed, with my back against the wall and waited for the bracelet to forgive my intrusion, and for the pain to subside. After a few minutes the red colour slowly changed to lilac then light blue as it took its time in releasing the pressure around my ankle. When it finally returned to being transparent again, I understood its message. It was only a mild warning of what it could possibly do to me if I upset it again.

  With fake bravado, and drugs, I had somehow managed to stay relatively calm and controlled since the whistling deliveryman began the process of my abduction and journey to hell knows where. As I sat with my bare arse on the cold bathroom floor, absorbing the reality of my situation, my bravado suddenly collapsed and melted into the grout between the blue tiles, leaving me unprotected from the reality that fell from the heavens and hit me hard. I fought for a moment but it was in vain, as tears formed in my eyes and started flowing freely down my cheeks. I was helpless, imprisoned and shit scared.

  After my shower there was little to do other than rest, and I didn't surprise myself when I woke feeling very groggy after a long sleep. My watch told me it was probably around three in the afternoon, but I had no way of knowing if it was afternoon at all. About the only thing I was sure of was that I needed coffee. Luckily this was one wish I had that could be fulfilled. The other hundred or so had no chance whatsoever, which included wishing I could call Helen and telling her I hadn't left her but had been abducted and was being held captive somewhere deep below an island, somewhere in the middle of nowhere – and hoping that she was enjoying her champagne. It hit me then that even if I could call her, she probably wouldn't believe the first part of what I wanted to tell her and definitely wouldn't believe the second, but would perhaps accept my wishing her cheers for her first sip of celebratory champagne. I made a coffee and tried to stop myself from wishing.

  I looked around my room and wondered if there was anything to read. After searching every door and drawer I could find, in vain, it was clear that reading wasn't being offered as part of my room package. Noting that my writing desk was void of any paper, pens or pencils, writing too was off the menu so it was a very inaptly named writing desk. I could only contemplate, or think about finding something sharp to carve my name into a wall as Lord Byron had done on a pillar in the dungeons of Château de Chillon to commemorate his 'The Prisoner of Chillon' ode. This was great for Byron, as he hadn't been imprisoned there; he was only visiting to show off. It was François de Bonivard, a Genevois monk and politician, who did all the suffering by actually being imprisoned, yet Byron got all the glory for writing a poem about the suffering of the poor forgotten monk. I doubted anyone was going to write about my imprisonment, and with my lack of anything at all to write with; it certainly wasn't going to be me.

  Finally deciding that none of this helped me at all, I cleared my head and opened the refrigerator and started thinking about having dinner. Or lunch or breakfast or what ever mealtime it was – I was hungry and finding tinned salmon, an onion, dried dill and some cheese changed my mood entirely. When I found a packet of crisp bread, my menu was complete. It was a pity there was no wine, only a limited choice of soft drink and orange juice. I settled on a bottle of mineral water.

  Once I had finished my dinner, I started hoping for a knock on my door rather soon. If only to relieve what was becoming abject boredom, but knowing that it could also possibly, or even probably, lead to something unpleasant. My bowels agreed, as they twisted and shot a sharp pain down towards my anus. With only my thoughts for company, I took them to bed with me a little later and waited for sleep to kill my boredom and lower abdominal pain. Sleep took some time to arrive though as my brain was still working away on Lord Byron and his autograph carved into a stone column.

  I presumed it was morning when I woke, and set about my normal morning routine of breakfast followed by the bathroom, but then followed this with the addition of ennui. I was not looking forward to a second day of five star imprisonment. It was more in hope that I showered, shaved and dressed reasonably well from the selection of my clothes the large man in the ill-fitting black suit had packed for me. My hope was that there would be a knock at my door and that I would at least be suitably dressed for whatever followed that. As I thought back to when the man with the black suit and his lady boss entered my apartment, I tried to recall the questions she asked. They were about my travels, the Internet, about my marriage and my work, and about where I had lived. The only logical conclusion I could come to was that they must think I was a spy or secret agent of some description. I couldn't for the life of me understand why. I was only a lousy husband, an even worse businessman and failed amateur writer, who like everyone else, wasted too much time online, and drank far too much. Hardly James Bond material. Then, just when my thoughts were very close to becoming sensible, what I had been waiting for, for over a day, made me jump with fright.

  Even though it was a very polite and quiet knock on my door, I froze in fear. Not knowing whether to walk to the door and open it, or wait for it to open by itself. When I heard the knock again I presumed I was expected to open the door myself. For some reason, I suddenly had the expectation that the woman and man who had taken me from my apartment would be at the door. I took a deep breath as I walked to the door and then turned the door handle. Unlike the evening before, it turned and I pulled the door open a little.

  'I hope you have been comfortable Mr Garret,' the young woman who had met me on my rock said, and I noticed that she had finally been informed that I had a name.

  'Thank you, yes,' I said as I opened the door a little more, probably in relief that it wasn't who I had hoped it wouldn't be.

  'If you would like to come with me please.'

  'Right. Do I need anything?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Where are we going?' I asked, as I walked through the door and heard it lock behind me.

  'Come with me Mr Garret,' she said, as she turned to head down the corridor with me following.

  'I'm a little confused you know.'
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  'I understand. It's not far.'

  'Do you meet and greet a lot of guests here?' I asked. Simply to say something and trying to settle my nerves, and the empty upside down feeling my liver or pancreas were creating in my guts.

  'Just up here,' she said, and then stopped after a short distance and opened a door for me. 'If you would wait in here for a moment, someone will be with you presently.'

  'Um, thank you,' I said, and wondered how long it had been since I had heard anyone use the word, presently. I entered a small room that had all the attributes of a lawyer's waiting room, except for the lack of luxury motoring magazines. The door closed behind me, which I suddenly realised was becoming a habitually routine event, and then I started the process of deciding whether to sit or stand while I waited. After some minutes I chose to sit on a rather comfortable, deep, dark brown leather sofa and wait, avoiding the temptation to twiddle my thumbs due to the lack of anything to read, once again. The lack of anything to read was becoming a kind of slow water torture for me as I began to think of the suffering it was slowly beginning to cause me. The walls were the same plain cream as my room with no paintings or prints. A glass table and a matching sofa opposite me were all that kept me company as I waited for whoever it was I was waiting for. My waiting ended abruptly as a door burst open to my right, and as for some reason I had decided I was waiting for a man in a dark suit, the sight of a woman quite nonplussed me.

  'Thank you for being so patient Mr Garret, I'm Leda,' she said, as she strode towards me and confidently offered me her hand to shake. I struggled for a moment to lift myself from the deep sofa, but once I succeeded I shook her hand.

  'Nice to meet you,' I said, but wasn't sure how honest I was in saying so. She wore her hair dark and very short and appeared to be in her late fifties. A little rotund and not very tall, but she had a definite air of authority about her. She was wearing a similar aquamarine jacket to the young woman, but she wore pants instead of a skirt.

  'If you'd like to come with me, we can have a chat,' she said, as she put a hand on my side to guide me towards the door. There was nothing to do other than accept her invitation, so I obeyed and headed towards the door she had entered by. She stepped forward and politely opened it for me, and I entered what I assumed was her office. A desk in one corner with a computer and files piled high, which tallied with my earlier thought that the waiting room looked like that of a lawyer. Her office had a similar legal feeling about it. She indicated I should sit at a small round meeting table. It was made from a dark wood, and with the red upholstered wooden chairs, it felt more and more that Leda was an attorney of some description.

  'Please take a seat,' she said as she moved opposite me and sat down. 'I imagine you're wondering where you are and why you're here,' she said, as she pulled her chair forward, which made a grating sound on the bare concrete floor, and then opened a blue file sitting in front of her.

  'An answer to both of those would help me I think.'

  'Naturally Mr Garret. You are under a small island that is located near where the Ionian Sea meets the Mediterranean. It's called Decem Filios.

  'The Ten Sons.'

  'Your knowledge of Latin is very good Mr Garret.'

  'I did do a little Latin at school. Um, I've only met you and the young woman who greeted me. Are there only women her?'

  'No, there are other people here,' she said, but didn't elaborate and returned immediately to the topic of the island. 'The name of the island reflects a little of our history.'

  'I've never heard of it.'

  'Very few have. And even fewer know that our island exists.'

  'A secret island?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's a bit hard to believe in this day and age.'

  'We have ways of ensuring our secrecy. It's important that our work is done quietly.'

  'I'm not sure I understand at all, so maybe you could move on to why I am here. I'm a bit confused about the secret part, so best perhaps you try something I might understand.'

  'You are one of us Mr Garret, and we need your help.'

  I looked at Leda, with my eyes probably giving away my complete and utter confusion as to what she was talking about. Secret islands, one of us and we need your help didn't compute one iota in my mind. 'Look, I'm really sorry if I sound stupid, but I don't think I've understood a single word of this. All I know is that I was dragged out of my apartment, drugged, tied up and flown away in the company of a man who sniffed a lot rather than speak, and on top of that, I've been locked away here with nothing to read and I'm worried about what my wife is going to think about me suddenly disappearing.'

  'I can understand you're a little upset and confused, but we do need you Mr Garret, otherwise we wouldn't have gone to all this trouble.'

  'Are you CIA or MI5 or something?'

  'No.'

  'Government?'

  'No.'

  'So I haven't been arrested for being a spy or anything like that.'

  'No.'

  'So why all the questions from the woman who barged into my apartment on a quiet Sunday morning?'

  'We had to make sure you were you.'

  'And you now believe I am me?'

  'Yes.'

  'We're not getting very far, are we?'

  'No.'

  'But you're not going to just forget about everything and let me go home and explain all this to my wife.'

  'I'm sorry, no. As I said, we need you.'

  'The bracelet around my ankle. That's courtesy of you I suppose?'

  'I'm sorry about that, but it is more civilised than being tied up in a straight jacket and manacled.'

  'Yes, but it's not all that friendly though. It gave me quite a nasty shock yesterday.'

  'Mr Garret, I think we have more important matters to discuss. Perhaps we should go for a walk and I can show you why it is that you're here.'

  'A guided tour of your very secret island to meet its even more secret ten sons? I won't want to miss this.'

  'You have quite a wit.'

  'It's sarcasm and I tend to use it when I'm nervous and feel out of place. And if I can only call you Leda, maybe you should call me Lang. It's a matter of equal politeness that's a bit of a habit for me from speaking French. You know, vous and tu, and how you can't mix the two.'

  'On peut se tutoyer, n'est-ce pas Lang?'

  ''Oui, bien sûr Leda,' I replied, with a smile and appreciated her sense of humour as well as her command of French. But I was still extremely wary of her secrecy claims.

  'Alors, on y va!' she said as she stood.

  'At last I think we have an understanding about something,' I said, as I stood and followed her back out through her waiting room and into the corridor. She didn't speak as she led me along a series of corridors, then down a set of stairs. She stopped suddenly on a landing and turned to face me.

  'Have you ever wondered about those marks on your neck Lang?'

  'Um, I'm not sure….' I said, but was interrupted by her pulling her scarf away from her neck.

  'Like these?' she asked, as she showed me a series of five small double lines on either side of her neck.

  'Well, similar I suppose. Just birthmarks,' I said, and by reflex put my hand to my neck.

  'And you've never wondered why there are five double symmetric lines, and on both sides of your neck?' she asked as she re-tied her scarf.

  'Clumsy forceps delivery?'

  'This way Lang, and you might be surprised to learn that they aren't the result of a badly trained midwife,' she said, as she started walking down the stairs again. I followed Leda, still rubbing my hand nervously on my neck. Knowing what I knew, but really not wanting to know anymore than that. There had been a time when I had wanted to know more, but that had been many years ago, when I was interested in chasing dreams – the dreams that my mother had left me after she died when I was only three. Her long hand-written letter to me, which I first read when I was around ten and continued to study until I was around eighteen, was file
d away somewhere and completely forgotten. I had stopped believing my mother's surreal stories and fantasies a long time ago.

  During my childhood I had wanted to believe, but only because it helped me hide from the misery of being brought up by my aunt and uncle. I never knew if they were truly related to me, but it was of little consequence as alcoholism, abuse and ill treatment never care whether you are blood related or not. All I understood as a childhood certainty was that they hated my mother and that they always referred to me as the child of a slut and a fatherless bastard. My aunt told me over and over again that the marks on my neck were from the bite of a vampire and that I was one of the evil living dead, as was my mother.

  I don't know exactly when or how it happened, but my uncle died when I was about eight and my aunt was pleased that he was out of her life. She told me she had poisoned his tea for years so he would suffer a slow and painful death. I remember being upset about him dying though, because of the two, he treated me the less badly and only belted me when my aunt insisted. With my uncle gone, my aunt took over the responsibility of belting me.

  It was a few years later when I was in the orphanage that I began to understand that I had been taken from her by welfare because of her abuse and that my screaming had alerted neighbours to call the authorities. I was ten when they came to get me and it was shortly after arriving in the orphanage that a priest gave me my mother's letter. The authorities had found it at my aunt's house, unopened and addressed to me. I recalled looking at the envelope and not knowing what to do with it, until the priest helped me open it and then read my mother's letter to me for the first time. After he read it to me, he told me that my mother must have been a truly remarkable woman and that I should be proud of her and to guard her letter with my life.