by Neil Rowland
45
There came an inner voice, or voices, urging him to return to the surface; to drag himself out of this cavern of night: “Clive, are you there? Do you recognise me? Will you open your eyes now?”
Clive wasn’t strong enough to clamber back to the surface. As yet he wasn’t able to recognise or to decipher these messages; nor to locate the direction or source. It was impossible to rouse his volition. He’d lost any proportion of time again.
A painful humming sensation developed in his hearing. He felt that he was asleep, perhaps trying to rouse himself; having great difficulty doing that; with a point of consciousness far away. His mind fixed on the prick of light, like a trapped potholer. In a sense he was like that lost explorer, trapped under a mountain, tons of granite and other materials above his head. Or it was a type of ‘buried alive’ nightmare.
These voices made spikes into his mind, from time to time; talking encouragingly, asking him to rouse himself and to seek an escape. Was he able to discover the identity of these speakers and to respond?
Rather than to reconstruct the trauma, when those flunkies had tossed him into the foundation, he tried to enjoy a sensation of calm. He became convinced that he must be dozing under shady trees in his favourite square. He wondered if the whole ordeal had been a just a bad dream, playing out his worst fears to a fantastic level. He might wake soon and return to solid reality; he craved this from the depth of his consciousness; the entire drama played out within the dark watery globe of his own head.
He would be able to open his eyes soon, to return to the City; and to the usual scenes of London’s working life. After that he’d check off his watch and get back to the office, careful not to be late after a rare lunch out. He had the sensation that it was Friday, the end of the week, he thought with relief. This evening he would get home promptly, so that he could arrange for a babysitter, when the wife and he went to the rugby club bar; before setting off to a restaurant and a club.
But then what about Pixie Wright? Was he intending to discount her as well?
When he did come around, as he sensed, he found himself setting in a narrow seat next to a small round window. It was too dark to see anything through this porthole. He understood that it must be an aeroplane; he was aboard a flight!
The huge engines whined through the air and turbulence shook the whole craft. He gazed about the cabin in astonishment, trying to acclimatise. It was the feeling of life returning to normal that had been the illusion. But had he managed to cheat death, or murder, and to escape from Septimus?
His last memory was of being thrown into the void of Winchurch Brothers’ Tower. Yet his memory was proven to be unreliable.
He couldn’t explain what he was doing aboard an aircraft. Was he on that early morning fight to Budapest after all?
Maybe Douglas hadn’t betrayed him. The lawyer had friends in that country; or contacts from land and property deals. If so Doug had been playing a clever double bluff with Septimus. In mysterious circumstances Breadham had smuggled Clive to Heathrow or to the City airport and out of England. How was this bizarre rescue possible? There was no recollection of going through airport procedures.
Pitt didn’t understand why his memory should be erased again.
“Clive, are you listening? Do you hear me? Will you try to follow?” persisted the voice.
But he tried to relax in the airline seat; to understand the new situation. He was the only passenger in the row of seats. But he saw that there were other passengers, occupying seats in other rows. Nobody was taking any special interest in him; this was a normal in-flight atmosphere. There was a hum of companionable conversation that put him at ease. He was approach by a young woman. She was an air steward.
“You can unfasten your seat belt now, sir,” she advised.
“Oh, right. I didn’t realise I was wearing one, to be honest. Do you mind me asking...where are we flying?”
“Can I fix you something to drink, Mr Pitt?”
“You know, what’s our destination?” he remarked.
“How about a whiskey, sir? It’s excellent whiskey?”
“No. Do you have a pint of bitter? Then make it a Gin and tonic. Why are you referring to me by name? What happened to cheap flights? Did we just leave London?” he enquired. He was gabbling with curiosity.
“Yes sir, from London.”
“Heathrow?”
She shrugged. Then she went off to mix his drink with a deeply sexy sashay and reassuring coping-with-everything smile.
Clive pushed back into the seat, exhaled deeply: “Whatever you do, keep calm, keep calm.”
Engine noise reintroduced into his senses, putting those inner voices to the back of his thoughts. For a while he followed the gestures of a couple conversing in an adjacent row. The girl resembled Pixie and the guy was like Cohen from the office, he thought; although he could only see the back of their heads.
There was comfortable chatter within the cabin. This helped to block out the other voices that called him; with the persistency of his Mum telling him to stop playing and come back indoors. Shouldn’t he check to see if that was Pixie, no matter how coincidental it was? Anyway what was she doing with Cohen and other guys from the office? Hadn’t she been in a terrible accident that had altered her personality?
“Don’t be afraid, Clive. You are safe now. Do you hear me? You are safe now. Just say something to me, will you?”
Clive searched for an in-flight magazine without success. There was a sick-bag and, amazingly, a copy of the Winchurch Brothers Company Report for the previous year. On the front of this publication was an image of Sep and Viktor, stood on the marble steps before the new tower, locked in a firm and friendly handshake.
The air hostess returned. She pressed a G&T into his hand, without taking any more questions. In the meantime he sipped the drink, which tasted intensely fantastic. He could taste again. Indeed he could live again.
On second thoughts the girl was very much like Pixie. Wasn’t that her after all? He would have to go and see. But his decisive action was stalled by a new voice; an announcement:
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.”
Clive accepted the competent tones of a trusted professional. “I foresee a calm flight. There may be some turbulence later. For those of you interested we are now flying at sixty six thousand feet below.”
“Below?” Pitt mouthed.
“The conditions are as expected at our destination. About three million degrees centigrade. Cloudy with light showers. The morning’s fire storms have passed over. Once we arrive at the terminal you may experience delays. This is due to your souls departing from your body. We request patience until our staff can dispose of your mortal bodies. Thanks for choosing to fly with us today, and taking out your life membership. Refreshments are now being served. Our President looks forward to seeing you. In the mean time I wish you a pleasant flight.”
The airhostess returned with a fixed smile. Except this time she was accompanied by two burly stewards, two heavily muscled men in the same branded red and black uniform. To his astonishment and protest, these guys reached over and lifted him from his seat. What was going on here? His tumbler bounced to the ground and G&T spread over the narrow carpet like transparent blood.
Pitt was being whisked down the aisle like some miscreant who’d been caught smoking in the toilet. Yet his offence was more serious apparently, because they pulled him towards the cockpit, along the blue lighted and carpeted aisle.
“Get your paws off, you meat heads,” Clive urged.
The hostess continued to smile - as if to reassure the other passengers - yet the shit-house bullies were squeezing the juice out of his muscles, so that he couldn’t coordinate himself.
Was the idea to disgrace him in front of the pilot? Maybe he was effectively being
arrested. To be handed over on landing to the Hungarian authorities.
But that wasn’t the scenario. Instead he was taken to the front entry and exit door. They faced him up to the porthole with arms twisted up behind his back. Clive was forced to stare through the Perspex window, towards the darkness shown outside. He heard the rush and suck of freezing air outside.
A still smiling hostess unlocked this barrier; she had to use her whole strength. Clive didn’t think this was possible to achieve. Was she trying to kill them all? Yet she cracked open the air-locked capsule. She exposed a torrential darkness outside. It was a terrifying sensation. Like the sight and sound of all hell breaking loose. The male stewards took him to the edge, shook him in reprimand, and then, as he felt their fingers in his back, shoved him out of the aircraft.
46
Pitt lost the sense of security that came from being in the aircraft; far behind. He fell and fell and fell, snapping in and out of consciousness.
He had the sensation of flying above the square mile, peering down at the towers below, at the Gherkin, the Shard on the south bank, the shapes misty and abstract.
It was definitely one of those “my life is flashing before my eyes” moments. There was a feeling of elation, euphoria even, as if he was only dreaming about flying, as many people did. But this was not a dream, because he could feel the air, powerful currents, and saw all objects on the ground. This experience was too real, too superbly scary, suspended there in the gaping space, with only a super jumbo above his shoulder. Perhaps this was the very plane he’d been ejected from, on his way to sanctuary. Only idiots are not afraid at all. Guys without a frontal lobe, or a damaged frontal lobe: which he confidently didn’t suffer from.
There was not time to look along the Thames to fully enjoy the view. He felt himself swooping, gliding and swinging downwards, drifting and circling. Soft and beautiful, as he shut out noises and smells; the clamour and frenzy of the City. He didn’t sense speed or weight until he touched the ground again.
“Clive you have to come back around now. Can you hear me, sweetie? Can you pick up my voice, darling?”
“Yes, I hear your voice,” Pitt responded. Finally he had to reply to those voices, as they were insistent, yet sympathetic and encouraging.
There was a group around him, a circle of people; various anxious faces. They leant forward over him, as he seemed to be horizontal. Following his reply they gave a collective gasp of surprise and relief. Why should they be amazed at the sound of his voice? There was a type of commotion around him - a stirring of the atmosphere and a change in mood - a sense of tears and laughter.
“Can you open your eyes for me, Clive? You do hear me, don’t you? Are you coming back to me now?”
“I don’t know,” Clive replied. “I hear your voice. Whoever you are... Who are you?” But there was a circle of bright lights above his head, like undercarriage lights from a space ship.
“You’ve been through a terrible trauma, darling.”
“I’d reckon so,” he agreed.
“He’s definitely coming back around now,” remarked a male voice.
“Try to open your eyes and look at me.”
“Where am I? I feel bloody terrible!” Pitt complained. “Who put my head in a vise?”
“Don’t worry Clive. Keep talking. This is your wife.”
“Pixie? Didn’t I just see you on the flight? With Cohen?”
“This is your wife. It’s Noreen here with you!”
“Have patience with your husband.”
“How is that possible? Noreen? What type of hoax are you carrying out?”
“There are no tricks now. What don’t you try to see now?”
“He’s opening his eyes.”
“I thought you were in Seattle. What are you doing here?”
There were bright lights, strobes. Yet he painfully opened his eyes and adjusted to intense spots. Sure enough he began to distinguish elegant dark features, his wife’s face, the tender Semitic eyes, a long thin nose, the grey flecked hair and cutely pointed chin - the familiar features of a woman he’d loved and married.
“It’s true. I went to Seattle with him. I felt that was the right thing to do. But how do you feel, Clive? Try to keep your eyes open. Don’t close your eyes again. Speak to me darling. Speak and clarify your thoughts.”
She was gripping his hand and wiping his forehead.
“Why don’t you explain? You took Josh with you States side?”
“He’s coming around nicely now.” It was an authoritative remark.
There was a bunch of nurses in peculiar uniforms and more white coats.
“Yes, that was true, Clive. Don’t you remember anything at all? We made a plan together. I would go with my friend to the States, to Seattle, Washington State. We hoaxed a separation between us, you know, after you were in dispute with your boss. They were trying to bring you down, actually, over the deal. The idea was that we would pretend that our marriage was in trouble. There would be a period of separation leading to divorce. Wilson agreed to pose as my boyfriend. He already had a business over there. Wilson is our true friend, Clive.”
“Definitely a cunning plan,” Pitt said.
Other faces around his wife were clarifying. Somehow the figures were connected and uniform, like heads from a single body.
“We made a copy of your dossier. I took the secret over with me to Seattle,” she explained. “Remember, my sister already lives over there. I had somewhere to go. We knew you were in danger. We knew that your company wanted to destroy the evidence. Thank God we managed to reach you now, Wilson and me.”
“You really have my dossier on the ZNT deal?”
“Yes, I know where your memory files are located. I have access ... all that you need. For a whole year I have posed as a new emigrant to the USA and as the future spouse of Wilson.”
“Exactly where am I?” Clive wondered. He was on his back blinking at those blinding lights.
“You’re in Westminster Hospital. You nearly died Clive. We nearly lost you.”
“Tell me that this hasn’t all been a dream?”
“You’ve had a near death experience, sweetie.”
“Really? Then what’s true?”
“They tried to kill you, actually. They threw you into the foundations of their new building.”
“That actually happened?” Clive replied.
“But they failed,” Noreen explained. “They also failed to locate me in Seattle this year. I was under a different identity. Wilson has contacts with the CIA.” The large dark eyes were dense with feeling. “When I was informed about your ‘accident’ we came rushing back to London. Your colleague Pixie Wright was in contact with me. She decided to look me up. I caught the earliest flight. I’ve been at your bedside these last few weeks...hoping that you would survive...that you’d come out of this terrible deep sleep.”
“Now I’m in the clear? I’m vindicated?” He lifted his head, although the rest of his body was inert.
“Your dossier was delivered to the City police on my return.”
“When was this?” he wondered. He tried to scramble up on his elbows.
“About three weeks ago, twenty days ago...The FCA has been studying the details, actually... and they are preparing a prosecution against Septimus. He will also be charged with attempted murder. The Criminal Prosecution Service is processing the case. The Serious Fraud Squad is involved of course, in examining the documents around the deal, that you stored.”
“Why can’t I move my legs? Am I paralysed or something?”
“No Clive, nothing like that. But you broke some bones and fractured others. It’s going to take a lot of time, darling. Let the doctors resolve those physical problems. You suffered an awful assault.”
“By Viktor Di Visu,” he assumed.<
br />
“That’s proven Clive. This chap and some of his friends attacked you in that lawyer’s apartment. They raped you and beat you to an inch of your life.”
“Oh no, God help us. I’ve had a few inches now in my life,” Clive said.
“Exactly so, my darling.”
“You know everything about this, Noreen?” he wondered.
“About the rape and beatings? He downloaded a film on to the internet. Yes, the idiot put this on a porn site, for other maniacs to enjoy. Why did he do this? Good question Clive, because it was really stupid. Yet I suppose it is stupid to rape someone in the first place, so no less stupid to share the same scene with other maniacs.”
“That’s incredible. What sort of character is this?”
“He is a brute, needless to say.”
“For how much longer?” Clive remarked.
“Well, I’m afraid that Viktor Di Visu took off in his private jet. He escaped from the City of London airport... on the way to a friendlier nation.”
“We can’t get him!”
“Unfortunately British law doesn’t stretch there... nor international law, actually... and a government plea for extradition has been turned down.”
“Laughed out of court?”
“That’s right, Clive, sweetie. How is your head now? Does it ache badly?”
“The FCA and police are unable to obtain Di Visu.”
“They are unable to retract the ZNT agreement.”
“We can’t run history backwards,” Clive agreed.
“That will take a ruling,” she replied. “But I think they’ll get there in the end.”
“They can’t stop Viktor, at this time, any more than the nuclear bomb can be un-dropped,” he agonised.
“They just have the auspices to charge Septimus. Meanwhile Viktor has moved out of his London home. He’s gone back home. ZNT HQ is listed in Geneva. But they have various international locations...”
“What else?” Clive pressed.
“That hospital in Buckinghamshire is under investigation. There will be a public enquiry,” Noreen explained, brushing his face again.