Secret Shepherd

by James Osborne

  Paul followed her on a tour through the waiting room overflowing with at least seventy calmly waiting patients. Many looked up, smiled and waved as they passed. They walked by several empty examining rooms, and then past rows of hospital beds each screened by frayed curtains, some patched but all clean, to an operating theatre.

  Paul peered through a window. The room was spotless.

  “Is that Benjamin conducting an operation?” Paul asked. He was surprised.

  Anthea smiled and nodded.

  “Probably a gunshot wound,” she said calmly. “He has lots of experience with those... he’s better at treating them than either Elijah or me.”

  “Is he qualified to do that?” Paul said.

  “Everyone’s qualified to save a life if they’re able and willing,” Anthea replied. “Leastwise, that’s how it works here, out of necessity... out of a very critical necessity, now.”

  Anthea turned, walking back the way they’d come. Paul followed. They crossed a sparsely grassed area to an adjacent building.

  “This is the hospital’s intensive care ward,” she said, pulling back a curtain.

  Paul estimated twenty-five to thirty children were lying or sitting on beds covered with ratty sheets. More than half of the children wore bandages. Paul guessed the others were suffering from illnesses. He could see no quarantine ward.

  One child’s head was almost totally covered in bandages, as was the stump of her left arm. The hand and half of her forearm were missing. Paul guessed she’d be about six or seven years old.

  The little girl’s eyes were wary as they returned his gaze, with curiosity but also with fear and hostility. He wondered how much of the hostility resulted from him being a man.

  Paul sensed Anthea watching him.

  “A machete attack on her village last week,” she said. “Poor girl. No young man in her village will want to marry her someday, now.”

  Paul looked back at the girl. He sensed she had been watching him while he spoke with Anthea; she’d quickly turned her frightened eyes away.

  “She’s terrified because of the men who did this to her,” Anthea said. “We understand those bandits have visited her village several times... all men. They kill and rape people in her village every time. She has rarely experienced men doing kind things, except for her father and uncle; the bandits killed both of them. She becomes frightened at the very sight of a man.”

  “No wonder,” Paul said. “That’s sad... very sad.”

  “Yes,” Anthea said. “We have dozens of children here suffering from trauma like that. Most people in the west have no idea!”

  “Would it be all right to read stories to these children?” he asked. “Are there other children we should invite?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Anthea said. “They would love that! I’ll arrange to get you some storybooks and a chair, and I’ll go invite other children to join you. Then I must leave you. I really need to get back to the clinic. You saw the lineups. I’m their only doctor now.”

  While Paul was waiting, a little boy, about four years old, walked over and grabbed the index finger on his right hand. Paul knelt down. The boy cuddled up.

  “Are you a daddy?” the little boy asked in perfect English. His curly black hair was cropped close. It glistened in the sun streaming through a cracked and stained window. The boy looked curiously at the end of Paul’s white finger sticking out from his tiny black hand. The little boy touched the tip with the index finger of his other little hand.

  “Yes,” Paul relied. “I have a boy and a baby girl.”

  “Where are they?” the boy asked, looking around. “Are they here?”

  “They’re at home,” Paul said. “It’s a long way from here. What’s your name?”

  “Tommy,” the little boy said. “What’s yours?”

  “Paul.”

  “Will you play with me, Paul?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Would you like me to read you a story first?”

  “Oh yeah!” Tommy replied. His eyes sparkled. “Yes, please!”

  In his peripheral vision, Paul had caught sight of the little girl with the missing hand and arm watching him, and listening intently to his conversation with Tommy.

  A nurse arrived and introduced herself as Helen. She was carrying a chrome kitchen chair reminiscent of the 1960s. The cracked and faded green vinyl seat had been repaired with grey duct tape, now peeling; the back was a weathered, unpainted board held awkwardly in place with rusted screws. Helen offered a selection of books. Paul took them and chose a large dog-eared book containing a collection of Winnie-The-Pooh stories.

  Paul placed the chair on one side of the wide aisle facing a row of beds. They were filled with children. He sat down. The Winnie-The-Pooh book was in his hand. He noticed the children were focused on the picture of Winnie on the book cover. More children filed in and sat on the floor in circular rows facing Paul’s chair.

  He caught sight of the eyes of the little girl with the missing left hand shifting from the book to him and back to the book. Her demeanor was a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

  Paul began to read a copy of the original Winnie-The-Pooh story. He knew he might have guessed that one story would not be enough, and he was pleased about that.

  In fact, one Winnie-The-Pooh story led to another Winnie-The-Pooh story and then to another and another. After each, the children kept urging him to read “just one more!”

  Paul became aware that as he was reading, the little girl with the missing arm had moved down off her bed and was among the children seated on the floor.

  As he started to read the fourth Winnie-The-Pooh story he noticed she had somehow made her way to the right side of the front row.

  Paul glanced up at Helen, the nurse. He saw that she’d also noticed the little girl’s movements. She raised her right eyebrow. A slight smile appeared on her kind young face.

  Halfway through the fourth story Paul felt pressure on his right leg. He raised the book slightly as he read and glanced down. The girl was resting her back against his leg, facing away to his right.

  Paul stopped reading and lowered the book, holding it in his left hand. The little girl quickly scrambled to her feet. Paul expected her to scurry away, frightened. To his surprise, she climbed up on his lap and rested her tiny head on his chest. He held her tight with his right arm.

  Paul briefly paused reading to calm his emotions. When he resumed, his voice was choked... he struggled to speak. He cleared his throat and forced himself to again resume the Winnie-The-Pooh story. He noticed Nurse Helen turn away, wiping her eyes.

  Oh my, he thought. Oh my! This is what life’s really all about, isn’t it?

  When he finished, Helen walked up beside him.

  “Okay, children,” she said. “Time for your afternoon snacks.”

  “Yea-a-a-a-h!” the children shouted as they rushed out the door to the picnic area in the courtyard.

  “You too, Emma,” Helen said to the little girl on Paul’s lap. He felt Emma’s right arm reach across his stomach and grab tightly to his T-shirt.

  “Do you mind if I take Emma with me?” Paul said, his voice faltering. Helen nodded. Turning to Emma, he said, “Would you like to come with me?”

  Emma looked up at him and nodded shyly. She climbed down from his knee and offered her left arm for him to take. Paul saw the sadness on her face as she remembered her hand was no longer there. She moved quickly behind him to his left side and offered her right hand. He looked down as she pulled on his hand, leading the way, her tiny little hand all but invisible, encased in his big muscular hand.

  Paul had taken three steps when he felt another little hand grab the middle finger of his right hand. He glanced down. Tommy was looking up at him and smiling.

  The three of them walked hand-in-hand to the picnic area in the courtyard beside the school.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Secure Location

  London

  “I was a big fan of
Frankenstein as a kid,” Paul said. “I hadn’t noticed the author’s name, I must admit.”

  “Who’s not a fan of Frankenstein, Mr. Winston?” Kay Shelley replied with a gentle laugh.

  “Paul, please,” he said.

  “Okay, Paul,” she replied. “And please call me Kay.”

  They were having tea in the living room of a safehouse arranged by Scotland Yard for Kay and her family. Paul had learned she was a descendent of Mary Shelley, the author of the famous novel Frankenstein.

  “I’m always surprised at how few people know that Mary Shelley was the author,” she said. “She’s my great, several times great aunt or perhaps grandmother... no one’s certain. In her day, her work was more widely known, and sold better I might add, than her husband’s, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and even better than Percy’s close friend, Lord Byron.”

  “As I said on the phone, I’d like to ask you about the shooting in the park,” Paul said. “Are you feeling up to answering a few questions?”

  “Yes,” Kay replied, rubbing the back of her injured hand. “Thank you for your interest. As you know, we’re in a modified witness protection program, at least until my former husband is arrested. I have a few questions for you as well, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Paul said. “Why don’t you start?”

  “Someone sent a solicitor to see me,” Kay began. “She says that she’s handling my case pro bono... for free. That’s most unusual. Have you heard anything about this?”

  “Many prominent solicitors take a few cases pro bono,” Paul said, avoiding a direct answer. “They know how very fortunate they are, and feel a need to give back. I’d say that’s probably it.”

  Kay nodded thoughtfully.

  “My second question is this,” she said, “Is Scotland Yard paying the rent and utilities on this very nice condo?”

  “I expect it goes along with the witness protection program,” Paul said. “I’m not sure what all’s included in those programs.”

  “What’s really interesting, Paul, is that Chief Superintendent Hagerman told me we have an account in our names, mine and my husband Harry’s, at the local grocery store. All we have to do is sign the bills; the same at Harrods’ clothing store. Harrods’? Good gracious, Paul, I’d never even been to Harrods. Didn’t think I should spend that kind of money on clothing for my family or myself. And I very much doubt that’s part of the program. Mr. Hagerman said he had no idea who or what was behind it.”

  “Wow!” Paul said. He was not about to tell her the Secret Shepherd Foundation was behind it. “That’s terrific. If I were you, Kay, I think I’d just go with it. I’m not sure what else to suggest.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I have to admit it’s a big help right now. Harry’s no longer able to work in his old job as a construction foreman. He’s agreed to manage my foundation for me so I can get out into the field where I belong. But things are barely functioning there right now, at least until we find out where Geoff hid our money and hopefully get it back. Tragically, thousands of clients were depending on us.”

  “Were?”

  “Yes, Paul,” Kay replied. “You see, we’ve had to shut down almost all of the work we’ve been doing with local support groups and networks across the UK. Victims of spousal abuse and their children have a very difficult time getting re-integrated into society.”

  “I must confess I was raised in a loving family.” Paul said. “I believed all families were like ours... loving and supportive. What I’ve learned since about domestic violence is disturbing to say the least.”

  “I won’t bore you with details,” Kay said. “Let me just say, Paul, that on average two women are killed every single week in the UK by a partner or former partner.”

  “What?” Paul said. “Two women a week?”

  “Yes, Paul,” she replied.

  “By their spouses?”

  “Or partners. Yes, Paul.”

  “This is outrageous!” he said. “What’s being done?”

  “Not nearly enough,” Kay replied. “Governments do little. They’re leaving it to a string of underfunded non-government agencies that help hundreds of thousands, women and children, a year.”

  Paul’s gentle eyes grew large.

  “Those numbers are correct,” Kay said. “Hundreds of thousands a year... in the UK alone. It’s the same or worse in other Western countries, and much worse in Asian and Middle Eastern countries. My organization, Mary’s House, was established to help abused women and children prepare to re-enter society and the workforce as productive and stable people.”

  “Sounds like you’re filling quite an important gap!” Paul said.

  “Yes,” Kay said. “We were. The women and children we’re helping need a wide range of support… education, job training… a few months rent… or all of these, and sometimes it’s just as simple as a few pair of pantyhose. Their children almost always need special counseling in a safe learning environment after the trauma they’ve endured.”

  Kay hesitated.

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “It was a fabulous program... until Geoff stole our money. Now almost all of the programs are shut down... thousands of very sad mothers and children.”

  She stopped and looked down at her hands clasped in her lap, struggling for control and rubbing the injury.

  “You can’t blame yourself for the actions of your former husband,” Paul said.

  “I should have been more vigilant,” Kay replied. “I trusted him!”

  “You also mentioned a charitable fund?” Paul asked, trying to shift the focus.

  “Yes,” Kay said. “The foundation also administered contributions to a charitable trust that helped maintain the schools. Geoff stole those funds too... he stole it all. Forgive me, Paul,” she added, dabbing her damp eyes. “I apologize for telling you all my troubles. That was rude of me. You came to ask about that horrible shooting. How can I help you?”

  “Each of us spoke with Scotland Yard about events in the park that day, but I was just curious if you had any further thoughts about that?” Paul said.

  “I told the police I was getting ready to take William out on our daily walk when I found an unusual message on my phone,” Kay said. “It said something about finding a message in the Serpentine Gallery, about recovering the money that Geoff stole. I should have known better. I sure wish I’d have ignored that message. William was almost hit! I’m still having nightmares!”

  “That was a close call for all of us,” Paul said. “I expect the police told you that I received a similar message?”

  “Yes,” Kay said.

  “They’re working on the theory the two messages were a bizarre coincidence,” Paul said. “It looks that way.

  He decided to not tell her about Ken Hagerman’s theory that one hit man might have been hired to kill both of them.

  “I want to congratulate you on your wonderful programs” Paul said, standing. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to meet my wife Anne sometime. She’s a psychologist and a teacher. I know she’ll be quite interested in your programs.”

  “I’d like very much to meet your wife,” Kay said. “However, we’ve only one classroom still open... and I’m not sure for how much longer. Just the same, I’d love to have her visit us. I’m sure she’ll have lots of great ideas. Here’s the address.”

  “Thanks,” Paul said as he stood. “I also came by to make sure your hand is healing okay and that you and your family are all right.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you Paul,” Kay said. “Thank you.”

  “By all means,” he replied. “It was good of Ken Hagerman to arrange for us to make contact. Thanks for bringing me up to date. I’ve learned a great deal today... a very great deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Amsterdam

  Two months later

  “Richard, I’ve been arrested by airport security,” Paul said on his cellphone.

  “You can’t be serious!”
his father-in-law replied.

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “How in the world did that happen?” Richard asked.

  “After I tell you, will you call Ken Hagerman?” Paul said, “I expect the Marechaussee, the airport security here, to confiscate my phone any minute. They’ve taken others. I’ll call Anne after this, if I still have a phone. Here’s what happened.

  “I was on my way back from Sierra Leone when our plane had to put down here... heavy fog in London. I was coming out of a restroom when I saw a woman lying beside the lady’s restroom. She was bleeding and semi-conscious. The woman was well dressed in a business suit, so I find it hard to figure out what’s behind the charge. Anyway, I called for an ambulance and was doing what I could to stem her bleeding when the paramedics and the airport security arrived. The cops arrested me.”

  “What charge?” Richard asked.

  “Drug trafficking,” Paul said. “And it’s not funny!”

  He heard Richard snickering in the background. He struggled to suppress his own chuckles.

  “You’re kidding me!” Richard said, not yet in control.

  “It’s not funny,” Paul repeated.

  They both broke out laughing.

  “Okay, look Paul,” Richard said. “I’ll call Ken right away, so I’d better let you go. No pun intended.”

  “Oh, yes you did,” Paul chuckled. “And now I have to call Anne and tell her! It’s going to be a worry for her. Can you give her a call once you’ve spoken with Ken, just in case I lose my phone?”

  “Of course, Paul,” Richard said.

  ***

  Earnscliffe

  Two weeks later

  “It’s bizarre, really, Milord,” Malcolm said.

  “How’s that?” Paul asked.

  “Well, Amsterdam has a very relaxed attitude toward recreational drugs. Gracious me, it’s both the pot and prostitution capital of Europe. People are seldom arrested for anything related to marijuana or prostitution.”

  “Well, I was arrested and I want to get to the bottom of it,” Paul said. “That reminds me, I’d better call Ken Hagerman. I need to thank him. He arranged for his counterparts on the Amsterdam police to get airport security to drop all charges. Will you also ask your lawyer contacts in Amsterdam to try finding out more about what was going on with that woman?”