by E. M. Brown
He ate slivers of smoked salmon and Mediterranean salad, washed down with three bottles of real ale, then stretched out on the bed and looked around the room. At the age of thirty-five, he told himself, this was what his life had amounted to. A shabby room in a run-down Brixton terrace, a few dog-eared possessions, perhaps two hundred pounds in the bank, two or three inconsequential radio plays accepted and three dozen rejected…
He contrasted this with what he would have, years down the line. A big barn conversion in a pleasant North Yorkshire village, paid for lock, stock and barrel, a nice car and thousands in the bank. As well as more than a hundred TV credits to his name. But, he asked himself as he stared at the ceiling, was I happy?
Was I ever happy?
How could he be, with a string of failed relationships behind him and the attendant weight of regret?
He pulled the photograph of Annabelle from his wallet and stared at it, reliving his too-short time with the first real love of his life, reliving that fateful morning.
He suddenly needed to talk to someone who would understand.
He sat up and looked around for his mobile phone, then remembered two pertinent details: he didn’t have a mobile, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to contact Digby now because they were not on speaking terms. Richie didn’t even know where his old friend was living these days.
There was no one he’d more like to talk to now than old Diggers.
He heard the doorbell ring and ignored it. It sounded again, and this time someone answered the summons. He heard a hushed conversation down in the hall, and then footsteps on the stairs.
Someone tapped on the bedroom door.
Two bulky men crowded the narrow landing, a young uniformed constable and a mean-looking bulldog of a brute in plain clothes.
The latter said, “Edward James Richie?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ve received complaints from a Helen Atkins… and something about a bomb threat. Would you happen to know anything about this, sir?”
Richie leaned against the door, his heart thudding.
He took a breath. “Flight number EF-43576, from Gatwick bound for Rhodes,” he said. “If you don’t do something about it, then it’ll go down over Switzerland with the loss of everyone aboard.”
“And how do you know this, sir?” Bulldog asked. “We understand that you contacted EuroFly and mentioned a bomb to a representative of the airline…”
“That was to get their attention, your attention, so job done.” He smiled from Bulldog to the uniformed copper. “There’s no bomb, but a technical failure will bring down the plane, with exactly the same result.”
“Right, we’re taking you in for questioning.”
Bulldog gripped his upper arm and led him forcefully from the house and into a waiting, unmarked car.
He was driven at speed through the streets of Brixton and over the river. The car slowed in the congested traffic as it approached central London. Richie closed his eyes and leaned back.
The sunlight switched off suddenly and he opened his eyes to find they were motoring down a ramp into an underground car-park. He was manhandled from the car and across an expanse of oil-stained concrete to a lift where two uniformed officers were waiting. He ascended in the lift and was escorted through a maze of green-painted corridors to a tiny cell.
He was left there and the door locked behind him.
The cell was four metres long and two across, with a narrow bunk to the right with a thin foam mattress and a single rough blanket. The obligatory stainless steel bucket stood in one corner.
Richie sat on the bed and waited.
Half an hour later the door was unlocked and Bulldog appeared. He was back-lit by a naked bulb in the corridor, and Richie was unable to make out his features, just the bulging shape of his shoulders and neckless head.
“Up,” Bulldog said. “This way.”
He was led from the cell and along the corridor to an interrogation room consisting of a desk and three chairs. Bulldog motioned him to the single chair on the far side of the desk, and a second plain-clothes man entered the cell. If Bulldog conformed to the stereotypical image of an overweight, middle-aged career copper, the newcomer looked more like a corporate banker, with a sharp navy blue suit, patent leather shoes and collar-length golden hair. Richie guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and high up in the echelons of London policing, to judge from the way Bulldog deferred to him as they entered the room, nodding obsequiously and pulling out the second chair for him.
Banker leaned back and fixed Richie with a pair of ice blue eyes, his expression emotionless.
Bulldog gave his own name and that of the younger man, but Richie continued to think of them as the two Bs: Bulldog and Banker.
Bulldog referred to his note-book and said, “At approximately four o’clock this afternoon you entered the premises of forty-four Kennedy Road and there informed one Helen Rose Atkins that the plane she was due to take tomorrow at seven-thirty, flight EF-43576 from Gatwick, would crash over Switzerland due to a… ‘technical failure.’ You then made your way to Brixton High Street where you phoned EuroFly and informed an official there that there would be a bomb aboard the said flight. And yet you later told me that…” He glanced at his notes. “‘There’s no bomb, but a technical failure will bring down the plane, with exactly the same result.’ Now, Mr Richie, just what the hell are you playing at?”
Richie clasped his hands on the table-top and looked from Banker to Bulldog. “I know for a fact that the plane will crash, as the result of a technical failure.”
“Then why did you claim to the EuroFly official that there would be a bomb aboard the flight?”
“It seemed the best way to me to alert them to the technical failure – to get their attention. They can’t let the plane take off. I… A friend of mine, Helen Atkins, she dies… will die, along with everyone else on board if the flight goes ahead.”
Without altering his laid-back posture, Banker said, “‘Dies’?”
“Will die,” he corrected himself.
“A ‘technical’ failure, Mr Richie?”
“Some kind of mechanical fault,” he said, “which will result in the plane losing height over Switzerland and crashing into a mountainside.”
He had no idea why the plane had crashed, and hoped his explanation sounded nebulous enough to prompt the engineers to conduct a thorough mechanical inspection.
He wished, now, that all those years ago he’d read the report about the crash so that he’d be able to report its exact cause to Bulldog and Banker. But what, he wondered, if the crash was caused by pilot error?
“‘Some kind of mechanical fault’?” Banker repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But you are unable to say precisely what kind of fault?”
“I just know that ifthe flight takes off, over two hundred people will die.” He hesitated, then said, “Or it might even be down to pilot error…”
“Pilot error?” Bulldog echoed.
“But how do you know?” Banker asked.
“Do you promise me that you’ll ensure the plane is thoroughly examined?”
Banker said, “It goes without saying that engineers will instigate safety checks, Mr Richie.”
“And the pilots forewarned?”
Banker sighed. “How did you obtain your information, Mr Richie?”
He looked from Banker to Bulldog. He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said. “I know what will happen; I’ve told you, and now the onus is on you to ensure that the flight never leaves the ground. Or you’ll have the lives of over two hundred people on your conscience.”
Very deliberately, Bulldog leaned forward and said, “No, Mr Richie, you’re the one who’ll have their blood on your hands. And their deaths on your conscience. How do you expect us to believe a word you say if you refuse to divulge how you came by the information?”
“I don’t expect your categorical belief; I’d be a fool to h
ope for that, wouldn’t I? What I expect from you is a reasonable degree of doubt, sufficient for you to have the plane thoroughly inspected.”
The two Bs exchanged a frustrated glance.
“Be reasonable, man,” Bulldog snapped. “Tell us how you know!”
“As I said, you wouldn’t believe me. And to be honest, I don’t need to tell you.”
Banker signalled to Bulldog, an almost imperceptible nod, and the two men rose without a further word and left the room.
A pair of uniformed constables led him back to the cell.
He sat on the bed and waited.
A sergeant brought him a tray of food: a mug of tea, a white bread cheese sandwich, and an iced bun; the latter such an incongruously dainty offering that Richie couldn’t help smiling. He asked the sergeant the time, learning that it was much later than he’d assumed: almost eleven o’clock. Little wonder he felt so tired.
He drank the tea, ate the sandwich and the iced bun.
He wondered if he’d spooked Helen sufficiently for her to have second thoughts about taking the flight, but doubted it. Her salvation lay in the competence of the engineers, now. Or in the diligence of the forewarned pilots.
A while later the single, low wattage bulb in his cell was switched off; faint light slanted in through the grille in the door.
Richie lay on the bunk and, within minutes, was asleep.
He woke once to use the bucket in the corner, then went straight back to sleep.
When he awoke, disoriented, it came to him that he’d time-jumped again. Then he recalled his arrest and recognised the stark cell. The light came on, and in due course the sergeant brought him breakfast. A bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No iced bun, this time.
He ate hungrily and drank the tea.
He’d forgotten to ask the time, and he cursed himself. The flight was due to take off at seven-thirty… Had the authorities heeded his warning and cancelled the flight? But if it had taken off, then how long before it would be over the Swiss Alps? An hour, two?
He took to pacing the cell, three strides one way, three back.
Had Helen left for the airport? Had the flight been cancelled? Was Helen dead, or alive? In his mind, she existed in an indeterminate state. Schrödinger’s Helen, he thought, and laughed bitterly.
An hour later he was escorted from his cell to the interrogation room.
He was made to wait a long time, panicky with the need to know what had become of flight EF-43576, before Banker and a second, dark-haired plain-clothes man – no Bulldog, this time – entered the cell and sat down across the table from him.
Their expressionswere eerily identical: set, frozen, and inimical.
“Mr Richie,” Banker said, “thirty minutes ago, flight EF-43576 from Gatwick was reported missing over Swiss airspace, and just ten minutes ago we received confirmation that the aeroplane had pitched into a mountainside in the Alps.”
Richie swallowed, unable to ask about Helen.
The dark-haired detective said, “How did you know, Mr Richie?”
Richie swallowed a sob and whispered, “Helen? Was Helen aboard the flight?”
The two men exchanged a glance, and then Banker said, “I’m sorry, Mr Richie.”
He surged to his feet. “For chrissake!”he cried. “I told you! I warned you. I told you to make the airline check…”
“We relayed the information,” the new man said, “and the engineers went over the plane with a fine-tooth comb. The flight crew and pilots were informed, and the engineers found nothing untoward. The plane was passed as airworthy.”
Richie subsided back into the chair. “I told you,” he said, all rage spent now. “I told you…”
Banker leaned forward. “How did you know, Mr Richie?”
He looked from one man to the other. “Go to hell,” he said.
He was escorted back to his cell and locked in.
She was dead; fun-loving, filthily-humorous Helen Atkins, despite all his warnings…
He hung his head and wept.
A minute later,and without warning, he felt a pain in his head and was assailed by a familiar white light.
Extract from the review, by R.L. Davis in the TLS, of End Days by Ed Richie, May, 2025
…END DAYS, RICHIE’S eighth novel, is a work of a writer at the height of his powers. Through the sympathetic characterisation of Sebastian Jones, a good man facing impossible choices in a near-future fascist state, Richie portrays the slow erosion of not only civil liberties, but simple human values of decency and goodness. It’s a brilliant conceit – if not wholly original – to portray the moral and ethical decline of a nation through a cast of desperate characters. It is perhaps not surprising that the good man, Sebastian, is brought to his knees, by the end of this harrowing but gripping novel. End Days is Richie’s latest, and best, work of fiction.
CHAPTER TWELVE
January, 2030
ELLA TOOK THE train from Oxford to Birmingham and changed for Edinburgh.
She was sure, as she boarded the second train, that she caught a glimpse of the thin man in the navy blue suit step aboard another carriage further along the platform. She found her seat and kept an eye on the far door, but the man didn’t enter the carriage. She convinced herself that she was being unnecessarily jumpy.
She settled down for the long journey home as the train pulled from the station and rattled through the irredeemably grim industrial Midlands; even the snow here was old and grey, a shade lighter than the sky, adding another layer of misery to the depressing landscape. They passed through a wasteland of derelict factories and empty warehouses, overgrown railway junctions and moribund industrial estates – what had once been the beating heart of industrial England killed by the ongoing recession.
Grim-faced armed police patrolled the carriages, their presence subduing even further the already oppressive atmosphere. Ella read more of Ed Richie’s journal and then, as the train was pulling into Leeds station, got through to Douglas and asked if he could use the influence of ScotFreeMedia to get her an interview with the business tycoon Duncan Mackendrick.
Her editor peered up from her metacarpal screen. “Thought you were working on your book about this Richie chappie?”
“I am, and there might be a link to Mackendrick – but don’t mention that to him, Douglas. Just say SFM would like to run a light lifestyle piece, okay?”
“I’ll do my best, Ella. When are you coming back to work?”
“Not yet. You gave me a month, remember?”
Douglas grunted and cut the connection.
The train left Leeds and took the east coast line, the grim slurry giving way to an unspoilt rural landscape where the snow, freshly fallen, dazzled in the winter sunlight.
She looked ahead to her interview with the businessman – if Douglas managed to swing it – and wondered at the best way to broach the subject of Ralph Dennison and Ed Richie. Around 2000 Dennison had been lured from Omega-Tec by Mackendrick, and a few years later had vanished completely; in 2025 Ed Richie had likewise disappeared shortly after a series of meetings with his old student friend. There had to be a connection.
As to where the Emmi Takala painting hanging at Balliol fitted into the puzzle… At the moment, that was an enigma beyond her understanding.
The train stopped at the border crossing a few miles north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. The armed English police alighted and gathered on the platform, vaping while they awaited the next train south. Scottish customs officials made their way through the carriages, checking ID and welcoming travellers to the Independent Republic of Scotland. Ella was coming home.
KIT WAS IN the kitchen, cooking at the stove, when Ella entered and dropped her bags. “That smells good,” she said.
“Chilli,” Kit said. “Aimee just called to say she wouldn’t be back until midnight, although her shift ends at eight. You hungry?”
“Famished. And I’d love a glass of wine. You?”
“Silly question.” Kit returned to the
bubbling pot.
Ella poured two large glasses of Chardonnay. “I’m sorry about Aimee, Kit.”
“Don’t be. I’m not, on reflection. It couldn’t last. The age difference, for one thing, and we’re very different people.” She turned, leaned against the stove, and smiled across at Ella. “It was a relationship founded on pity on my part, and desperate need on hers, so how could that have lasted? It’s a miracle we got through a year.”
“You two still friends?”
Kit frowned. “I don’t know. Aimee’s all guilty silences, but she doesn’t have the guts, or the experience, to tell me it’s over. I think I’ll have a quiet word with her, tell her I understand, and that it’s time for both of us to move on.”
Ella stared into her wine, ill at ease.
Kit served up the chilli and they ate to the accompaniment of Arvo Part’s third symphony; her favourite, Ella recalled. She asked Kit how she was getting on as a paid employee of ScotFreeMedia, and the older woman laughed and said she was still adjusting to the liberty of not being censored.
“And the damned thing is, El, I’m catching myself self-censoring, which I did all the time back in the US. I’ve got to stop and remind myself, on almost every page, ‘No, it’s okay – I can say that.’ And it’s nice to be able to walk down the street, hand in hand with your lover… Well,” she went on, “it was.”
Ella changed the subject and told Kit about her trip to England and Finland, filling in the details she’d omitted during their earlier conversations.
“So what we have here,” Kit said, pouring more wine, “is three disappearances. Ed Richie, Ralph Dennison, and Emmi Takala. And you think that what links them is your Scottish tycoon, Mackendrick?”
Ella pulled a face. “I’m not sure. Maybe. I might be wrong, but it’s a strange coincidence that Dennison vanished after being wooed by Mackendrick, Richie met his old friend Dennison just before he too disappeared, and then last year Emmi Takala came to England to meet Ed Richie, according to her brother, and hasn’t been seen since. And then her painting turns up at Balliol.”