John stopped, suddenly aware that he was lecturing to the entire hut. Some had stopped their conversations to listen, others because he had been talking so loud. Jane came to his rescue; she lowered the volume of her voice and leaned in a little closer.
'So what are you working on at the moment?'
'Gold.' John replied without thinking. 'I've been working on a fundamentally different way of extracting pure gold from gold ore. However, my experiment blew up and nearly killed me. That's why I'm here, post-traumatic stress apparently.'
He managed to stop himself before launching into how the cause of the accident could not be readily explained plus the unusual involvement and interest of the Research Angel. He took a breath and decided to let Jane speak next. Then I will move the conversation away from me and my work to her and hers. Maybe to whether she is single. No, he reminded himself, I am here to get well...
John inhaled on his cigarette, smiled broadly at Jane and stared deeply into her hazelnut eyes, knowing the disarming effect that his eye contact could have on people. Jane was caught in the twin blue lasers of John's eyes, transfixed. He exhaled, the smoke escaping at speed from his pursed lips, the warm fingers of smoke traced down her cleavage, caressing her gently. Jane gulped quietly before she spoke.
'Gold?’ Jane queried. ‘That sounds interesting.'
John shook his head, dismissing her interest. 'No, not really, it is hours spent in the lab, running slight variations of the same experiment. It's nothing like being an international journalist. What was your last assignment?'
'The Middle East', replied Jane, happy of the opportunity to break John's gaze, finding it arousing and unsettling in equal measure. 'I've been there a few times and have made some good contacts.' Jane spoke with the understated confidence of someone who is truly successful.
'How do things look from what you've seen?’ John asked; keen to have Jane continue. He found her voice arousing yet as comforting as an old jumper.
'Well' she began 'the fundamental issues have not changed, gone away or been resolved and I'm sorry to say that they show no sign of being so any time soon. You have to remember that the issues there go back millennia, so “any time soon” would still be a very long time.'
They talked at length about the Middle East and other geo-political issues past and present. Jane was impressed with John’s wide range and depth of knowledge whilst she surprised him with her drive and passion. Not only did she care about getting to the “truth” of a story, she also cared what that “truth” meant. A shadow fell over them.
'Am I interrupting?’ Eddie asked.
'Oh, Hi Eddie.' John was a little shaken by how engrossed in conversation he had become. 'No of course not, we were just discussing the world and stuff.'
Eddie thrust out his hand.
‘I'm Eddie, John's brother.'
'I'm Jane.’ She replied, placing her hand in his.
Eddie spent some fifteen minutes in the hut before leaving just smoking and making small talk. It is amazing, he thought, how open some of these people are about themselves. “Hi I'm Julie and I cut myself,” one had told him. The rest comprised of a drinker, two drug addicts, and two depressives. One just sat in the corner, chain smoking and visibly shaking.
They returned to the Music Room for a cup of tea. Taking two of the more intimate chairs Jane talked at length about herself, her two daughters, and her failed relationships.
‘In truth I think that they were never destined to last. I’ve dealt with Presidents and Terrorists alike but put a man in my life and I seem to have problems.’
Jane wanted to slap herself, here was a perfectly good man, and she was scaring him by combining words like “life”, “man”, and “problems”.
‘You know,’ John replied. ‘I have never been in a relationship that has lasted more than a few months. It seems to me that women want contradictory things. A man who listens and shares the decision-making but a man who takes control. A man who is wealthy and can provide for his mate, but one who needs the support of a woman who has her own career. I think women are fundamentally designed to be disappointed.’
‘Are men any different?’
'Oh yes, men are like dogs, give them regular access to food, sex, a warm bed and a toy and they are happy.'
Jane nearly spilt her tea.
'I guess I should have been born a man.'
'Oh gosh no.' John replied. 'That would never do.'
'Oh and why is that?'
He looked deeply into her eyes, watching her anger build.
'Because,' He began.
Jane lent forward almost climbing out of her seat ready to argue with whatever he said.
'It would be such a shame to loose from the female gender someone as beautiful as you.' He said, smiling.
She smiled back and laughed, somewhat self-consciously.
'You don't quit do you?' she asked.
'I haven't yet.'
2 Discovery
11:00 14 October [11:00 14 October GMT]
The Linden Room, Branchflower Clinic, Cambridge, England.
It was just before eleven in the morning and the patients were assembling in the Linden Room for their Group Therapy session. There were nine of them, including John and Jane. He only just made it before the door was shut. It was one of the rules of “Group” that once started the session could not be interrupted. He was dismayed to see that both chairs next to Jane were occupied. John took the empty chair opposite the Therapist running the session. Today it was Nikki.
Nikki, John thought, must be in her mid-thirties, but she has the fineness of looks that means she could pass for younger than that. No, he decided, she is so self-possessed and quietly confident that she must be in her thirties, women in their twenties generally lack true self-belief. Nikki was also a “hard-ass”, John liked that particular Americanism as it conveyed someone who could be tough when they needed or wanted to be, but didn’t preclude a wilder, fun side. John’s mind started to drift, thinking about “hard-ass” Nikki’s fun side.
'Who would like to start?’ Nikki asked of the group.
Back to reality, thought John as the first of the group said how they were feeling at that moment. John drifted off again, letting the other patients talk about how they were feeling gave him time to try to decide how he was feeling. How am I feeling? He wondered, despite the lingering aches and pains from the force of being thrown to the ground by a violent explosion, I feel surprisingly good. He didn't think that he was being entirely honest with himself.
'Well John how do you feel?’ Nikki had repeated herself, somewhat louder and more distinct than the first time. John realised the question was aimed at him.
'How am I feeling?’ John said aloud, 'How am I feeling?' he repeated, 'How am I feeling?' another repeat.
Nikki was beginning to wonder about the medication that John was on when he finally focused on Nikki, hitting her full force with his sapphire blue lasers. Nikki fell silent, stunned by the effect of John's glare, transfixed by it. Fortunately for Nikki, he broke the silence and his hold on her.
'I feel surprisingly well for a dead man, thank you Nikki.' He was quite pleased with his reply. Although not too sure where it had come from, it did however sound like him. The group was quiet, all eyes either on John or Nikki.
'Would you like to expand on that John?'
He smiled.
'I'd be delighted to Nikki. I was, you see, happily conducting an experiment as part of my PhD. I had just gone outside when it exploded, blew a hole as large as a van in the side of the wall, right where I had been standing. So you see Nikki, I feel surprisingly well, for what I should be, a dead man.'
Nikki had now fully regained her composure.
'You seem angry.’
'Of course I am angry. My experiment blew up, my lab is ruined, my equipment is wrecked, I can't continue with my research. I'm stuck in here and I nearly died, so yes you could say I am angry Nikki, yes you could.' John finished his rant becoming unco
mfortably aware that he had lost both his self-control and any semblance of his side of what he was sure had been an argument.
'If I were to make an observation.' Nikki began. 'It would be that equipment can be replaced, the lab rebuilt, your research can be continued. You are only here for a relatively short time and you didn't die, in fact you have hardly a scratch on you. So, what is it you are really angry about?'
John almost jumped out of his chair having such a traumatic event dismissed so casually. He clenched his fists, pushing down on his legs so he couldn't rise out of his chair. He finally responded, his voice heavy with an undercurrent of menace.
'What I am angry about is that I don't know why it exploded.' He could barely control himself; small muscles in his neck and face twitched.
Nikki looked at John again and opened her mouth ready to speak.
'Thank you John.’
She turned to the person to John's right and addressed her.
'Julie, how do you feel?'
John decided that as he couldn't trust himself not to get angry and upset he would “sit out” the rest of the session by just listening and observing. He knew that Nikki was right, that his equipment was being replaced, his lab rebuilt and his experiments would continue, and that he needed to get well. Something else intrigued him, the discovery of his anger at not knowing why the experiment blew up.
He decided to throw that thought over the wall in his mind between his conscious and his subconscious. This was something he often did, knowing that his subconscious would come up with the answer in due course and would inform his conscious mind. Right now, he needed to listen as Jane was speaking.
'I guess it's the same for me. It started after my first divorce. Thomas, he was my first husband, never wanted me to be anything other than a mother. He didn't even really want nor need a wife. We had a cook, a nanny, a cleaner, and a gardener. There wasn't much for me to do. He wanted me to give up my job. I'm a journalist. I almost did too. When I left him, he genuinely couldn't understand why. In his mind, I had everything. In truth, the only thing I had in my life that was truly mine was my career. I didn't even have any friends left outside of my job and the few that I did have I could only see in work. Therefore, when I left, I got my own place, saw my daughter every other weekend as she was at boarding school and then really let my hair down. I dated almost continuously for six or seven months, every night was a bottle of wine or more. Then when I calmed down on the dating, I was still drinking every night; I started dating my second husband Graham less than a year after leaving Thomas. We married as soon as my divorce came through. My drinking, I realise now, was not an issue as he was drinking too. It became less social after my divorce from Graham, I wasn't fussy with whom I drank anymore, spent a lot of time with the graduates. We would hit the bars and clubs after work. Then things escalated last year after I was shot on assignment. It was nothing really; I've seen people die right in front of me, even had my cameraman killed the year before. After that, I couldn't face the morning or work without a drink, and it wasn't wine anymore. It had to be vodka so my breath wouldn't smell and I could keep it in my water bottle.'
Several people had been nodding listening to Jane. Alcoholics tending to have similar stories in that they are quite ordinary people, badly affected by situations and events; some people eat, some gamble, some go to the gym, others drink. Jane was a drinker.
13:50 14 October [13:50 14 October GMT]
The Smoking Hut, The Branchflower Clinic, Cambridge, England.
John walked Jane out to the hut after lunch. Placing his hand on her right shoulder, he gave her a reassuring squeeze as he guided her. Jane couldn't find the right words to express how she felt, the closeness she felt to a relative stranger, but this relative stranger knew more about her than even her family. Jane didn't know John at all; open with his speech he kept his thoughts on a tight leash. His “outburst” today in Group was the nearest he had come to showing how he felt about anything. 'What are you trying to achieve with your research?’ Jane asked.
John sat down next to Jane accepting both the cigarette and the light she offered. He inhaled deeply, staring off into the middle distance. Jane recognised this as a sign he was preparing to speak, deciding how much he would divulge, and in what manner. He turned to look at her and began.
'I am trying to perfect a mineral extraction system, primarily for Gold, one that is clean, efficient and one hundred per cent effective.'
'What is wrong with the current system?'
'Well it's not clean, efficient or one hundred per cent effective.'
'Perhaps,' she tried again, 'you could tell me how the current system works and how yours differs?' That should do the trick, she thought, keep him talking in general terms, you can always come back for the specifics later.
'Well my process is similar to the current process up to the point where they have mined the ore and pulverised the rock, then the current process uses all sorts of nasty chemicals, such as cyanide, to “leech” the gold out of the powdered ore. However, this toxic waste is simply dumped back into the environment. The chemicals are then free to poison the water supply and anything that depends on it, which would probably be all of the local life forms, flora and fauna alike. My process would subject the same powdered ore to a different process, one that uses physics rather than chemistry. The ore would be turned into a “soup” of atoms, from which the gold atoms would be “vacuumed up” like using a strong magnet to pick pins out of a thick carpet.'
His explanation, although appearing vague was actually very close to his process. Not that anyone will know until my research is published, but by then I will own the patent.
Jane tried to draw more out of John but he politely but firmly changed the subject at her every attempt. She was less successful at deflecting his questions, making her re-evaluate her career, her choices, and her life. She realised that she didn’t like where her life was headed.
09:28 25 October [08:28 25 October GMT]
Fischer, Blum & Wyss Attorneys at Law, Zurich, Switzerland.
The junior clerk sighed as he went through the back file. The back file, a list of instructions given by clients to be executed on a future date, was one of the least glamorous jobs. Essential work, executing the pre-planned instructions of their clients, it wasn’t what he wanted to be doing. He looked at today’s date, one entry. That’s interesting, he thought, this one was lodged with the firm over nine years ago, it’s not often we have instructions given so far in advance. A personal letter already addressed to the recipient in St. Petersburg. Although there was no request for proof of delivery the clerk knew that without one he could not show that he had done his duty and so he ticked the “signature of addressee” box on the mail form. He placed the form with the letter in the out tray and looked to the rest of his duties.
08:52 27 October [05:52 27 October GMT]
Bondarenko Mansion House, Pavlovsk Suberb, 30km south of St. Petersburg, Russia.
Solomon Bondarenko turned over in bed, her left leg, slender and well-toned, exposed to the world, her toes playing with the covers like a kitten. She moved her arms up to her head, crossed them and lay her head upon them with her chin resting in their fold. The door to her room opened quietly, a figure stole into the room, walking barefoot across the carpet, stalking her. The figure was carrying something, concealed in the figure’s right hand, pointing at the bed. Solomon opened one eye and looking straight at the figure as it sprang at her, she rolled over and threw up her arms.
'Natasha!' Screamed Solomon, embracing her daughter.
'Happy Birthday mummy.' Natasha said in her native Russian. Natasha stared wide eyed at her mother, enthralled by her presence. 'Happy Birthday mummy.’ Natasha repeated handing her mother the letters the housekeeper had given to her.
The large amount of post seemed quite daunting to Solomon. Although she was now twenty-five, a mother and had served in the Russian army, she was still quite young in many ways. Solomon flicked throu
gh the post looking for the card she knew would be there, hidden amongst the rest. The card was in an envelope she recognised, from her own stationery, and addressed simply to “Mummy.” Solomon smiled at her daughter whilst opening the card. It was not the best-looking card in the world, it was hand drawn, quite badly actually and was decorated in a haphazard fashion with stars and a lot of glitter of differing colours. Solomon loved it. Her daughter had made it especially for her, had spent time thinking about it and had wanted to make it the best she could.
'It’s wonderful Natasha dear.'
Natasha beamed and snuggled into her mother’s arms. Solomon flicked through the remainder of the post, knowing that there would not be one from her father, never had been. She stopped at one envelope. It was of a type she recognised. The envelope was from her own mother’s private stationery, the handwriting on the front was her mother’s. Solomon’s mother had been dead for over nine years; she had died in a skiing accident whilst on holiday with Solomon's father, the trauma almost causing Solomon to deliver prematurely.
A letter, she sent me a letter. She sent me a letter before she died to arrive today. I need to open it. I need to open it now.
'Natasha darling, be a good girl and make me some coffee and breakfast.'
Natasha sat upright, smiled at her mother, scrambled off the bed, and raced out of the room. Solomon turned to the pile of letters and putting the others aside, opened the one from her long dead mother and began to read.
Solomon sat up in bed, her chest heaving with dry tears. To learn that her mother might be alive, that she and her daughter were in danger; that they were going to have to go on the run. This was almost more than she could bear. Solomon had so many questions. What danger and from who? Father? What had mother meant by “not really your father”? Could mother really be alive after all this time?
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