by Wendy Reakes
She looked at him with a quizzical expression on her face. “Yes, I just said…”
He chuckled. “No, honey, that’s just an expression, meaning…” He couldn’t think of a word to replace it. “…You don’t saayy.” He elaborated by spreading his hands to imitate the meaning.
“We have honey too.”
“Honey, huh?”
“Yes. We have many bee hives on the west side. We use the honey to sweeten our food.”
He put his arm around her shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he should. He thought perhaps she wouldn’t want him to touch her…
Wren threw her hands around his neck and hugged him, burying her face under his chin. He could smell her hair. It lacked the smell of soap or perfume, but it was a natural smell and it was hers. He loved her for it. He lifted her chin up so that he could see her face. “Wren, I love you.”
Her face looked blurred in his watering eyes. “I love you too, Mark,” she whispered.
He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. She felt so soft…and warm. She was so exquisite… “Wren,” he said softly, before they kissed more ardently.
“Bed me, Mark.”
He pulled away.
She looked aghast and saddened by his rejection. “You don’t want me.”
He put his hand on the back of her head and felt the softness of her hair. “Of course I want you. You’re…beautiful, but…” Then he made a decision. It was a decision that would change his life, one that would make him the happiest guy in the world. “Marry me…” He faltered and coughed. “I mean, Wren…Will you marry me?”
Before she could answer, Mark startled her as he suddenly realized what she’d meant before. “Nooo! Not jet-black. I said I’m Jet-lagged, dearest Wren.” And then they kissed once more; their love sealed.
Chapter 27
It was a feast to end all feasts. The residents of Sous Llyndum were gathered within the city center, awaiting the arrival of the king and his family. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he had been so intrigued. The events were too fantastic, the people too strange, the city too beautiful. Frankly, the whole thing way too crazy to absorb by a single thought.
He and the colonel had been escorted from the palace and taken over the canal via a bridge made of wooden slats and rope handles draped from wrought iron posts. The bridge was secured on both sides by carved wooden statues of various men, effigies, monuments of historic figures, no doubt vastly important to the community of Sous Llyndum. It wasn’t a worship thing, Ben decided, more of a respect thing, a remembrance of the notables who had gone before them.
Ben and the colonel arrived at the centre market place, surrounded by hordes of people, all dressed like Victorian paupers, adorned with exquisite jewelry or belts or hair ornaments. One woman wore a necklace of black wire; its threads twisted with opaque blue and yellow rough-cut stones dangling from its strands. Ben saw an elderly man with a grey beard that fell to his chest in dreadlocks. He had a belt around his waist holding up his brown britches. The belt was embroidered and studded with sparkling stones, like crystals, and the buckle was made of shiny wood with a name carved into it. He saw a young woman with bangles on both arms, shining as they caught the light, yet her dress was drab and plain. It was tight around the bodice, with a full skirt that fell in folds to her ankles. One side was hitched up and tucked into a coloured beaded sash which was tied around her waist, showing ankle-length boots.
Some of the people wore hats, some wore coats, and some wore waistcoats without a shirt. Some wore kerchiefs around their necks and some wore cloaks. The people were extraordinary looking, as if they were stuck in a time warp with their homespun clothes of coarse browns and grays, added to with their own fashion trend of glittering adornments.
Amid the crowd, Ben saw the colonel approach the Bird Catcher. He was bending at the waist, kissing her hand, as if they had only just met. Ben knew the truth. The two had spent at least an hour locked in Barnes’ quarters and he had no doubt in his mind that it was the most intimate of meetings.
The faces of the crowd turned towards a noise on the other side of the city’s central platform. Ben could see a cage there. It was dome shaped, like a giant bird cage, and inside two men wrestled as spectators stood around and observed them through the bars.
He walked towards the colonel and the Bird Catcher, considering it wise to stick with them. “What’s going on?”
The colonel answered. “That’s the dispute arena.” Ben wondered how the colonel knew so much about the city and its ways. And why did he hold such an interest in their way of life, when he openly referred to them as sewer rats? He went on. “If there are disagreements, they are encouraged to go into the cage to battle it out. Even the women! Now that’s a sight to watch.” He chuckled with no amusement. The colonel was out of uniform now. He was wearing the same as Ben: combat trousers and a white t-shirt, except the colonel had a silver dog-tag around his neck.
A roar sounded as the people cheered and turned their attention to a group coming towards them over the bridge from the palace. It was king Kite who led the way, and just behind him was a girl. Ben recognized her from the dock, when they had been greeted by the Bird Catcher. She was attired in a gown that was drab in colour, but sitting within the wild abandon of her gorgeous red hair, was a tiny tiara catching the light like a small exotic crown.
The king was a spectacular figure. He had a presence about him, which made him seem tall and agile. He wasn’t old. Ben guessed mid sixties, but his head was bald, making him look hard and formidable. He wore a cloak of feathers and it opened out over his shoulders when a draft from somewhere whipped it up, making him look like a great bird spreading its wings, about to take flight.
The cheering crowd parted as the royal procession walked through them towards the center. The king took his seat, a throne carved in the shape of a great eagle, decorated with feathers of iron. Byron the Bird Catcher went to join them and the colonel proffered his hand to Ben, allowing him to walk ahead and join the royal party. Ben detected a sense of enjoyment coming from him, as if he knew exactly how daunted Ben was, by the very fact that he had been in the same position himself once before.
Ben may have felt intimidated by his surroundings, but he knew he couldn’t afford to reveal his weakness. So, as he walked, he thought about Charlotte, giving him the confidence he lacked to boldly carry on.
Chapter 28
Charlotte Croft stepped out of a black cab on Fleet Street and wrapped her cream cashmere coat around her. Not because of the cold, and not because she wanted to prevent the draping fabric catching beneath her two-and-a-half-inch, burnt-amber, patent-leather Manolas, but for a reason tugging at her conscience, to somehow protect the swell of her normally flat belly. Realizing her mistake, because it surely was a contradiction to want to protect a foetus she had every intention of getting rid of, she dropped the side of her coat, pulled her shoulders back and strode into the offices of The City Limits newspaper.
She flashed her pass, but there was really no need. Charlotte Croft was a familiar face around there. The security people all knew her and a nod in the direction of the receptionist was enough to allow her through to the elevators at the back of ground zero. Charlotte hurried and caught the elevator doors from closing just in time. It was becoming a habit of hers lately, since it was only last night she and that bastard husband of hers had met by chance in the lift going up to their flat.
Now, as the cold afternoon was turning to evening, as the lift travelled steadily upwards, she recalled the night before. Ben had arrived at their flat after the ‘I’m pregnant’ announcement. He’d been puffing and panting when he’d slammed the door shut, confronting her in a way she’d never seen before. “Mine I take it?!”
“Hmm, let me see…” She’d placed a red painted fingernail to her lower lip. “Well, I’ve been screwing all the members of parliament, so it could be any one of them.”
He was used to her sarcasm. He threw his newspaper down on th
e coffee table. It was well read and turned to her column on page six. “How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t screw her. I didn’t do anything with her.”
“Yeah, I could see that, when she had her tongue down your throat.”
“Christ!”
She watched him walk into the kitchen. He was rubbing his shoulder. She followed him and from the doorway she observed him getting a glass from the cupboard, as he used his other hand to drag out a bottle of scotch from the larder. Charlotte went to the fridge and took out a carton or orange juice and Ben passed her a glass without thinking twice. She slid it back across the counter in his direction and then she went to the same cupboard and took-out her own crystal tumbler. “I don’t need you,” she spat.
She heard him mutter a curse as he grabbed the bottle and took it into the lounge. She followed him and again watched him from the doorway. He was turning the fire on. It ignited and then burst into roaring flames within seconds. He moved backwards to the couch and sat down. Then he put his feet up on the table over his newspaper, over her column. She leaned on the doorframe. “When are you leaving?”
He opened and closed his eyes and raked his fingers through his messy hair. “I haven’t found anywhere yet. It’s only been a week.”
“Six days.”
He shook his head. “Charlotte! Come and sit down and let’s talk about this, baby.”
“Not a good idea to use the ‘b’ word.” She strolled over and perched herself on the end of the couch facing him. “In the circumstances, I mean.”
He took a sip of his drink, leaned forward and placed his glass on a coaster left on the table from the night before. “What are you going to do?”
“Me?” she snapped. “Oh, I see, it’s not us any more then.”
“You know what I mean. I can’t get through to you with this business with Claire…”
It was as if an elephant had entered the room. “So, she has a name.” She offered an ironic laugh. She wanted to go to the bedroom and slam the door in his face, but her common sense told her they needed to talk. The situation was serious. “I shall have an abortion, of course.”
He nodded. “It seems like the only solution. I will support your decision, naturally.”
She stood up then. “Oh you will, will you? I see! So you’re determined to kill your own child just because you can’t keep your pecker in your pants.” She slammed her glass on the table. “Right, then. So now we know where we both stand.” She walked across the room to her bedroom and stopped. She felt as if she were going to cry and she wasn’t about to do that in front of him. She turned about. “Get one of your contacts to find a place for you in the next couple of days. I don’t want to see you any more…And I want…I want a bloody divorce. Bastard!” she screamed as she strode into the room and slammed the door behind her.
The good news was, today she had put her worries aside for a few hours and had already written-up her piece for next week’s column. She’d been inspired by the visit to her brother, and ICE’s attitude to getting the job done. Yes, a visit with Charlie was just what she'd needed to put her back on track.
She stepped out of the lift on the fifth floor and went directly to her office. There she threw her leather zipped folder on the desk and sat down. The room was a glass dome inside an open plan floor. All the senior staff had a dome, except for the editor who had his big square office across the space by the large windows, next to his co-editor on the left and his other co-ed on the right. The City Limits offices were once completely open plan, but they’d hired an architect to bring it into the twenty-first century. The designer had placed the domes randomly around the large space, to break up the monotony of row after row of desks. Or so he’d maintained.
Charlotte hated hers. She felt like a gilded bird trapped beneath that dome of glass. Still, it was air-conditioned, which made it comfortable enough to work in, even though the bustling of the many reporters and support staff outside her space was off-putting, to say the least.
The door opened and Peter, her secretary, stepped inside with a mug of coffee in his hand. “Hey, sweetie,” he said.
Charlotte scowled. “Peter, you’ve got to stop calling me that in office hours. You’re supposed to respect my position as your boss and mentor.” She let the last syllable, tor, slide off her tongue.
“Who says?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Some book.”
“I haven’t read it, darling.”
Charlotte chuckled despite her lousy mood. “What’s going on?” She glanced towards the editor’s office where a meeting was taking place with two people who worked privately for the editor, Nick Vaughan.”
Peter followed her gaze as he put her coffee onto the desk in front of her. “Closed doors!” He moved his lips as if he was whispering, yet he spoke load and clear.
“Closed doorsnothing. What’s going on?”
Peter Duncan Bailey knew everything that went on in that office, even though he’d only worked there for two years. He’d manipulated every person in that place with his gay humour and cheeky wit, and it was often said he was one of the most helpful and caring members of the staff. Everyone loved him and everyone divulged their most treasured secrets to his willing ear. Now he went back and shut the door. His tall slender frame wore his baggy cardi’ well. It was loose over a tight pink shirt and contrasting tie. “Actually, I was going to ring you on your mobile, but when you called to say you were coming in, I thought it could wait.”
“What could wait?” Charlotte was unzipping her folder.
He sat down on the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He flicked his blond fringe off his forehead. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but it’s about Ben.”
She looked up from the papers she was pulling out of the folder. “Ben! My Ben? Ben Mason?”
“One and only.”
She wasn’t expecting that. “What’s it about.”
“There’s something going on that’s extremely and highly, without-any-chance-of-finding-out, classified and your Ben is in charge of it.”
Charlotte sat back in her chair. “He never mentioned anything to me. I saw him last night.”
“I thought you’d kicked him out.”
“I have. He just hasn’t gone yet.”
“Well, girl, he’s not going to tell you, let’s face it.”
“True.” Charlotte knew Ben kept his political business to himself. It was one of the reasons they were so right for each other. He was the one with the secrets and she was the one who divulged all. Their marriage had worked for three years simply because they never discussed their jobs. Ever!
“So what’s the story?”
“That’s just it. No one knows. Ben is in charge of planning and construction. He reports directly to Alice Burton and today he went off the radar.”
“You can’t go off the radar in one day. He’d have to be missing for a week for anyone to notice the son-of-a-bitch had gone.”
Peter leaned in closer. He glanced over to the editor’s office, to the men inside drinking coffee and munching sandwiches. “Not when a certain reporter, namely Brandon Fox…tosser…claims to have seen him go into No.10, along with Colonel Geoffrey Barnes himself, who went in five minutes later. Peter winked.
“Geoffrey Barnes!” Charlotte thought about that. She paused. “I met him once. Nice guy, if you like the whole macho, alpha male, arrogant type.”
Peter licked his lips as if he was relishing the moment he finally got to tell Charlotte the news that he had only found out an hour before. “Fox thought the whole thing looked suspicious, seeing as Barnes was in full uniform…some red concoction.” Peter’s eyes sparkled as the diachroic lights on the ceiling of the dome shone upon his face. “Fox had an inkling that something was afoot, so he stuck to Ben for the rest of the time and this afternoon, a car picked up Ben and took him to Chelsea Barracks.”
Charlotte pondered a reason for Ben’s involvement with Colonel Geoffrey Barns. Barnes was a soldier in eve
ry sense of the word. He was semi-retired as far as she knew. He only ever came onto the scene when there were military emergencies; affairs of state that needed a high ranking commander. And, she remembered him telling her when they met once, that he reported directly to the Prime Minister herself.
“I don’t get it. Why would Ben be involved with the military on that level? He’s more of a pen pusher.”
Peter pointed to the editor’s office, guarding his action behind his other hand. “That’s what they’re talking about. Because Fox saw Ben and the colonel leave the barracks with a procession of cars behind them.”
Charlotte tapped her fingernails on the desk. She had energy and she needed to use it. A trip to the gym would take care of that. “Where did they go?”
Peter shook his head. “Fox’s car was diverted near Blackfriars Bridge. He lost them. But his secretary hasn’t heard from Ben since.”