by Jim Jennings
After paying a frankly extortionate price for two cabins and two tickets on the ferry using the money Giorgio and Randall had given him, Laurence headed for his new lodgings with nothing but his watch and his wallet in his pockets, but a renewed sense of excitement in his heart, which was in large part due to his charming new companion. He had fallen for her faster than an Italian football player falls dramatically to the turf in the opposition penalty box, but he didn’t dare think for one moment that the feeling could be mutual. According to an attendant, the ferry was going to dip around the island of Sardinia and through the slender gap between Malta and Tunisia in an ‘l’ shape before arriving in Athens having rounded the Peloponnesian peninsular. Brigitte had managed to secure the room next to his and they both agreed to meet again in the morning and in the meantime get some much-needed rest. Yes they had both fallen asleep on the train, but it hadn’t been the most pleasurable slumber. It would also give Laurence a chance to check his hair; something he had itching to do almost every minute since he had changed his clothes.
It didn’t take them very long to find their cabins and as Laurence entered his room and bade a temporary farewell to the alluring Brigitte, a searing pain attacked the left side of his head and he staggered over to the bed, which he found upon landing on it that it was lumpy and about as comfortable as meeting your mother in law for the first time. He massaged his temples to try and ease the pain but his mind was overrun with the onslaught of pressure the last few days had brought and, inevitably, the next few days would bring. There was a huge mountain to climb yet, a final sprint to the finish and he needed to figure out some sort of plan. He knew that a dastardly duo was on board this ship with him and they had possession of a mysterious prize that seemingly everyone wanted to get their hands on. A vague dream entered his imagination as he fell asleep; a gigantic white figure, shrouded on all sides by clouds of mist, was laughing, cackling, at him. The figure split into two and seemed to roll towards him before expanding into a twisting, contorted, barbed shape like a branch of a tree. He awoke from the strange vision with a cold sweat but without the headache. He struggled wearily into the bathroom and threw cold water onto his face. The mirror did not show a very attractive image when he looked into it. Opting for a change of view, Laurence stared out of the cabin’s porthole. The ferry slowly traversed through the choppy waters and Laurence felt quite sick. His thoughts were heavy as the events of the past two days ran through his head. Three days ago he had been just another hapless museum tour guide. Now he was on a ferry chasing some men to Athens to restore a priceless artefact into the hands of a museum. He was no hero, but he couldn’t help thinking about the villains of the piece. What did they want with Pandora’s Box? Who were they working for? What would they use it for in Athens? Each question that he considered in his mind brought back the pangs of his headache and he decided that a walk around the ship might do him some good. Maybe even the bar would be open, he pondered optimistically. His luck had to change at some point.
The bar was closed. The shutters had been pulled down but the chairs were still set out. From the looks of it however, it was barely used anyway and not a place he would regret missing out on. Nevertheless, Laurence took the opportunity to sit at the bar and clasped his head in his hands. Sat on his stool Laurence was about to contemplate the same unanswerable questions he had already asked himself about a thousand times already but, at that moment, the atmosphere in the dirty-looking bar changed completely. No longer was there a feeling of emptiness and isolation. Now it felt like an overcrowded bistro on the Champs Elysees. The air was stuffy and unpleasant. It smelt of cheap aftershave. Laurence turned to see Harrison and Philip stood before him. They were decked all in black; leather jackets, black boots, black trousers, they looked like nightclub bouncers or delivery men, and they were here to deliver trouble for Laurence. He immediately made to leave the bar but was immediately pushed back onto his bar stool by Philip, a stocky brute of a man who made Phil Mitchell look like Brad Pitt. They swivelled the stool round and made Laurence face the bar once again. Harrison had an iron-tight grip on the back of Laurence’s head; it felt as if his stodgy fingers were penetrating his very skull. His head was getting no rest tonight. With his right hand Harrison produced a small but deadly knife from his trouser pocket. The knife’s handle was constructed of a rabbit’s foot and the blade was of gleaming silver. It circled around the skin protecting Laurence’s kidneys.
Philip took off his driving gloves and slapped Laurence in the face with them, giving him a stinging sensation he had not felt since asking Helena Whitman for a dance at the sixth form ball, only this time there was no cheesy pop music to soothe his misery, just the intermittent sound of heavy breathing and Philip’s less than dulcet tones as he began to recount a story;
‘On my tenth birthday my father took me out to the zoo whilst my mother, unbeknownst to me of course, prepared a surprise party for me back at the house.’ Philip’s breath stank of tobacco and cheap whisky. ‘My father presented me with this knife; the very knife Harrison is now digging into your back, and told me that I should always treasure it. He told me to always be ready, for life is always ready to throw an unexpected and unwelcome circumstance into your path when everything seems dandy. Anyway I returned home and walked into the darkened living room; suddenly the lights came on and my family and friends were all shouting ‘surprise’ towards me! It was the happiest moment of my life. So startled was I that I dropped my knife, which fell into my puppy.’
Laurence joked, ‘What was his name, Unlucky?’
Philip ignored him and carried on, ‘From that day on I have always hated surprises and I have always tried to be prepared for life’s unexpected circumstances.’ Laurence appreciated the story, but Philip was not done yet, ‘But today, at the museum, you gave me quite a surprise. Mr Swift, I will now...’
‘How do you know my name?’ Laurence interrupted instantly.
‘Ah well, because our boss…’ Harrison began to answer.
‘Shut it you moron. Our boss has told us to make up for his mistake yesterday. Today, Mr Swift you will die.’ Harrison elegantly pulled the knife back as Philip put his gloves back on with great importance and pomposity. Laurence’s non-event of a life flashed before his eyes. Had he truly lived? No, not at all. The world would continue to spin without him and no one would give him a second thought. Perhaps Richard might destroy one of Carla’s precious tops in his memory, or Quentin Derry might create an exhibit of all his disasters so people could appreciate what an entertaining character he was. That was the Laurence Swift that people would remember, if they bothered to remember him at all. But in the past few days he had finally become someone; he no longer longed for adventure. He was now on his very own epic quest, and yet now it was over. Or was it? He remembered old faces and events and began to feel angry. He remembered Trevor Pink shoving his head down a cubicle toilet back at school. He remembered schoolgirls calling him a ‘girl’ on a museum tour. He remembered Helena Whitman’s slap. He couldn’t let his life end just as it had become interesting.
Suddenly, an authoritative Sheffield accent sounded in the background,
‘Leave him alone chubby.’ All three faces by the bar turned, each man displaying his own distinct emotion; Harrison was surprised, Laurence was grateful and Philip looked positively furious.
‘Wesley!’ Laurence called out, full of glee. Yes, Wesley Gilliand was standing with his hands on his hips at the entrance to the bar. His hair was a charred and gritty mess of debris and dirt. His face was grubby and unshaved, his suit featured holes where fire had burned away the material, and ash decorated his once white shirt in patches and yet he looked determined; his eyebrows formed a ‘V’ of anger and his lips were pressed together in preparation for battle. After a moment of silence, Harrison released Laurence’s shoulder and turned as if to throw his knife at Wesley, which he did, but not before Wesley, in a split second of Panther-like athleticism, had leapt to the far wall, where he
took a dart from the nearby dart board and launched it at Harrison. It glided through the air like a swallow and landed in his neck, just above the jugular gland. Philip turned to punch Laurence.
‘Duck!’ Wesley called out to Laurence.
‘Where?’ Responded Laurence and he bent down to view the ground. Philip’s cold fist sailed through the space where Laurence once stood and hit Harrison straight in his face, knocking him to the ground and pushing the dart further into his neck. Wesley pounced on the confusion this created and jabbed Philip in the face once, twice, three times. A lady walked to the entrance of the bar to see what the commotion was about but, seeing the scene that lay before her, turned around and left as quickly as she had arrived. Wesley then lifted the miscreant into the air in a move that seemed effortless and sent him crashing over the bar, through the shutters and into the row of assorted liquors behind it.
‘I think he got your point,’ Laurence chortled, gesturing to Harrison who lay motionless on the floor. Wesley grabbed him, grunting something as he did so and they ran off, leaving the bar and the bodies behind. They ran at a quick pace up some stairs and past the fruit machines and casino on the third level of the ship and headed down a corridor towards Laurence’s room. Confused passengers looked their way and dismissed them as drunken vagrants. They entered and Wesley threw himself down on the bed. Laurence shut and locked the cabin door and observed his saviour. He looked and was exhausted. Laurence briefly left the room and re-entered with two glasses of tap water, one of which he handed to Wesley.
‘Thank you for saving me back there.’ Laurence thanked Wesley.
‘I’m sure you would have done the same for me.’ Wesley responded, pouring water down his parched throat.
‘Well…I certainly would have tried. But where have you been? How did you get here? How did you find me?’ Laurence bombarded him with questions.
‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?’ Wesley returned.
‘No, it’s just tap water.’ Laurence replied. Normally, such a remark would have had Wesley looking for the nearest brick wall against which he could bang his head, but so glad was he to have found Laurence and so exhausted, he merely laughed and removed his jacket.
‘Alright, Blondie, let me catch my breath.’ He paused and gestured for another glass of water, which Laurence duly provided. ‘I’ll start right at the beginning.’ Laurence settled himself into the chair in the corner of his room, folded his left leg on his right knee and listened.
‘All my life I’ve been a soldier. Fighting’s what I do. I fought in Iraq with the British Army. That was until a land mine decided I should do something else instead.’ Wesley bent down and lifted up the bottom of his left trouser leg. Laurence looked for a second and then immediately turned away. ‘But I didn’t want to quit. I wanted to carry on fighting. So my superiors designed a new role for me that meant I could stay in the fray and carry on the battle for another day. They made me a spy.’ That last word was said so coldly and with such bitterness that Laurence could tell Wesley did not care for the role. ‘I hated it at first, all that creeping around and staying quiet, listening and not acting but I was bloody good at it. And the better I got at it, the more enjoyed it. I started to love it. But my position became compromised when my identity became known to the enemy.’ Laurence wanted to know more.
‘Don’t ask me how it happened, just listen. I had been Britain’s chief spy officer over there, but I was forced to return to London and my position was given to someone else. I was pretty…gutted. So I decided to set up my own private detection agency, when my old boss, the head of MI5, a man who we shall just have to call “H” for now, got in contact with me. He was keen to enlist my services for another mission, one which would be ideal for my specific set of qualities. I couldn’t refuse the chance to serve my country again and be involved in the spy game once more. So I leapt at the chance, which was bloody difficult, what with my leg and everything.’ Laurence nodded, though he didn’t really understand the point.
‘My mission was one of surveillance and supervision. The British government had become increasingly concerned by the activities of one Randall Johnson. You see, what Randall may not have told you was that he was working with us. We have a very special arrangement; we knew he was a bit of a nut for artefacts and had his own private collections around the globe. So, we paid him a lot of money every year to carry out whatever excavations and adventures on the basis that seventy per cent of what he found would be given to our museum in London. In return, we agreed that he could have unprecedented access to our exhibits and an exhibit named after him in due course. This is far from an uncommon practice as I’m sure you’re aware.’ Laurence wasn’t aware. ‘For many years, this seemed like a match made in heaven. We gave him lots of money and in return he gave us lots of artefacts. But then, two years ago, after receiving a huge donation from us, he disappeared. We could find no trace of him. That’s when ‘H’ rang me and asked me to track him down, which I did. I found him in a bar in Toronto, obsessing over some journals and some scrolls that were all about Pandora’s Box. He said that he’d been researching for it all this time and soon, when he found it, we’d get a return for our investment.’
‘The rest, you already know. I was told to stay with him and help him in whatever way I could, no matter what it was that he wanted, so long as the Box found its way into our museum. As you know events did not transpire as we hoped. Randall’s dead and now the box is on board this boat. I’ve been told to retrieve it and take it back to Britain.’ Wesley finished his speech and took a deep breath before glugging what remained of his water. Laurence reflected. How on earth had he managed to become involved in such a complicated affair? Despite Wesley’s lengthy relation of events, he still had questions that remained unanswered.
‘Won’t the French government have something to say about this? It was to be displayed at their museum after all? Where I grew up we had a saying; finder’s keepers.’
‘Well where I’m from it’s a case of money talks, mate. We put a lot of money into finding the box and to be honest I think we deserve it. As for the French, I can assure you that we’ll pay them a considerable amount of compensation so that they can give us the box without too much complaint.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘It was my job to make sure we saw a return for our investment, in other words to deliver the box to London and that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘How?’ Laurence asked partly out of genuine curiosity and partly out of his lack of any of his own ideas as to how to proceed, and as a result his tone was becoming increasingly agitated.
‘By ascertaining and, if necessary, which I fear it will be, apprehending whoever stole the box from the museum yesterday.’ Wesley answered.
‘So, why did you hire me anyway?’
‘I was to help Randall in his pursuit of Pandora’s Box in any way I could. He knew that I was an investigator with a knack for identifying people, so he asked me to find someone who knew plenty about the box, and had considerable writing talent, to aid in our investigation to rediscovering the box when it was stolen from us.’ Laurence beamed at what he took to be a compliment, but Wesley wasn’t quite finished with his explanation. ‘However I realised that if we hired an expert in archaeology or mythology they’d most likely get in the way. You know what these scholarly types are like; they think it their prerogative to tell everyone what they think about everything, which of course is correct and completely free from criticism.’ Wesley’s normally angry face had taken on a more cynical look that matched his sardonic tone, while Laurence looked as dumbfounded as ever by the use of the word ‘prerogative’ and just kept on smiling and nodding at everything Wesley said. ‘So I decided to find the exact opposite; somebody who knew very little about the box and who wouldn’t attract too much attention and get in the way of our efforts of finding the box. A complete nobody in other words and that nobody was you.’ Laurence pushed his lips out in quiet contemplati
on of all that he had just heard. He was sad at once again having been lied to and for the realisation that what he had earlier feared was true; he was a nobody. He gritted his teeth and looked at Wesley, who stared at him with piercing eyes, full of discontent.
‘Any other questions or am I free to get some sleep?’ He was not annoyed by Laurence’s interrogation and believed that he had a right to the truth.
‘How did you escape from Giorgio’s?’
‘Giorgio let me go.’ Wesley said quite plainly.
‘He did? He told me you had escaped and that I was to track you down? Does nobody tell the truth anymore?’ Laurence rose from his seat and stared out of the window again to hide his hurt face.
‘Giorgio wants the box as well. Why else do you think he got his girlfriend to spy on Randall?’
‘His girlfriend? Not…’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Wesley said, gravely.
‘Bruno Cavilliere! And I thought Giorgio was supposed to be a compulsive womaniser? Well I never!’
‘Not Bruno you plank! Ruby Holland!’ Wesley exclaimed in total frustration.
‘Ruby Holland?!’ So that’s why he sounded and looked so sincere when he promised to release her, Laurence thought to himself in disbelief. So he had lied to Laurence as well! He had told Laurence he had got his girlfriend to spy on Randall for him; all the pieces of this messy puzzle were suddenly coming together.
‘Randall never knew that Ruby was Giorgio’s girlfriend, spying on him, reporting back everything that was going on. You heard yourself how everything was always a competition between them, how they always fought for prizes at school and in later life, squabbling over whose collection of artefacts was larger and more impressive. Ruby must have told him we were heading to the museum to cause a scene; that’s why his men suddenly arrived on the scene that day. I don’t believe Giorgio had anything to do with blowing up the house.’
‘Anyway, I fought myself out of Giorgio’s and headed to the museum. There I saw a blonde man insulting a child and I knew I had found you. Later that same day, I was strolling through Paris trying to find a pay phone when I saw you on your bicycle scaring tourists. I’ve been on your tail ever since, but I’m afraid Giorgio’s men have been on mine.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘His men have been following me ever since I left his because he knows I’m going after the box and I’m going to lead him straight to it. That’s what he hopes anyway.’
There came an insistent knock at the door. Laurence and Wesley exchanged surprised glances. Was it Harrison? Or Philip? Or one of Giorgio’s men? Laurence wanted to see who it was and headed in trepidation towards the door, but Wesley insisted he do nothing and pushed him back into his chair. Whoever it was, he thought, it was definitely going to be trouble.
‘This is definitely going to be trouble, mate. You got a piece?’ Wesley asked of Laurence.
‘Of cake?’ Laurence replied in bewilderment. Now was not the time for eating. Wesley slapped his own forehead in annoyance, something he thought would be a common occurrence around Laurence.
‘I meant a gun!’ Wesley corrected Laurence who proceeded to slap his own forehead as well, for he had carelessly discarded the one given to him by Giorgio when he threw off his blazer in pursuit of the museum robbers. Wesley did not need to be told the answer to his question and he readied himself by the door while Laurence slowly opened it. It was Brigitte Girard, looking refreshed and prepared in the same outfit she had been wearing earlier in the day.
‘A woman? I told you it would be trouble.’ Wesley turned from the door without so much as a glance of acknowledgement towards Brigitte, who clutched her handbag tightly in fear of him, for he did not exactly look very welcoming in his tatty attire.
‘Ah, Brigitte, come on in, don’t be frightened.’ He flashed a glance at Brigitte and, rising from his chair, took her arm, which caused her to blush. ‘Brigitte, this is my friend, Wesley Gilliand.’ He used the word ‘friend’ tentatively for he was still not sure whether Wesley really liked him or not. ‘He’s my associate in this sordid and unfortunate affair.’ Wesley gave Brigitte, who still looked a little nervous, a welcome that amounted to nothing more than a brief nod that was as warm as Scotland before asking Laurence,
‘Where does she fit into all this?’ By the way he was acting round her it was clear that he was suspicious of her and so it came to pass that in the following ten minutes Laurence recounted all events post his separation from Wesley to Wesley and all the events prior to meeting Brigitte to Brigitte, so that everyone now knew who was who and what was going on. Now that they were all up to date, the trio turned their attention to what they would do now. Brigitte was first to speak,
‘The box is inside that truck, on board this boat. Let’s contact the police and turn this truck around.’
‘Nice idea love, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. This is a government matter. I have a mission; to find out who took the box and what they intend to do with it.’ This started a prolonged argument between the two; Brigitte eloquently argued that the box belonged to the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’ and that contacting the police was the best course of action. Wesley, on the other hand, was vociferous in his belief that they should take the box to its intended location, wherever that might be, and in doing so find out who was behind it all. Back and forth they went like two Herculean tennis players baying for a vital point and Laurence’s eyes switched between the two as if he were actually at Wimbledon. Brigitte asked Wesley in astonishment,
‘So you want to take the box straight into the lion’s den?’ Brigitte asked in astonishment.
‘It’s the only way to find out who did this. I’m sure your museum and the French police would also like to know. If there’s any sign of danger, I can always call for back-up.’
‘No,’ Brigitte fired back, quite ferociously. ‘We need to contact the police immediately.’
‘Actually,’ Laurence interrupted. He had not spoken for a long time and the sound of his voice produced a noisy silence to the room. ‘I can’t see how calling the police will help. Sting’s a very busy man and, though I always think better to music, I’m not sure they’ll really be of any use to us. I agree with Wesley. Let’s find out who’s behind all this.’ Brigitte clearly did not agree; she huffed and puffed with frustration but eventually agreed. It was very apparent that Brigitte and Wesley would not be good friends.
With their next course of action decided, they agreed to reconvene an hour later outside Laurence’s room, once everyone had prepared themselves adequately. Brigitte returned to room and brushed her luxurious hair to calm herself down after losing the battle of wills with Wesley, who showered, shaved and bought some new clothes from the shop on board the ship. Laurence meanwhile decided to sleep, or try to sleep, for he still had much on his mind. It seemed that almost everyone he had met lately had lied to him in one way or another, except for Brigitte of course; who Laurence wished could be lying next to him right now! Despite the deception of the past few days however, he knew that the truth would soon reveal itself; whatever was to come, would come. He would just have to face it with the belief that everything would be okay. One thing felt certain however; his adventure was nearly at an end.
Chapter Eight
Oar and Shock