by Simon Rosser
Stanton jumped as the telephone on his desk rang. He took a deep breath and sighed, as he reached over his laptop to pick up the phone. “Hello!” There was no answer. “Hello!” Again, silence. He replaced the receiver. His train of thought interrupted, he sat quietly for a moment before completing the final sentence, then saved the amendments and closed the program down. He clicked on his private finance folder to check an insurance policy he knew was about to expire, and, as he did, accidentally opened the file containing a copy of his will. Perusing it, he reminded himself to amend the charitable legacies clause in order to make a gift to the team down at RAPID. God knows, they would need all the help they could get.
He’d had the will prepared, after receiving a large sum of money from his father, two years earlier. A colleague had recommended a local firm specialising in environmental law, with a promise that one of the firm’s senior environmental lawyers, a Mr. Robert Spire, would be appointed as a co-executor. He closed the file, reminding himself to have the will amended when he returned from Oslo next week.
Stanton reached across his desk and pulled the research book he’d been using, from the shelf, to double check a couple of facts. He flicked through the pages to a section entitled The Younger Dryas period. Around 12,900 years ago - just as the world was slowly warming up after the last ice age - a rapid descent back to colder conditions occurred in as little as ten years or so, a mere blink of an eye, in climactic terms. A shut down of the Atlantic Ocean Thermohaline Circulation was thought to have been a possible cause of the rapid chill. Stanton's hair stood up on the back of his neck as he considered the possible ramifications of his latest research.
He closed the book, turned off his laptop, and ran his hands through his lank brown hair. He got up from his desk and looked out of his window at a deserted Russell Square and closed the blinds. He realised he’d been working for almost six hours, and it was now coming up to six P.M on Saturday evening.
He enjoyed living alone in his two-bed terraced townhouse apartment in London's Russell Square, one of only a few private residences left overlooking the park, but had noticed various businesses, as well as the University College of London, taking over most of the area during the last twenty years. The district was dotted with restaurants and bars, and in an hour he would be meeting up with an old friend for a well-earned drink in the Hotel Russo, not far from his apartment.
He briefly took hold of the memory stick containing his presentation, before putting it back down gently. The facts, figures and details of his paper were spinning around in his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to relax until he had given his talk in Oslo. He’d been over the calculations at least ten times, to ensure they were correct. He walked into the bathroom. Unbelievable; how could they have failed to check the calibration on the measuring equipment?
Just as he was about to get in the shower, the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver, “Hello!” There was silence on the other end. As he replaced the phone he heard a click on the line. Not again. He shrugged, and stepped under the shower.
Stanton was in the middle of drying himself when a text message came through from Mathew confirming the arrangements. They would be meeting in the Kings Bar at the Hotel Russo; a warm intimate wood-panelled bar, and one of Stanton’s favourite local watering holes. He finished his ablutions, went to his bedroom and put on a white linen shirt, navy blue Chino trousers, socks and leather boater shoes and glanced in the mirror. He looked and felt tired. He splashed some aftershave on his face, locked the door to the apartment and headed down the hall stairs and wandered out into the warmth of a mild spring evening.