2084 The End of Days

by Derek Beaugarde

  “Good day to you Mr Threlfall. My name is Mahmoud El Kharroubi, UK correspondent for Al Jazirah. These are my four friends also staying at your – eh – beautiful hotel. They are Mr Khan al Ahmed - Mr Mossab Mohammad - Mr Akbar Ali Mohammad - and Mr Hassan Ben Ali.”

  It was now ten past five and four of the men sat in the snug by the restaurant bar. Dick and his Slovak bar tender Oliç, a student at Sabhal Mór Ostaig Gaelic University a mile up the road from Ardvasar, began to bring out their evening meals from the kitchen. Dick looked around the otherwise empty restaurant for the fifth man.

  “I’m sorry gentleman – but is your friend, um, Mr Kharroubi not joining you just now.”

  Khan, who was pretty unimpressed with his surroundings, although he did not show it to Threlfall, flashed a huge laser-white smile at the hotelier.

  “Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi is just outside having a cigarette – I know, dirty habit these days – and Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi is also making a call on his mobile, Mr Threlfall. I believe that he was having some difficulty with a signal within your lovely establishment. If you leave his meal on the table please, I will call Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi inside in a minute.”

  Dick and Oliç laid the meals down and the hotel owner thought to himself that there would not be much chance of forgetting these dark-skinned men and their oft-mentioned names. Before Khan went outside to call El Kharroubi back in he scanned his eyes around the restaurant where they sat. Lovely establishment, Khan had thought to himself. By Allah, he thought, it was more like being caught in some sort of a time warp. The painted ceilings were low and oppressive. The once-white paint was now brown interspersed with heavy dark oaken beams. The walls were covered with a heavy dark red wallpaper that added to the claustrophobia of the deserted restaurant. The small tables were made of heavy dark stained wood, matched by the tiny stools surrounding them. In the snug where the Group were placed, a mainly yellow tartan covered seat stretched along the wall facing the bar and continued to the small dark wooden bar. Threlfall added a few more stools to allow the five men to sit with each other, eat and talk together. Tacky prints of Scottish uniformed soldiers of bygone eras and the odd cheap picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie were dimly lit by low energy light bulbs with burnt-brown shades. The carpet was a dark blue and black tartan which looked as though it had been trodden on for decades and was heavily ingrained with dirt. Hassan Ben Ali, who had started eating his Mallaig fish and chips, which they had all ordered, saw Khan looking about and spoke out.

  “In the name of Allah, what made Mahmoud pick this dump?”

  Khan shrugged and replied indifferently.

  “Look, Hassan, we don’t need a five-star hotel. What we need is something just like this. It is quiet, so we will stand out and be remembered and it needs to be as far from London as we can make it –“

  Hassan grumbled back.

  “Yeah, well I’m the one stuck in a small dingy single room on the back of the ground floor. It is freezing, damp and smells horribly musty. Allah save me, I’d rather spend the night in an Israeli prison cell.”

  “Okay, let me call Mahmoud back in for his fish and chips and I’ll to speak to the owner later about moving you.”

  Hassan went back to his meal along with the silent Mohammad brothers and Khan went outside to call Mahmoud. The Jordanian journalist had just finished stubbing his cigarette out on the now darkened road separating the hotel from the rough grassy patch sloping down to the rocky shoreline, which could only just be made out in the diminishing light. Khan looked across the Sound and he could see the twinkling lights of little Mallaig hemmed in by dark foreboding mountains on three sides. Khan waved El Kharroubi over, signalling with an imaginary knife and fork motion that his meal was ready. Mahmoud strode across the darkening deserted road to the low restaurant doorway and Khan addressed him.

  “Did you speak with the Palestinian, Mahmoud?”

  “Yes, he is in place. I have also confirmed the go-ahead with Brother Suleiman –“

  El Kharroubi put his hand on Khan’s shoulder and guided the Kuwaiti into the restaurant. They joined Hassan and the Mohammads and everyone ate in silence. Although, the restaurant was empty apart from their table, next door in the bar room it was filled with raucous, drunken locals who had, according to Dick Threlfall, been watching a now-finished Scottish football match on 3DTV. The manager had called it the Old Firm game but that meant nothing to the Group. Suddenly, their silent eating was disturbed as two drunks staggered in from the adjoining corridor which linked the restaurant, toilets and bar. The taller fat local, known as Aldo, wore a blue football top and the smaller skinny local, known as Paddy, had ginger hair and wore a top with green and white hoops. The larger drunkard Aldo spoke to the Group first.

  “Haw! Haw! What’s this then, Paddy?“

  The five men looked up startled by the two drunks precariously holding each other up with their arms extended. Aldo, the fat drunk in the blue top with an enormous beer-belly hanging over his belt slurred again in an almost unintelligible Scottish accent.

  “Any chance o’ wan o’ yer chips?”

  Khan, who was sitting closest to the inebriates, spread his palm out towards his plate and replied.

  “Please, my friends. Do help yourself. I have had too much to eat anyway.”

  Aldo and Paddy lunged towards the table, grabbed a few chips from Khan’s plate and guzzled them down noisily with rude beer-sodden burps in between. Paddy ventured to engage the Group in conversation.

  “Ah take it ye huv aw met the manager Dick? We call him Richard at Home and Dick at Work.”

  The two pals guffawed generously to each other as the other five men sat bemused. Paddy continued with his one-sided conversation.

  ”By the way, ah hope ye don’t mind me askin’? Ah thought ah detected a wee bit o’ an accent there. No offence an’ that - but are you guys aw Pakis?”

  Khan continued to be the mildly irritated spokesman for the Group.

  “No, actually - we are all Arabs, my friends –“

  Aldo’s face immediately became illuminated with drunken jocularity.

  “Arabs - haw, Paddy boy, these guys are aw Dundee United supporters. Haw, haw, haw!”

  Paddy made a mock sneering gesture into nowhere specifically.

  “Tangerine bastards – sorry, man, we don’t mean anything by you guys. Mean tae say – ah’m a fuckin’ Celtic man masel’ and big Aldo here supports the Teddy Berrs. But we’re ra best o’ friends an’ that, y’know? We are aw fur Wurld Peace. Issat right, Aldo?”

  “Too true, wee Paddy boy, Wurld Peace – that’s oor goal!”

  The Group all glanced sideways at each other in bewilderment. They had no idea what Aldo and Paddy were talking about. Mahmoud made an almost imperceptible sideways gesture with his black brooding hawkish eyes for Khan to get rid of them. Khan pulled something from his pocket and handed it over to Paddy and the eyes of the two drunks lit up immediately at the £50 note.

  “Allah has blessed us with a little spare cash today. Take it and buy your friends through there a drink on us, okay?”

  “Brilliant, man - a fifty spot - what aboot that, Aldo?”

  Aldo and Paddy pumped Khan’s hands and waved goodbye to the others in the Group. They staggered off in each other’s grasp shouting for world peace and laughing at their good fortune. Dick Threlfall slunk out from behind the bar and moved towards the Group. He looked down at the plates and all were empty except for Khan’s. Threlfall broke the momentary silence.

  “Please accept my apologies for the state of the locals. Have you all finished, gentlemen? Did you enjoy your meals?”

  Khan could not face any more from the plate after Aldo and Paddy’s grubby hands had been all over it. He answered for the Group, lying about the food.

  “We are all finished, thank you very much - the fish was delicious.”

  Threlfall st
arted gathering up the plates and then stopped momentarily as a thought had just crossed his mind.

  “Oh! By the way gentlemen - I’ve just listened to the weather forecast for tomorrow, Sunday – and a blizzard is meant to hit Skye. It will be very tricky climbing in the Cuillins.”

  Mahmoud El Kharroubi raised his arms to heaven and put on a false smile.

  “Allah be praised! You have just given us our alibi, Mr Threlfall.”

  “Alibi?”

  “I don’t really mean alibi, Mr Threlfall. I mean excuse – an excuse for not going up those blasted mountains. What we will do instead is sit in your wonderful lounge all day tomorrow and drink coffee and play cards. Maybe you will join us?”

  Threlfall thought it peculiar that these men had travelled all this way bringing the best of kit and were put off their climb so easily. Instead they intended staying in and spending money in his hotel and that was fine by him.

  “I’d be delighted, gentlemen.”

  Khan groaned inside at the thought of being stuck in a snowstorm in this dingy hole, but he bit his lip, then spoke.

  “One last thing Mr Threlfall – Dick - my friend Hassan Ben Ali is uncomfortable in the single room you have placed him in. We would be happy to pay for a third double room if you could move him, please?”

  Threlfall could not believe his luck. More money!

  “Certainly - I will have you moved to a good sized double on the first floor, Mr Ben Ali. I’ll put you in room 101.”

  *

  Earthdate: 19:25 Saturday February 8, 2081 GMT

  Jill unlocked the door of her flat in Kew and pushed it open. She picked up what little mail there was and entered. Mostly flyers for local junk food shops and quotes for air-car insurance that she did not require. There was one letter and she knew immediately it was Khan’s business account bank statement from the London branch of the Royal Bank of Kuwait. No-one nowadays wanted paper statements with everything available online. However, Khan said he was old fashioned when it came to money. Jill threw the mail on the breakfast bar along with her keys and bag and flopped down wearily on her sofa. Saturday had been a good day off and Jill was also looking forward to tomorrow’s day of rest.

  In the morning she had taken her sports gear and went to nearby Kew Gardens to run with the local Kew Crew Jogging Club to burn off a few calories. After showering and changing back at her flat she caught the train into London’s Hyde Park and met Ruthie Venters. Khan had bought two tickets weeks ago before the trial separation for an open-air concert. It was the revival World Tour of the late-20th century rock group Queen’s “We Will Rock You!” Khan had left the tickets and told Jill just to use them with a friend. She asked Ruthie as a thank you for saving her on the Dinky Budge story and Ruthie was delighted to go along with her. Initially, Hyde Park was pretty chilly in the open air, but with the large open-air heaters and the crowd’s banging enthusiasm, the girls were soon warmed up. After the concert they went to a nearby McDonalds and giggled like two teenagers when they ordered two Happy Meals and giant chocolate shakes. They even had the audacity to take the free kiddie toy - a plastic model of the spacecraft Oceanus. It had been a great day but Jill was just glad to be home again. She had already promised herself a long lie in bed on Sunday morning. Jill caught a glance across at the breakfast bar and saw Khan’s bank statement poking over the edge of the counter. She had never opened his private mail before but the envelope niggled at her. Jill thought, if I just sneaked a quick look there might be the odd meal out or a clandestine hotel booking that would confirm that Khan had been as unfaithful as she had been accusing him of being. She couldn’t, she scolded herself. Then she jumped up and grabbed up the white windowed-envelope marked the Royal Bank of Kuwait. The clear window was addressed:-

  Mr K Al Ahmed

  Flat 7/2

  45 Kew Gardens Path

  Kew

  Greater London

  6SW 10XX

  Jill lifted her keys and used one to roughly zip open the letter and she pulled out the statement. She scanned over the statement and the transactions certainly looked like any that a normal property dealer might transact. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then her eye caught the very last transaction on the second page, which read:-

  03 Feb 81 Bank transfer credit

  Money In £20,000,250.00

  Balance £20,155,375.76

  A horrible wave of guilt swept over Jill and the nauseous feeling returned. Oh shit, Khan, I’m so sorry, she thought, you were telling the truth about that 20 million pound deal after all. She asked herself what she should do. The shock of seeing the figure on the statement brought back the day’s weariness and it made Jill lie down on the sofa. She quickly fell into a fitful sleep full of guilt-laden dreams. It was much later when she awoke. The clock on the wall told Jill it was now almost nine forty at night. She felt a bit peckish as it had now been many hours since the long-digested McDonalds. She thought that she would treat her stomach to something sugary to sooth her pangs of guilt and hunger. Jill spoke aloud to herself.

  “Strong sweet coffee - hot chocolate fudge cake and whipped cream. That should do the trick.”

  While awaiting the frozen chocolate cake to defrost in the microwave and also for the kettle to boil for her coffee, she wandered aimlessly over to look out at the darkness from her seventh floor Art Deco curving picture window. Jill looked out over towards the upmarket townhouses of Richmond and down towards even posher Windsor and Eton. She could just see part of the tastefully floodlit Windsor Castle, the magnificent stately seat of Great Britain’s ruling monarch, Queen Elizabeth III. Although the Head of State role was only that of a figure-head in Britain, Elizabeth had been on the throne now for almost 15 years and she was extremely well-respected by her people. Jill thought back to the time she and Khan had been introduced to Queen Elizabeth and her husband Prince Regent David at a Windsor garden party. As Jill continued to admire the view of the night down to the castle, suddenly her microwave switched off with a loud Ping! The ringing sound startled Jill. Then, what seemed a split second later, Jill’s head started backwards in fright as she equally suddenly saw a blinding flash high in the sky. Jill watched in horror as a huge ball of flame streaked Earthwards not that far from Windsor Castle. It was quickly followed by a large violent explosion on the ground in Windsor town centre and a huge plume of fire and smoke mushroomed into the air. Jill could not believe her eyes and blurted out in alarm.

  “What in hell’s name was that?”

  As she watched the flames licking up menacingly into the night sky over Windsor, Jill scrabbled around in her mind to think of an explanation for what had just occurred. She rewound back to the recent interview with Ewan. A meteorite, she thought! Surely not – she seemed to remember that Ewan had said Earth’s gravity is likely to attract some pretty hefty meteor showers probably starting around mid-February 2084. Jill did not know what the explosion was, but she knew that she had to find out. Thoughts of chocolate cake and long lies in bed on Sunday were quickly forgotten and she was instantly into professional journalist mode. She quickly donned her heavy winter jacket, grabbed her mobile and her mini-video camera and stuffed them in her deep jacket pockets. Jill started scrimmaging about in the messy cabinet drawer below her wall-mounted 3DTV, while keeping one eye out of her picture window. The fire was still burning although a little less fiercely as she spoke aloud in frustration.

  “Khan, please don’t have taken them?”

  Then she found them – the keys to Khan’s Honda air-bike. In the distance she began to hear the muffled sounds of police, fire and ambulance sirens wailing, muted by the triple-glazed windows. Jill could see the floodlights of a police helijet reaching out as it zoomed over the roof of her apartment building heading towards Windsor.

  “Shit, ah better get a move on before the place is crawling with TV and journalists! This is tomorrow’s big story –“
>
  *

  Earthdate: 23:30 February 8, 2081 CST

  A groggy-looking Lex Kosloff was politely escorted into the Houston PD interview room and he was asked to take a seat. To Lex’s present thinking his life had been transformed into a complete blur for the second time in the same week since he answered the ringing doorbell. That had been when he pulled back the door to be confronted by Houston PD’s finest, two burly plain-clothes detectives flashing their silver badges at him. The senior cop addressed him gruffly.

  “Alexander Kosloff?”

  “Yes -?”

  “May we come in? We would like to question you about an incident which took place a couple of days ago in Dallas?”

  If the policemen had said anything else on his doorstep that Friday evening then Lex had not heard it. He just thought – Dallas? Marna? Oh, God, no – something’s happened to Marna. Lex’s already weak legs from the constant days of drinking and vomiting completely buckled under him and he passed out in front of the two cops. He had spent Friday night mostly in and out of consciousness and all of Saturday recovering in some non-descript hospital in Houston stuck on an IV drip, wired up to the hilt with various monitors beeping and whirring incessantly at his bedside. Only three hours ago the doctors had told the police that Lex was sufficiently recovered from shock and a mild case of alcohol poisoning. His stomach had been pumped. Again they asked Lex politely if he minded answering a few questions down at the 3rd Precinct. Lex agreed and asked if his wife was okay, but he was told that all questions would be handled at the station. Now here he was just after a half hour to midnight on Saturday night sitting facing the two detectives who had arrived at his home the previous evening. Lex looked behind them at the blackened mirror-glass and reckoned he would be being further scrutinised by the cops’ superiors. The larger broad-shouldered white detective poured Lex a glass of water and then broke the ice.