2079- Beyond the Blue

by Florence Watson

  The rest of the journey is largely uneventful. We drive past each of the major cities; Bologna, Florence, Rome, Naples. We stop twice to charge the car, refuel and to freshen up. But mostly we sleep in the deep, worn leather seats that smell of home. Except for Hero. He allows himself a nap every couple of hours or so while I watch the road. But he never looks completely relaxed - even when the car takes over and he tilts his seat back. He can’t use his rear vision when he does and I think it stresses him out. There’s some scenery to begin with but after a while, we’re back on the autoroute and it’s monotonous. Four hours in, I find a small device in a compartment behind the handbrake. Hero informs me that it’s an MP9 that slots into a tiny hole in the dashboard. I insert the device and press play. From there on, we have music. None of us knows what we’re listening to; most of it is played on a guitar and the voice and the lyrics poignant. I have no opinion of it as such – to me it’s the sound of the Mediterranean drawing ever nearer.

  Chapter 14

  Bova is an ancient hilly settlement in the Province of Reggio Calabria, southern Italy. The terracotta roofed village perches high on the hill, overlooking the Mediterranean coast. But our destination is not one of the tightly packed ascending stone houses. Adam and Evelyn live in a detached, newer villa on the periphery. It’s 11.30pm. The cool night breeze sweeps in through the open windows and carries me away. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining that I’m on holiday - free and without a care. But the thought is fleeting. I’m jolted out of my waking dream as Hero applies the foot brake and the car slows. He then takes a right turn through two square pillars onto a barely lit, narrow driveway. The open gates await our arrival. The branches of overgrown citrus trees that line one side of the drive brush the top of the car as it creeps towards a flat-roofed garage then finally, the engine stops.

  The villa is an elevated white bungalow with wooden shutters at the windows, in keeping with the region. The porch is low lit but bright enough to see the two wrought iron benches at either end with hanging plants on the walls. This humble hillside estate will be home for the foreseeable future I tell myself, unfastening my seat belt. Starla opens her door immediately. I watch out of the window as she dashes to the old man with his hands in his pockets, who has just appeared on the porch. He’s dressed in light coloured shorts and a chequered shirt. His hair is silvery white, just as I remember from our first and only meeting - an air dash escape from the UK.

  ‘Don Inglese’ beams at the sight of his beloved daughter. She throws her arms around him and he kisses her forehead, like the finale of a play in which all ends well. Only it isn’t the end. We’ve barely begun. I turn to Hero sitting beside me. We exchange a look of relief that we actually made it. But he knows as well I do that any satisfaction felt for having got this far will be short lived. We open our doors at the same time and step out onto the drive. I expect to follow him to the porch, but instead he walks to the garage door and promptly punches a code into a manual keypad.

  ‘I’ll see you inside.’ He says.

  ‘Okay.’ I reply. I suppose it makes sense that the car is out of sight as soon as possible.

  I continue to the steps leading up to the porch, where Starla and her father are now standing arm in arm. I know I have nothing to fear since she decided not to tell him about the shooting. And yet with every step, I’m filled with dread. I smile up at Starla who appears to be on the verge of tears, but fighting the urge for the sake of humility. Adam in complete contrast, is a blubbering mess. He dabs the baggy skin under his eyes with a white handkerchief as more water fills his eyes, then leans his head lovingly against his daughter’s. The root of my angst suddenly becomes apparent; I’m uncomfortable with emotional scenes. More to the point, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hide it. As I reach the landing, the door flies open:

  ‘Jo!’

  Evelyn flings her arms around me then clings on tight. There’s no escaping the squeamish discomfort of being watched by reunited father and daughter as my former housekeeper does her best to squeeze the air from my lungs.

  ‘You're a sight for sore eyes young man.’ She says, looking up at me tenderly.

  ‘You too.’ I reply, kissing the top of her head. Her hair is bright pink as it’s always been and her scent, rose oil, is inextricably linked to my childhood. I’m held briefly in suspense by the essence of old memories. I don’t care what my father says, Evelyn is family.

  ‘I’m so glad you're safe.’ She says with her arms still around my waist. ‘You've lost weight.’

  ‘Just a little.’

  I smile down and notice that her eyes are sparkling, and that the deep lines that characterised her face for as long as I can remember, have all but vanished.

  ‘You look younger Evelyn.’

  ‘I feel younger.’ She smiles, letting me go. ‘Must be the mountain air - and maybe something to do with the LIFE you gave me.’ She says with a wink. ‘I can't believe you're actually here!’ She hugs me again. ‘We’ve been so worried!’

  ‘I told you Hero would bring them back safe and sound.’ The hanky has been put away and Adam now stands composed, with his hands back in his pockets. I take the opportunity to study him. It would appear that he hasn’t benefited from LIFE as much as Evelyn has - physically at least. He’s heavily tanned and his skin is creased like old paper. If anything, he looks older.

  Evelyn suddenly turns and with an undue sense of propriety announces: ‘Adam, this is Jo. Jo, Adam.’ She then looks up at me proudly in the way that a grandmother might, her grown up grandson.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He says, putting out his hand. ‘Properly this time.’ He adds, referring to the fact that the first time we met; I was hurrying him into a plane whilst trying to explain why it was imperative that I did so. But he was in a far better position than Evelyn who unlike Adam, had had no LIFE at all at that point, but trusted me enough to go along with it.

  ‘Likewise.’ I reply, taking his hand.

  ‘I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me and my daughter.’ He says solemnly, simultaneously tightening his grip.

  He then places his other hand on top, asserting his gratitude and ensuring there's absolutely no escape. I smile uneasily and a few words along the lines of ‘don’t mention it’ or ‘my pleasure’ flash through my mind but don’t make it past my lips. In light of my unspeakable failure to prevent his daughter from being shot en route and the deception from day one that put her in mortal danger and led to their separation in the first place, it doesn't seem right to accept his thanks. I glance at Starla who looks almost as uncomfortable as I feel. The chance to respond with something more fitting than a meek grin passes before finally I’m released.

  ‘And you of course must be Starla.’ Says Evelyn, smoothing over my awkwardness by reaching past to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I can see the resemblance.’

  I glance from father to daughter and back again but fail to see a genetic likeness. Either I’m struggling to look beyond the lines and lose skin, or Starla resembles her mother more.

  ‘We’ve met before Evelyn.’ She replies.

  ‘I know. But I don’t remember much about it. Just like your Dad, for me the last couple of years are a bit of a blur. But I remember everything these days, thanks to Jo.’

  Starla looks up at her father. He nods, suggesting that the same is true of him since receiving LIFE.

  ‘Yes, thank you Jo.’ He says earnestly.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ I reply.

  ‘So how do you like my car?’ He then asks, changing the subject. ‘It’s a 2042 vintage electric. Luxury model.’

  ‘It’s very smooth, considering its age.’ I reply, looking behind. But the vehicle has gone.

  ‘Just like its owner.’ He laughs.

  Evelyn shakes her head, implying that this is the sort of thing she’s had to put up with for the past few weeks. ‘Shall we go inside?’ She says. ‘I bet you could both murder a cup of tea’.

  The smell of home cooked food
hits me on entry. The sweet and the savoury have blended in the heat of the kitchen - an aromatic fusion that is wonderfully welcoming. Evelyn shows me to my room through a corridor to the right. She flicks a light switch on the wall, closes the shutters then fluffs up the bed pillows - like the owner of a boarding house might - before leaving the room to lead Starla to where she’ll be sleeping, a little further down the hall.

  The room is minimal, as expected. There are two single beds on either side; one for me and one for Hero. Next to each bed is a small wooden cabinet and under the only window, a reasonable size chest of draws with Hero’s bags and mine on the floor beside it. There’s an electric fan on the ceiling and a door to the left leading to a shower room which is currently in use. With only the bare necessities and a faded pinstripe theme, it has the feel of low budget hotel in old movies I’ve seen. But I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room utterly void of modern technology. The plug sockets for handheld mobile phones give away the property’s age - or at least when it was last renovated. I walk to the window, reopen the shutters and look out at the night sky. The view is limited owing to the thick bushes at the side of the house. Scattered yellow dots of light in the distance are reassuring signs of life. But in its own way, the mountainside is as sparsely populated and tranquil as my home in Norfolk.

  I wait for Hero to finish in the bathroom. I then shower and change into one of the four t-shirts and dark cotton trousers that P400 packed, before finding my way to the kitchen.

  Chapter 15

  The floors are grey stone throughout, except for the kitchen diner which is a mosaic formed of large broken tiles in subdued earthy shades; honey, salmon and rust. There’s a round wooden table in the dining area where I find Adam sitting with Hero. Despite his wide frame, the old man looks small sat beside my burly friend.

  ‘Take a seat young man.’ He says, gesturing to one of the four empty chairs.

  There’s a crystal glass tumbler and an expensive looking bottle of port on his left. In the centre of the table is a warm apricot pie, still emanating sweet fumes. The neatly arranged slices of fruit glisten temptingly beneath the syrup glazed surface. But there’s another rich, mouth-watering smell coming from the kitchen.

  ‘You hungry?’ Asks Adam. ‘Evelyn’s made lamb stew.’

  ‘Yes, I’m famished.’ I reply, realising that I am.

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t be too late for them to eat.’ Evelyn calls from the kitchen. ‘Jo’s always had a good appetite, haven’t you sweet?’

  I smile approvingly, already starting to feel at home.

  ‘Do you want tea and a slice of pie first?’ She calls again. ‘Dinner’s not quite ready yet.’

  ‘No thanks Evelyn. I’m happy to wait.’

  Sitting with Hero, awaiting food lovingly prepared by my former housekeeper, is reminiscent of much better days. It occurs to me as I pull in my chair that I haven’t had a flashback since crossing the Italian border. It's been hours since a previously suppressed memory interjected my thoughts and caused chaos. Perhaps the effects of CIA reversal have finally worn off, helped no doubt by being in Hero and Evelyn’s company. Normality; that's all that was needed. I think the shower also helped clear my head - once I’d worked out how to use it. The unit installed in the wall would not take verbal commands. Eventually I was able to adjust the temperature and pressure manually.

  Hero looks refreshed too. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and his baseball cap is off for the first time since we started the trip. He’s slouched slightly in his seat with one hand around a glass of orange juice. I notice that the table’s bare wood surface is heavily scratched and stained, and wonder how long it’s been in this house. Could it have been used by Ministry members in the 40’s planning their exploits during the Sweet Rebellion? More than likely, if it’s as old as it appears to be. The thought of us now planning to expose the government at the very same table used by rebels, sends shivers of excitement through my body.

  ‘So the locals call you Don Inglais.’ I say, looking up at Adam.

  ‘A few do.’ He replies. ‘But they’re an insular lot; keep themselves to themselves mostly which works in our favour. The man who owned this villa was well liked. The neighbours knew nothing of his past; his Ministry involvement. They thought he was just a wealthy British immigrant.’

  ‘They weren’t suspicious of the frequent comings and goings when he first moved in?’

  ‘Comings and goings?’ He asks, then raising his eyebrows as the penny drops: ‘No, this was a safehouse. Goods trafficking was mostly through the capital.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I reply with dismay. I’d already convinced myself that this villa was the centre of MDBF activity. There are no historical accounts of routes used by Candy pushers, not even on the Outertnet. But on reflection, the remote location does make this an ideal hideout.

  I look around the room. On the wall to my left are two framed prints of Venice either side of a ceramic clock. I glimpse a couple of electrical appliances in the kitchen beyond where Evelyn is busy tidying. They're freestanding; not integrated like in kitchens back home. On the counter, blocking most of the view, are a collection of earthenware pots, some containing herbs, others houseplants. One is being used for utensils. Between two long wooden units - effectively work tops with shelf space below - is a back door painted white with a mottled glass window pane. The villa inside and out is a throwback; higgledy and all desperately tired looking. But non-uniformity is part of its appeal. At least, it is for me. I think I’m going to like it here.

  ‘His lamb stew is the best I’ve ever tasted.’ Says Evelyn, carrying over a glass then setting it down in front of me. ‘He’s taught me a thing or two about cooking, haven’t you dear?’ She adds, winking at Adam before picking up the pie and returning with it to the kitchen.

  ‘The whole lot goes into one big pot. There’s not much more to it.’ he tells us modestly. ‘Come and sit down Evie.’ he then calls back over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I'm just putting a few bits away.' She replies from afar.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone who can keep themselves busy like she can. How on earth did you put up with her all those years? She never stops doing.’ He says, playfully.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone who could sit still for so long!’ She shouts back, pretending to be cross.

  Hero and I smile at the banter, pleased by the outcome of having thrown together two complete strangers and more or less left them to it. When I flew Evelyn and Adam to France and put them on a train to Rome on that fateful day in November, I couldn’t assure either of them that they’d ever see us again. Once the extra dose of LIFE had kicked in and they’d fully grasped the situation, they were then forced to wait for days without word, knowing the danger we were in. Had Hero not escaped and found his way here, after a while they might have gone their separate ways, believing that none of us had survived. They might have come to the conclusion that they have nothing in common - no reason to even like one another in fact - given that their only connection was me; the man who shamefully coerced Adam’s daughter into going undercover. Or perhaps the knowledge they share of the horrors back home and grief over their losses would have kept them together. Who knows?

  ‘Help yourself to port.’ Adam insists, pushing the bottle forward.

  ‘Thank you.’ I reply, reaching for it.

  Hero picks up his glass of juice. He stopped drinking alcohol when he took the job as my tutor and hasn’t touched a drop since, claiming that he was never really off duty - especially after he became my Shadow. He’s had my back for two and a half decades. I don’t think my parents paid him enough.

  ‘Hero’s been filling me in on the journey.’ says Adam. ‘Aside from the agents at the charging station, sounds like it was all pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I reply, quickly glancing at Hero and silently thanking him.

  ‘It was a brilliant plan.’ He adds.

  ‘It was the only plan.’ Replies
Hero, matter-of-factly.

  ‘But brilliantly executed. Then holding up his glass: ‘I think a toast is in order.’

  Hero and I raise our glasses to meet his.

  ‘To Hero!’ He says as they clink. Then raising his glass again and urging us to do the same: ‘And to Jo, the honest journalist.’

  Our glasses meet once more and I see now that our host is not entirely sober. I wonder how many glasses of port he's managed to put away in the time it took Hero and I to wash and change. I withdraw and take a sip before glancing sideways at Hero, questioning the meaning of ‘honest journalist’. I then watch as Don Inglese throws back the last mouthful, picks up the bottle and immediately refills his glass. I hadn’t envisaged a drinking session on our first night. It makes little difference to me of course; I have implants. Alcohol won’t impair judgement for more than a few minutes at a time, but it will impair his - probably for quite some time at the rate he’s going. I had hoped we could get down to essential business, which in my mind requires relative sobriety. I’m desperate to find out what happened when Hero visited Arthur Luvel. The information he holds about this meeting could be crucial to the investigation. But perhaps I’m rushing things. Maybe we should take time to celebrate the success of our escape and the fact that we’re all together at last. And I should probably get better acquainted with the man who will be feeding me, as well as funding the investigation from here on in. Besides, I sense he has a bone to pick with me...

  ‘Honest journalist?’ I enquire, trying not to sound irked.

  ‘It’s no secret that I’ve always had a low opinion of reporters.’ He replies. ‘Liars, at worst. Hounds at best who won’t rest until they’ve got a story. The press made a mockery of my cause; exploited the issue and ruined my life just to sell papers.’

  As he eyes me pervasively, I’m reminded of sitting in The Tea House with Starla, every word of our conversation a lie. Well, almost every word…