The Aurora Journals Part Two

by Sam Nash

  The stunning blond lady replied; “Je suis ici pour le festival le mercredi.” That I understood, but the woman from behind the counter looked nonplussed.

  “Festival?” She said.

  “Bien sûr, Lughnasadh.” The woman pulled a face, to which the blond runner elucidated. “Celte récolte – Harvest Festival.”

  Their discussion rattled off at break-neck speed, but from their actions, I assumed Blondie was placing her order. The manageress wove her substantial hips through the gap in the counter, and placed a tall container of cheese straws on a table. Blondie unzipped her light jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. Then, as she sat down, she took a straw and nibbled delicately.

  She must have noticed my attention, since she scrutinised me without shame, then said, “C’est votre Renault dehors?”

  I shrugged and looked at David for help. “I’m sorry I…um…” I realised I sounded feeble.

  “Is that your Renault parked outside?” She repeated, and with it, I detected an exasperated note in her voice.

  “It is, yes.”

  “There are two people out there. They were testing the door handles and acting very suspiciously. One, a huge man, the other, a woman with a ridiculous hairstyle.”

  “Shit! How is it that they keep finding us?” I clenched my fist, lowering it to the table with measured pressure.

  “They must have slipped a tracker on you. I’ll make a sweep for bugs when we get free of them.” David said, pulling me up from the window seat and behind a dividing screen.

  “But all my clothes are new. I bought them in Paris.”

  “Even still. They found a way to tag you.” He edged to the glass door panel and peeked out to the right. “She is leaning against the car bonnet.”

  “Is there a back door we can leave from?” I asked of Blondie.

  David chipped in. “We wouldn’t get far on foot. We need that car.”

  “Wait,” Blondie said, “I can help you. Be ready to run to the car when I say.” She stepped lightly past David, and bounced along the pavement, stretching her arms and legs as though she was warming up for her jog. As she drew level with Carmine, she reached down to her toes. His eyes bulged out of their sockets.

  David paid for our meal, while I slipped my journal into my jacket pocket and stood poised behind the door. Blondie started talking to Carmine, jabbing her thumb backwards over her shoulder towards the restaurant. He nodded. With her back to us, she extended her arm and indicated to a side alley, to which Lady Charity and the hulk thanked her, and hurried towards the rear service entrance to the restaurant. She watched them for a moment and then signalled to us.

  Dashing out onto the pavement, I fumbled with the car keys then hopped into the driving seat, unlocking the passenger door for my son. Shouting our thanks as we sped away, David grappled with the complementary Road Atlas of Europe, navigating our course to the autoroute for Normandy.

  At a steady speed on the motorway, David reached to the backseat for his holdall, and retrieved his bug-detector. With my small travel bag on his knees, he swept the device over my toiletry bag, then across each item of clothing. It indicated no presence of any tracking or monitoring gadgets whatsoever.

  “Think, dad. There must have been a time when they had access to something of yours, while you were in Rome.”

  I thought. My original bag of clothes still sat at the foot of the bed in the Palazzo di Malta. The dinner suit they loaned me, festered in a street-side dustbin near to the Arc de Triomphe. The only personal possession that was out of my sight for more than a moment was… “My journal!” I wrenched it from my jacket pocket and handed it to David. His bug-finder squealed in confirmation. “How did they…?”

  “There’s a tiny line of superglue at the base of the spine.” He took a pocket knife out and slashed the leather. Sitting snugly against the rigid mesh binding the pages together was a flat electronic chip, smaller than a postage stamp. David waved it in front of my nose, then wound down the window and threw it out on the tarmac.

  “That should stop the buggers” I said with hearty jubilance. David looked less convinced. “Shouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” He muttered. “Unless they guess where we’re headed. In which case, speed is of the essence. No more unnecessary stops. We press on, and hope that ferries are frequent.”

  I drove on, balancing the need for haste with the possibility of attracting law enforcement. For the first hour or so, David had little to say. He leaned back into the headrest and watched the French landscape zip past through the passenger window. A stoic child becomes a stoic man. He took all my revelations in his stride, handling them far better than I had done.

  When at last he did speak, it was of Lily. He stared into my profile and with an earnestness that stung my tear ducts, he said, “I still love her, dad.” I glanced across at his gaunt face. His eyes were glossy with excess moisture, his breath short and huffed.

  “I know, son.” I had no wisdom to impart. No suggestions or solutions. This was new territory for me. Minnie and I were devoted. It would never have occurred to her to sleep with another in order to punish me.

  A mass of red tail lights flashed up in front of us, vehicles braking hard, some with accompanying hazards warnings. I depressed the brake, and slowed by graduations, climbing down the gears. A few hundred metres of stop-start, first gear action, then a complete stand-still, grid-locked.

  “This can’t be good.” I said, looking at the innocuous families in people carriers surrounding us.

  “No, but if we cannot get through, neither can Lady Charity and Carmine.”

  “There are other routes to Le Havre, you know.” I shouldn’t have snapped. None of this is David’s fault, but nervous exhaustion got the better of me.

  “True, but other routes are incredibly slow. We could try and get off at the next junction, if we ever get going again. Or we could go to another port, like Caen?”

  I took the map book from him, tracing my finger along potential routes and estimating the differences in mileage. “That is a hell of a detour, and we would have to navigate narrow roads through small towns and villages. It could take us even longer than waiting out this jam. I say we wait.”

  David reached into his pocket and took out a coin. “Heads we wait, tails we get off at the next junction.” He flipped and failed to catch the ten pence piece. It landed on his thigh, the queen’s head glinting in the sunshine. He looked disappointed, but resigned to the outcome. I switched on the radio and spent a little while trying to tune into the BBC World Service.

  A debate raged between the host and his guest, the Chief of Defence Staff. I recognised his voice as one of those on the Security Council during my uncomfortable presentation in Whitehall. His dark blue uniform and gilded wing emblem showed evidence of his Royal Air Force ascension through the ranks.

  “But in your best military opinion, do you think that the US Ambassador was diplomatically incompetent in light of the failed talks on the 25th of this month?” The host adopted a forceful tone, fast paced and directed.

  “My opinion is irrelevant.” The Chief of Defence said. “I was neither present at the meeting nor do I feel it is in the best interests of all parties to look backwards. The gathering later today in the Saudi Arabian city of Jeddah, will enable Mubarak to open talks regarding the disputed territories and address the accusations regarding inappropriate oil drilling practices on the Iraqi border. I am confident that a resolution will be reached.”

  I turned the volume dial to compensate for the noise from outside our car; the thunderous drone of a helicopter gliding over our heads. I leaned forwards, straining across the steering wheel and twisting my face to see through the top of the windscreen. “Was that an air-ambulance?” I asked.

  “Dunno, I missed it.” David said, too engrossed in his thoughts to be of use.

  The radio show host continued. “If you truly believed that, President Bush would not have his naval
aircraft carriers on high alert in the Persian Gulf. Clearly, he thinks that talks will break down. Do you feel that the ambassador should have stated outright, that military action would illicit a strong airborne response from US forces instead of her claims that, and I quote, ‘Washington had no special defence or security commitments to Kuwait’?”

  “Again, I am not in a position to comment…”

  I switched off the radio. This crisis was deepening into a full-scale war. Even I could see that no one was prepared to back down. President Bush needed those disputed oilfields to remain viable, Kuwait hungered for more than their borders would allow and Saddam Hussein genuinely believed that the entire territory historically belonged to Iraq. No amount of tea and sympathy would resolve the conflict.

  It suddenly occurred to me. What if this entire situation was brought about by the same interested group who tried to gift me a Bentley? Only a few years ago, conglomerates from the US sold weapons directly to Saddam. They would sell a whole lot more with a new war on the horizon. Not to mention the predictable effects on stock options and population numbers. The thought made me shudder.

  Another quarter hour of waiting and the lines of traffic began moving again. I eased cautiously through the gears, then stabilised at the speed limit, keeping a lookout for remnants of an accident, or roadworks or any other reason for our delay. There were none that I could see. The traffic ran smoothly from then on. We stopped briefly for a pee break and to switch shifts in driving, and were underway once more, closing in on our destination.

  I took charge of navigation, directing David to branch off at Bourneville, leaving the A13 through the patchwork of arable fields towards the Pont du Tancarville. We crossed the traditional styled suspension bridge over the wide mouth of the Seine. The road pressed against the bend of a rocky escarpment and then skirted the industrialised floodplain. Vast tracts of concrete and steel, quarries and refineries, water-bound by canals and docks showed the uglier side of civilisation.

  Our speed slowed as the traffic thickened, funnelling carriageways of vehicles from multiple directions towards the city centre. Following a filter lane off the motorway, we crossed a canal and sped through a mixture of scrubland and warehouses, all the while following the signs to the ferry terminal. Another small bridge, another bisecting canal, past baron landscapes stripped bare of life.

  There was one small warren of housing tucked between the slag heaps of the power station and the neat rows of shipping containers. The few run-down and abandoned shops bore graffiti tags right across their frontage. In a rare patch of grassland ahead, an eddying cloud of dust kicked up in a plume, obscuring a helicopter beginning its flight. A feeling of dread cramped my stomach muscles. I had seen that aircraft before.

  Beyond the pylons and train tracks, I could see two people bundling into an expensive looking car. The coiffeur was hard to miss. David slowed then stopped at the next junction, allowing pedestrians to cross the lanes of traffic.

  “You’ll never believe this, but look…” I said, pointing at the black vehicle gathering speed towards the junction from the right. “Did we miss a tracking device?”

  “I’d say it’s more like bad timing.” David said, finding a gap between the pedestrians and flooring the accelerator pedal. Carmine the hulk did the same, taking the tight corner in a wide sweep and scattering the remaining walkers in squeals and shouts. The map book slipped from my lap as David caned it down the dual carriageway and straight through the next junction, crunching the gears until the little Renault shrieked for mercy.

  David dropped the clutch and changed down, throttling the last vestige of power from the tiny engine. I swivelled around to look out of the back window. The distance between our cars shortened, as did my breath. “They’re gaining on us, do something.” I yelled.

  “What do you suggest? It’s a straight road between two passages of water?” He shouted back. “We can’t go any faster.”

  Their massive Lexus saloon drew close to our bumper and then shoved into us. My head lurched forwards. David swerved but regained control. A warning nudge. Lady Charity was signalling from the passenger side for us to pull over. I stuck two fingers up and faced front in my seat. That seemed to anger them. As I adjusted my seat belt over my chest, I was aware of large black presence, looming at my side, casting me into shadow.

  Carmine jerked his steering wheel, smashing their wing into the side of the Renault. The door panels crumpled and screeched, the impact rang in my ears. Glass shattered and the roaring wind sucked in the vile fumes of smog and exhaust. I glanced to my left and saw Carmine grinning down at me. He was enjoying every minute of his minor victory.

  “We are running out of road.” David said, nodding towards the sharp bend up ahead. Edging forward, his sneer fixed, Carmine swung the Lexus to the left, widening the space between us. Then with a vitriolic howl, he wrenched the steering wheel right, smashing into us again. I scrunched my eyes tightly closed and shielded myself from the flying fragments of glass. The front wing of the Renault buckled under the force from the collision.

  Practically locked together, David fought for control, swerving away from our attacker. I could hear Carmine laughing. Lady Charity screamed at him, but his determination could not be swayed. With his attention anchored on me, Carmine failed to notice the queue of traffic as we rounded the bend. David slammed on the brakes. We stopped with inches to spare behind a VW Beetle.

  For Lady Charity and Carmine, it was too late. They ploughed through the back of a caravan, ripping the walls and roof clean off, hit a concrete bollard and rolled. All we could do was watch as the Lexus flipped over and over, pulverising the chassis, until it wrapped around a lamp post and then toppled into the canal.

  Battered and bruised, I squeezed myself out of the driver’s side of the Renault after David, and hurried to the quayside. Bubbles rose in clouds through the murky depths of the water, as their vehicle dragged them under. For one toxic moment, I felt smug, a self-righteous triumph, in the face of disaster. Carmine had rejoiced in our destruction. Now he and his gorgon wife were dead, or soon would be. The moment passed, overthrown by contrition. I had taken the Hippocratic Oath. No matter what, no matter who it concerned, do whatever it takes to save a life.

  A congregation of onlookers formed around us. There were few seconds of lurid indecision, until I kicked off my shoes and then my jacket, which I handed to David to hold.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He said, his eyes wide with alarm.

  “They might not be dead. I have to try and save them.” I stepped closer to the edge.

  “Are you out of your mind? They tried to kill us!”

  “A life is a life, David. You know that.”

  “And if you can get them out and they live, what then? We are back to square one and you become their prisoner.”

  “A life is a life.” I shot him a glare of intense magnitude. My Hippocratic Oath does not cease to apply with criminals or unpleasant people. It is more sacred to me than any religious vow.

  David groaned, his shoulders slumping into submission. “Here. I’ll do it. Hold this.” The roles reversed, I held onto his shoes and possessions while he jumped feet first into the emerald green pool below. Bobbing back to the surface, he snorted, gasping out liquid filth from the frigid waters. With a giant inhalation, he upended like a duck, forcing himself beneath the surface with powerful sweeps of his arms.

  Within a few feet, the colours of his clothing faded and then disappeared altogether in the inky waters. The throng of watchers mumbled and whispered until the last stream of air pockets reached the surface and burst, and then, nothing. Distant mechanical and engine noises broke the silence. Leaning over the perpendicular edge of the canal, we all waited.

  A seagull landed paddling itself across the still water expecting to scavenge food. A teenager scrabbled in the mud for a stone, hurling it at the bird and driving it into the air. Save for a tiny wind-driven ripple, the canal was calm
once more.

  I heard a woman behind me say, “How long has he been down there?”

  And another with a shrug, “I didn’t think anyone could hold their breath for that long.”

  People shuffled closer, pointing, peering and making useless comments. I clutched David’s jacket tightly, willing him to return to the surface and praying to my absent God.

  A cluster of no more than ten bubbles drifted upwards, each breaking in single file. I held my breath and squinted down into the darkest depths.

  ***

  Part Three and four are available for free to those in my readers group, and also for sale. Reviews of the series are always welcome and appreciated.

  In the meantime, perhaps you would enjoy the first novel in the Aurora Conspiracy series. For more information, please visit www.samnash.org

  How would you prevent the government from weaponizing your mind?

  When a mild-mannered lab technician exhibits extraordinary gifts, she becomes vulnerable to exploitation by a secret military terror cell. To compound her anguish, she uncovers evidence to suggest that her neuro-scientist husband is manipulating her as part of a government weaponry experiment. A fast paced, action packed science fiction conspiracy thriller you won’t want to miss.

  The Aurora Mandate by Sam Nash

  Please go to www.samnash.org for relevant links to retail distributors.

  About the Author

  Sam Nash taught science and technology for twenty years in British schools, before turning her hand to writing science fiction thrillers full time. She lives in a small market town in Leicestershire, in the U.K, and dreams of one day owning a woodland on the Cornish coast.

  Acknowledgements

  Without my family, I am nothing. They are my courage, my inspiration, my guides. I will never be able to thank them enough. My heartfelt gratitude must also go to the people who have been kind enough to donate their time and their opinions, in the creation of my fictional world. To Nick Phillips, for his unrelenting kindness, honesty and encouragement and to Rae Else and Barbara Marder Murphy, for their continuous support. Finally, many thanks to all at Carantoc Publishing, for having faith in me.