The Aurora Conspiracies- Volume One

by Sam Nash

  “Hugo.” He sat back on the faded and dirty seat and folded his arms across his chest.

  “The Danish guy you shared a student house with at Cambridge?” Mary glowered at him, her brows clenching uncomfortably. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Not far from his department at the Imperial College.” There was an essence of petulance about him. It was as if he had chosen this tense time to reassert his dominance. It failed.

  “Well he’s hardly going to be at work at this time of night, is he?” Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets, her voice shifting an octave towards the heavens. “What’s his home address?”

  “Hmm. It’ll come to me…” The gears changed, jolting the passengers in unison. The train slowed, brakes hissing in short bursts as it approached the sharp bends in the track. “It was Cornwall something.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Parth, there must be hundreds of Cornwall somethings in London. Do you at least know the district? And hurry up, we are almost at the station.” She touched the Maps app on her phone. It froze again, the carriage blocking the signal.

  “Twelve Cornwall Gardens, South Kensington.” A conceited look bloomed across his face. “I remember the number because he said it was the same as his birthday. We can catch the tube. It’ll be fun.” He reached out and picked up his ticket. The carriage jerked, crawling along towards the platform.

  “I’m not sure that would be sensible. Most lines shut at midnight and we would have run across to the circle line to wait for a train. Besides, Kensington is just across Hyde Park from here.” She looped the strap of her bag over her head and shifted to the aisle seat.

  “You want to walk across Hyde Park at twenty to twelve on a Friday night? Not a chance.” He pulled his bow tie undone, tucked it in his trouser pocket and fumbled with his top button.

  “Fine. Then you can pay for a taxi.” She stood up and leaned on the headrests as she made her way down the carriage to the nearest exit. Coach B was near to the back of the train. She pulled down the window and peeked out along the floodlit platform.

  Six men in dark suits were waiting at the gate to the concourse. The man facing the engine was holding a finger to his ear and talking. Mary had seen that before. She was in no doubt that they were agents, sent by the minister. Shit. They must be tracking Parth’s financial transactions, she thought to herself. Unclipping her smartphone from its cover and removing the SIM card, Mary snapped it in two and threw it down onto the tracks. Parth repeated the procedure on his phone and powered down, grumbling and swearing to himself in the process.

  The train came to a full stop and the door clunked, releasing the locking mechanism. Mary stood back, pulling Parth into the space between carriages and allowing other passengers to pass. As the coach emptied, Mary returned to the open door and spied a man in a black waistcoat and white shirt, stacking boxes and waste bags onto a large trolley on the platform. The train was almost devoid of travellers. Two of the agents boarded the train. Another two headed off at speed onto the concourse. The last two remained on the platform craning their necks to scan the stragglers with heavy luggage.

  Tugging at Parth’s sleeve, Mary ran through Coach B to Coach A and alighted from the final door of the train. They sneaked along the platform, using the tall wire trolley for cover. As the steward climbed the steps to Carriage B holding a bin liner, Mary seized the trolley and pushed.

  “Take your jacket and cummerbund off.” Mary instructed, holding out her hand to receive the garments. Parth did as he was told, and then pushed the trolley in her place. He steered them close to the opposite side of the platform, shielding Mary from view. With a calm that Mary found astounding, he continued to shove the steel cage past the two rubber-necking agents and through the concourse to the service area.

  Staying close to the wall, Mary heard the whirring of a small motor as the security camera repositioned above her head. She ducked behind the steel cage and gave instructions to Parth where to steer the trolley next. He obeyed. As they drew level with an accessories shop, Parth stopped and pretended to answer a call on his mobile, while Mary darted in and bought a plain peaked cap and a black cotton shawl. She slipped Parth’s dinner jacket over her shoulders and wrapped the shawl over her head and face. With his cap pulled down, Parth held Mary’s hand and abandoned the trolley, sauntering casually towards the signs to the taxi rank outside.

  The street adjacent to Paddington station was monitored by two mounted surveillance cameras. Mary tugged Parth’s hand and together they wandered down the pavement towards Bishop’s Bridge Road. “Mary, this is insane. London is packed with cameras. We can’t avoid them all.”

  “How long do you think it would take them to find us when they know the cab number?” She turned right hurrying along the roadside next to a filter lane. Mary let go of Parth’s hand, flagging down a cab as it slowed to turn into the long, covered taxi queue. The driver stopped at the kerb and shouted through the open window. “You have to take the one at the front of the queue, lady. It’s the rules.”

  Mary removed the fabric covering her face and stepped closer. With fingers folded over the edge of the glass she said, “Please can you help me? I have the most dreadful migraine and I desperately need to get home.” She crumpled her face and refrained from blinking. The cool night air stung her eyes, making the moisture build up and spill over the lashes. The cabbie crumpled. He made a head jiggling, eye-rolling gesture of defeat, then set the meter running. Mary ushered Parth onto the backseat.

  “Where to, love?” His chipper tone and fatherly appearance provoked her smile. A brief recollection of another life-saving cabbie who came to her rescue weeks before, flooded her brain. Real tears threatened to derail her. Damn these baby hormones, Mary thought to herself.

  Clearing her throat, she remembered her headache charade. With narrowed eyes and a hand held to her brow, she said, “Twelve Cornwall Gardens, South Kensington, please.” Grabbing the handrail, Mary hoisted herself up and onto the backseat, closing the door behind her. She returned the dinner jacket to its owner and unwrapped the shawl from her head. They remained silent while the driver swung the vehicle around tight corners and lurched from junction to junction, fighting the gearstick all the way.

  As they turned the final bend onto Cornwall Gardens, blue flashing lights reflected from every wall and windscreen, multiplying the omnipotent illusion of the state, and sending Mary into a spiral of fear.

  Chapter Eight

  “Can you stop here, please? We’ll walk the rest of the way.” Trembling, she rummaged in her satchel for her purse, but Parth was ready with the notes before she could get organised. He tipped the cabbie an additional five pounds, hoping that it would placate the single raised inquisitive eyebrow in the otherwise stony face. Alighting from the left side of the cab, they stood on the grassed edge of the central gardens.

  It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Several police officers dressed in combat gear, were pushing handcuffed prisoners into a transport vehicle. Mary stepped backwards out of the streetlamp glare and into the shadows. She was fifty feet closer to the raid before Parth realised she was gone. He bent low and scampered after her.

  “None of those men look like Hugo.” She whispered, keeping her sight trained on the activities before her. Parth squinted on the steel plaque mounted on the wall next to a canine officer and his Alsatian.

  “It’s number sixteen, two doors down from Hugo’s.” Parth slipped his hand down Mary’s arm and grasped her hand. They walked along the grass past the police vehicles and crossed the road between parked cars. The porch was lit above the intercom panel. Scanning through the list of names, Parth pressed and held the button marked Hugo Blom and Drew Sanders. They waited, turning their faces away from the commotion behind them, inwardly praying that he was at home.

  The panel clicked, and a muffled voice asked, “Yes? Who is it?” It clicked again.

  “Hugo…it’s me, Parth, and Mary. I know it’s late, but can we com
e up?” They waited once more for a buzzing noise and a clunk, the front door unlatching itself and edging open. Parth pushed his way through and closed the door after Mary. “First floor flat, go ahead.” Mary took the stairs slowly, the heightened anxiety affecting her sluggish limbs.

  Hugo hung his head over the banister and called down to them. “My goodness. Such a lot of capers in the gardens this evening.” He smiled at them through saddened, red eyes. He waited until Mary reached his door, bent low to kiss her cheek and squeezed her hands in his. “So lovely to see you both, but why are you visiting me so late? You haven’t anything to do with the raid down the street, have you? Makes for exciting viewing; better than the telly at any rate.” They followed him into the flat, past a hanging bicycle and skis and racks of footwear from climbing shoes to Scandinavian styled slippers. “They had such a clever set up at number sixteen. Hydroponics and daylight lamps and everything.” Hugo beckoned them into the kitchen and leaned against the worktop. “Tea or something stronger?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you. You knew they were growing weed? Did you shop them to the police?” Parth was diverted. Mary tried to look suitably interested. She could feel her tongue depressing and her jaw lock into a serious yawn but swallowed it back.

  “Why would I do that? They always gave me mate’s rates.” He filled the kettle from the tap and returned it to the power base. “One of them was such a nice fellow… wore the tightest of tight jeans.” Hugo winked at Mary. She peered Hugo’s face. He had aged since their last meeting, some eight years ago at her wedding. There were fine white hairs mingling with his golden mane, hiding behind trendy black rimmed spectacles. No, it was more than that. There was a puffiness constricting his eyes that told Mary he was concealing an upset. As fastidious as she knew him to be over personal grooming, the stubble on his chin was far longer than a fashion statement.

  “How is Drew? Is he out on the tiles tonight?” Mary looked through to the lounge. There were mugs and cereal bowls stacked high on the coffee table and small empty lager bottles lined up next to the couch on the floor. It was fortunate that Hugo had left the window open to view the police raid. The exchange of fetid air had not yet been completed. His delayed response forced Mary to spin around.

  “He’s… staying with friends.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Hugo turned away and located the last two clean mugs from the overhead cupboard. “You caught me being a bit of a slob. Been so terribly busy at work, the housework got the better of me.” Mary reached out, squeezed his arm and rested the side of her face against his shoulder. He gave her a thin, forced smile and patted her hand.

  They carried their mugs into the lounge and cleared the magazines and laundry from the settee to sit down. “Which one of you is going to explain why the Aroras are gallivanting around London in the middle of the night?” Hugo wrenched the lid from another lager bottle and guzzled a quarter of the liquid down. Parth took up the task and delivered a condensed and fragmented version of their tale, neglecting to mention the exact nature of Mary’s talents. Hugo remained silent for a long time, his expression neutral. He scratched his beard, and then rose from the armchair. “You will be needing a place to sleep tonight then. I will go and make up the futon in the office. You should be comfortable in there.”

  Hugo went to the airing cupboard in the hallway and grabbed a collection of bed linen, and then disappeared into the spare room. “Something is wrong. I didn’t expect him to go quiet on us.” Mary lowered her voice. “Did you say anything that would offend him?”

  Parth lay his jacket over the back of the armchair and unlaced his shoes. “Don’t be daft. He’s fine. A bit drunk, but fine.” He pulled his shoes off and tucked them beneath the coffee table. Mary wrinkled her nose. “Besides, I think he may be able to help us. He is one of the most respected physicists in Britain.”

  Mary sighed and shook her head. She was too tired to argue. Picking up Parth’s shoes, she tossed them into the hallway and retrieved a blanket from the cupboard. Stretching it across the sofa, she grabbed her satchel and headed for the bathroom. Finally, a moment alone. She felt grimy after the day’s exertions but knew that a shower would delay the men from reaching their beds at a reasonable hour. Instead, Mary splashed cold water on her face and cleaned her teeth with the travel brush she had tucked into her bag earlier that night. Through the thin walls, she could hear Parth explaining their situation to a puzzled Hugo in the spare room. Clutching her bag close to her chest, Mary scuttled into the lounge, switched out the lights and settled under the blanket in just her knickers and top.

  The London air rattled through the open window, chilling her forehead and transporting a mixture of diesel fumes and particulates of lead and tar to her sensitive lungs. Two sirens blared out of synch, accompanied by rapid gear changes and the screech of tyres rounding corners. She closed her eyes, calming the discordant waves jangling inside her mind. A disgruntled pigeon flapped on the window sill, disturbed by the first heavy spots of rain preceding the squall. Mary kicked off the blanket and navigated the laden coffee table to close the window. Pushing down on the frame, she received a thorough soaking before it thudded closed.

  Fully awake and rueing the day she ever met Parth, she gathered up the crockery stacks and took them into the kitchen. Filling the bowl with hot water, Mary donned the large rubber gloves and squirted detergent over the submerged mugs and plates. She was just drying the second draining board full of dishes, when Hugo entered the room, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein’s. “You could not bear the mess?” He leaned over her and took a glass.

  Mary jumped, almost dropping a cafetiere. “No, I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make myself useful, since you are kind enough to put us up.” She shoved the tea towel to the base of the jar and twisted until all the soapsuds were absorbed. There was a conspicuous tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A wavy line ending in an arrowhead with a small scientific equation beneath: .

  “I am sorry to hear that you and Parth have broken up. That seems to be all the rage these days.” He dangled the glass beneath the tap and filled it a third full.

  “You and Drew?” Mary knew the answer before she asked. He nodded disconsolately and pulled a box of painkillers from a drawer. She looked up at him with kind eyes, offering the healing salve of a friend’s ear. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know where to begin. It was a combination of things. New discoveries at work plus I had to return to Copenhagen for my father’s funeral and, well… I suppose I began to re-evaluate my beliefs.” He plonked himself onto a high stool and leaned an elbow on the breakfast bar, fiddling with the foil covering the tablets. Mary put the coffee pot and towel down and sat beside him, trying to ignore the acidic stink of second hand lager. “Drew went mad at me when he found out I had been going to church…called me a hypocrite.” His ragged breathing was teetering on uncontrolled sobs. “We had the most brutal fight. He told me he was going to propose…wanted us to be together for the rest of our days.”

  Mary walked to the countertop, tore a sheet from the kitchen roll, handed it to Hugo and slipped her arm about his shoulders. She let him bury his face in her chest and cry out his desperation, cradling him and rocking him gently as a babe. Sentences of comfort filtered through her mind and balanced on her lips ready to be spoken, but she held back. Something told her that there was a far more to their break up than Hugo’s ecclesiastical confusion.

  Presently, the hysteria ran its course and Hugo extracted his wet face from her embrace. She went to the bathroom and found a soft cotton face cloth, running it under the cold tap and squeezing out the excess. Folding it into a strip, Mary returned to her charge and pressed the flannel against his swollen skin.

  Hugo grasped her hand. “Parth is a fool.” He raised her hand to his mouth and gave it a grateful peck. You have no idea, she thought inwardly.

  “So, this rare skill that the Ministry of Defence want you for…?” He took the face cloth from her and tried to catch her eye.
Mary wandered away, picking up the tea towel and continuing her chores. “I shared my dilemma. Your turn.” He scooped up the painkillers from the counter top and threw them to the back of his tongue, washing them down with the glass of water.

  “It was something that Parth was working on for a government contract. It just got a little out of hand, that’s all. It’ll work itself out, no doubt.” She tipped the washing up bowl, emptying the soapy water down the sink.

  “Mary…” He sang her name, emphasising each syllable and imbuing it with disbelief. He dipped his chin and smirked at her through the strands of his eyebrows. “Come on. You don’t go hammering on a chap’s door at midnight unless there was no other option. Why can’t you just reason with them?”

  “I can’t tell you. They made us sign the Official Secrets Act, although it turns out they can prosecute you even if you haven’t signed it. Honestly, those officials have unlimited powers…”

  “Stop changing the subject.” Hugo interjected. Mary turned around and sighed. Returning to her stool next to his, she glanced around the room thinking about how to phrase her plight.

  “A few months ago, strange things started happening to me. Whenever I got angry or upset, lights would flicker, or in extreme cases, fuses would blow. Gradually, things got worse. I fried the circuitry in Parth’s departmental MRI machine. He was furious. And there were other…um… weird events too.” She tried to gauge Hugo’s reaction. He was frowning with concentration, but she could detect no other emotion. Choosing to be selective with facts, Mary continued. “Long and the short of it is that I am highly sensitive to electromagnetic waves and I can manipulate them to a certain degree.”

  Hugo nodded his head slowly, his bottom lip falling open. He pulled at a tuft of his beard beneath his mouth and stared at the floor. “I can see how this might prove useful to the military, disabling enemy equipment, scrambling radar channels and such. And they have categorical proof of this ability? You cannot tell them it was faked?” Mary knew what he was driving at. He needed the proof. A physicist as respected as Hugo would not simply take a girl’s word for it.