 
What people say about The Darwin Error

'It's absolutely the best book I never read.' – Author's Mother (Dec'd)

'He's written a book has he?' – Author's Wife

'A fantastic achievement and one day we might even read it.' – Mates in the Pub

'Not much in it about cars.' – Motoring Correspondent Essex Chronicle

'Real page-turners are a rare find and this novel is no exception.' – Creative Writers Circle

'A debut novel from an unknown author, who we all agree is only destined for greater anonymity.' – Maldon Ladies Book Club

'From the opening line this gripped me all the way through to the end of the first page.' – Anon

THE DARWIN ERROR

SAM QUARREL

For Michael & Dan

Also by Sam Quarrel

Project Chaos

The Lost Moons of Venus

I would like to express my gratitude to Lisa for her support and enthusiasm and everyone who has contributed to this novel's evolution.

I give special thanks to Brian Hodgkinson for his time, patience and editorial advice.

Copyright Sam Quarrel 2018

Sam Quarrel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work – The Darwin Error (formally known as The Dark Side of the Sun): This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and localities is entirely coincidental.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

England 1969

When the world learns of the miraculous events taking place within a small parish church, in an unremarkable town in England, people flock in their thousands to witness the wondrous happenings. For some it is mere curiosity, but for most, it is in desperation. They journey from far-and-wide to see a man who they are too willing to believe is endowed with God's power on earth to answer their prayers.

At the altar, the priest stands dressed, not in the traditional vestments of his calling, but in a black cloak draped over plain clothes of the common man. As the priest stretches out his arms in a sign of welcome, an expectant murmur courses through the crowd. The priest then holds his clasped hands aloft and a hush as near silent as found in a grave falls over the congregation. He then spreads his arms wide giving them the signal that the ceremony of healing is to begin. An ecstatic joy reverberates around the church as the hopeful press forward.

It is not for the priest to decide who shall be saved or who shall not, but none doubted he represented their last hope when the empty promises of others have failed them. For some, it will be instant, a miracle, perhaps suddenly being free of pain as surely as casting off a once unbearable yoke of barbs. For others, only later would they realise that the cruel fate that medical science had assured them would not now come to pass.

Yet no matter how many sightless eyes see again or how many of the dying live, the man invested with a divine gift to heal is hounded into exile by those who proclaim their godliness above all others.

The Church stands afraid of a humble man of the priestly cast, who in their eyes dares to challenge the singular authority of another humble man from so long ago.

Yet, once cast into the wilderness, only then does that humble priest understand what few ever understood. A great sadness descends upon him when Mankind's terrifying destiny is laid bare. Nothing is as he once believed it to be. The world around him is a falsehood so far beyond the comprehension of his fellow man that none can even begin to grasp the consequences of the deception.

He could bring his message to the world, but even if it is heeded, it would make no difference – the fate of Mankind was sealed long ago. And should those who question such things wonder how such an unlikely creature as Man, the feeble ape with the bad attitude, and the most wilfully destructive species the world has ever seen became pre-eminent above all others – the priest knows with absolute certainty, that it wasn't just blind chance.

'I'm so worried,' said Diane Bannister sighing with such abject misery as to make the Devil weep.

'Here we go,' husband George muttered under his breath.

Once again, all was not well in Mrs Bannister's world, and didn't he just know it. He could put up with the moping about, the long face, the quivering lip – but it was the sighing. That relentless exhalation of woe was like water-torture. Surely, it breached his human rights or the Geneva Convention or something.

'Do you have to make that noise?' he would enquire more in hope than expectation.

'I'm worried.'

'But you don't have to keep doing it.'

Inevitably, that not unreasonable suggestion was met with a withering glare as if it was inconceivable that her ritual of anguish could be complete without it.

'But I'm worried!'

And so it would go on.

In twenty-five years of marriage, George had seen Diane cling to all manner of irrational fears even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

In some ways, he could only marvel at the legion of perils that lurked in her fevered imagination. From bothering the doctor with phantom ailments, to losing a night's sleep over a misplaced remark, she was never short of a worry to torment her soul – the dire nature of which she felt obliged to share with him at any hour of the day or night.

If rational argument failed, George had a stock reply. It rarely got her to retain a sense of proportion, but it struck a blow, if only a glancing one, for reason.

'Why don't you worry about something that's actually important for a change?'

Yet to her mind, the current catastrophe would be up there with global warming and international terrorism.

Hers was also a world in which even the slightest deviation from her strict understanding of the word 'Normal' was an immediate cause for alarm, and being unable to contact their son, Kit in over two weeks constituted just such an event. During that time, not even a casual enquiry, as in, 'Is supposed to rain later?' was answered without first being prefaced by her increasingly desperate mantra: "You know it's not like him. What if something's happened?"

George made light of it; a defensive strategy he had employed over the last quarter of a century to retain his sanity.

'Will you stop fussing, the boy's fine. He's twenty-five-years old for goodness sake!'

Another week past and still there was no word.

Throughout that time, George stood firm, refusing to be drawn into his wife's wilder, doom-laden speculations.

Her first imagined scenario was that Kit was a victim of some hitherto unreported Third World, boat, plane or train disaster. A few days later amnesia was given a run out, only then for her to be gripped by the notion that Kit had been taken hostage by some dastardly terrorist faction. If she really had been thinking outside the box, George wondered why the Bermuda Triangle or abduction by aliens wasn't given greater consideration.

It was Sunday; the third week after his disappearance and Diane was close to meltdown. In her own mind, she had not only declared their son officially missing, but also, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, presumed dead.

At lunchtime George took five minutes out, from the titanic list of chores drawn-up by his spousal taskmaster, to relax and read the newspaper. That's where she ambushed him.

'I don't know why he couldn't have stayed here with us? He'd be safe here. Why did he want to go back and live in London of all places?'

George slid down behind the newspaper. There was no point in raking over that old ground again. Their son's decision required no deep soul-searching on their part. What attraction did a sleepy village in rural Suffolk hold for a young live wire like him?

She took a restorative deep breath and the clipped tones of her matronly persona resumed command.

'His number – last tried it – when?' she demanded.

'About an hour ago, at ten.'

'Mobile?'

'Yep.'

'Email?'

'First thing this morning.'

With chin wobbling, she crumpled into despair. 'What are we going to do?'

George pushed up his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. At least without his specs, he didn't have to witness that terrible quivering visage.

'Are you sure he hasn't mention anything?' George asked. 'When he called, did he say he was stressed-out – that's often a sign?'

'How many times have I told you,' she said stomping off into the kitchen. 'He didn't say anything!'

George shook his head, but made no effort to jolly her up. It was pointless when she was in the comforting embrace of righteous indignation.

'Do we know who he's working for this week?' he called out.

'It's Sunday!'

'I'll call them tomorrow. I know he was talking about changing again. That'll be his fifth job this year and its only August. I know he loves the freedom of interim contracting, but he should settle down and get a steady job.'

Diane returned holding a scrap of paper.

'This one. If he's still there,' she said flinging it at him and walking off.

George shook his head as the paper fluttered into his lap.

'I don't know why he can't stick at one place. I will have been at Simmonds Engineering, forty-one years this year. Started when I was sixteen – never considered going anywhere else.'

'Kit has obviously more get up and go than you ever had,' she sniped viciously.

He suffered the jibe. George knew he sounded like some tiresome old bore when Kit's mazy career path was under scrutiny. In his mind, he had never quite escaped the austerity of his upbringing. A career and a steady job, with a good pension at the end of it had been his simple goal when he started out. Yet for all his hot air on the subject, he admired Kit's spirit of adventure and simple philosophy – 'You only get one life – live it'

Later that day Diane said, 'It's Sunday, the roads will be clearer, you could drive up to his flat.'

She had made it sound like a casual proposal, but that's where the danger lay. George knew from experience that it was a thinly veiled directive. Although in no mood for a fight, he dug his heels in. His reluctance was based on simple common sense.

'We haven't got a key. So, if he's not there – tell me, what's the point?'

'I don't believe you. You can't just sit there and do nothing. You could ask around, his neighbours, shops . . .' She threw her head back and sniffed, 'If you cared as much as I do . . .'

George screwed his eyes shut. She was impossible sometimes, but he didn't have the energy to get into a bidding war over their respective affections for the boy.

'Okay, okay, listen,' he said softly. He was a firm believer that a bit of calculated schmoozing was the key to handling these situations. 'Someone must know where he's gone, his friends, work ? Let's have a ring-round first to see what we can come up with, eh. What do you say?'

It lacked the decisiveness that Diane felt the crisis warranted, but with much hand wringing, pacing up and down, and the inevitable sighing, she agreed.

George began to cobble together a list from one of Kit's old telephone contact books, being redundant in this modern age, he left it behind when he moved out. George was simply amazed at how many ex-girlfriends' numbers it contained. It was with no small measure of pride to discover that his son was in such demand with the fairer sex, but sadly it also made him realise that he had barely misspent his own youth at all, having sown crushingly few wild oats by comparison.

As an ambitiously libidinous young man himself, George had naively placed his faith in the sanctity of marriage and seemingly watertight contract he and Diane had made at the altar before God regarding unconditional access to his conjugal rights. He should have read the small print.

While ruing a quarter-century's dearth of debauchery, George settled down, with the phone in hand.

After two frustrating hours, he put it down having drawn a complete blank. No one had any idea where Kit was. To most, it was news that he was away. The plan had backfired disastrously. Diane frantically expressed what was dawning hard on him.

'How can nobody know where he's gone? Oh God, George, I'm so worried.'

An uncomfortable knot tightened in his stomach. Had her anxiety finally got to him or was it the alarmingly pink chicken they'd had for lunch? Only time would tell.

2

Monday mornings were manic at the engineering plant. George took five minutes out from griping to anyone who cared to listen, which was actually no one, about how ridiculously hectic his schedule was to ring the number Diane had thrown at him.

George got through to the main reception. A confident young woman confirmed Kit was still listed with an extension number.

'I believe he's away at the moment,' she added helpfully.

'So, who can I speak to, to find out when he's due back?'

'I'll put you through.'

It was a positive start, but a gut feeling told him it wouldn't be that easy. He was quickly proved right, being bounced around the office speaking to several gormless people who undoubtedly had trouble tying their own shoelaces, then to some humourless twit in the Human Resources department. He proved to be neither humane, nor resourceful. The HR jobsworth refused point-blank to discuss the matter citing the Data Protection Act, and promptly transferred George to Kit's line manager, John Stevens. His instantly frosty manner told George all he needed to know about his attitude to unreliability in the work place.

'I am sure you will appreciate, Mr Bannister, that unauthorised absence is my biggest headache as a manager,' sniffed Stevens. 'I have tried to phone and email your son several times, as has the agency, but Christopher has made no effort to return any of my calls.'

George zoned out from Stevens' rant. It was always odd when someone used Kit's real name. To George, Christopher still sounded a bit nursery bookish – Christopher Robin – etcetera. He remembered when Kit first learned to talk it had been clearly a bit optimistic to expect the youngster to get his tongue around all the tricky syllables in Christopher. So, the lad inevitably mangled it into something like 'Kit' with a vague o-er tacked on the end. Mercifully, it had stuck.

It had been at Diane's insistence that he was duly named after her father, a one Christopher Henry Makemerry.

Names and their associations are important and unfortunately that one didn't conjure anything like a positive image. Makemerry should have been indicative of a jolly and likeable fellow, but Diane's father was the most miserable, sour-faced individual George had ever had the misfortune to meet. Although Christopher senior's toes had long since curled-up by the time Kit came into this world, it made no difference. The young lad was lumbered with his grandfather's moniker. Young Christopher's subsequent minor speech impediment had been a godsend.

'. . . so, in answer to your question, Mr Bannister, no, I've got no idea when he will be back. Furthermore, unless there is a very good explanation, should he ever deign to return, I can assure you his contract will be terminated forthwith.'

Phew! Stevens had been rehearsing that speech for a while.

It wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear either. George was quietly apologetic and told a tinsy-winsy white lie on his son's behalf.

'It's not like him,' he replied, his nose growing half-an-inch.

Yet, assuredly, it was. He was forever taking off on a flight of fancy to venture around the world – like a jet powered Captain Cook.

'Yes, well, I'm sorry, Mr Bannister, but this is a big problem. People can't just come and go when they feel like it; we have a business to run. It seems for a lot of youngsters its party-night, every night nowadays; carrying on as though there's no tomorrow. I don't know what the world's coming to.'

'Yes, I can understand completely. I work in a small company too. Absenteeism can be a problem.'

'Well, you would understand then,' sniffed Stevens.

'Totally,' George said, reckoning having a stuffy old fart like Stevens as your manager would make a saint turn to drink.

Stevens having said his piece suggested casually, 'So, if you are that concerned, why don't you call the police?'

The suggestion came as a jolt. 'Police? Why?'

'Well you're obviously worried.'

'No – it's not actually me that's worried, it's my wife.'

'Well, best get her to phone then.'

'I'm not sure it's necessary at this stage.'

Having an outsider suggest that Kit's unaccountable disappearance warranted involving the authorities was a big wake-up call.

'Thanks anyway, but I'll just have a phone around.'

'Fair enough. Anyway, I'll put the word out and if he contacts anyone here, I'll make sure you're informed.'

George slowly replaced the handset. Who was he kidding? There was no one else left to ring. He had reached a dead-end. Diane will be beside herself. Perhaps it was time to call the police. Yet, on reflection, what would they do about it? Kit, a single, unattached twenty-something, who habitually spent half his life backpacking around the world, had gone missing: Mysterious or unusual? On balance, it was unlikely that the police would cancel all leave and start a nationwide manhunt.

After the conversation with Stevens, George realised that perhaps he had taken the situation too lightly, but in reality what options did he have? All that was left to him was Diane's suggestion to travel up to Kit's flat in London. Yet without a key and unaware of any friends or acquaintances in the local area, George wasn't sure what it would achieve. Never-the-less at least he could hold his head high and say he went that extra mile for his son – ninety actually, but who's counting.

3

George left his office in Ipswich at three. It was late August and the south of the country was enduring an extended period of hot and oppressively sultry weather. The hassle of driving into the clogged heart of the great metropolis was deeply unappealing at the best of times, and the cloying heat would only add to the inevitable impatience and aggression let alone having to put up with all the other frustrated motorists.

He had considered going by train, but apart from the outrageous cost of a ticket, a good part of the journey would be on the Underground. In those sweltering conditions the idea of cramming, sardine-like, into what was little more than a sauna on rails had made his mind up to tough it out on the mean streets of the capital.

After a fraught drive peppered with a catalogue of near misses, road rage and lunacy, he finally turned into Kit's road. George never understood why pedestrians, or Targets as they were called in London, were all in desperate need of counselling by the Samaritans. While those who had a smattering of metallic protection around them careered about the place with the élan of a homicidal Dodgem ride. It left him in no doubt that their transition to Wornham, a village deep in the heart of sleepy Suffolk, leaving the madness behind had been the most sensible move they had made in their entire lives.

He trickled down Kit's road. It was a rarity for that part of London – an urban street with no yellow lines or parking restrictions. Hence, its entire length was jammed nose to tail with thankful automotive commuters. He had little expectation of finding a space, but as he neared Kit's block of flats, to his considerable surprise he saw there was a sizeable gap directly outside the main entrance. George hesitated. He was right to be cautious having lived in similarly congested streets for many years, being aware that turf wars over parking spaces were a serious business. He trickled past the space to see if a prior claim had been staked-out with dustbins or traffic cones. He also looked out for a dog.

George recalled the tactic used by an old neighbour when they lived in London. He had trained his Rottweiler, naturally named Tyson, to patrol the kerb outside his house. Not surprisingly, the neighbour never had a problem with parking or religious callers, but rarely got any post either.

It was too good an opportunity to pass up, so George went for it. He slid into the space and switched off the engine. He flicked down the sun visor and checked his appearance in the small vanity mirror. The area might be a fleapit, but George still had his own standards to maintain. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his thick mop of grey hair, then took a moment to look around.

It saddened him to see the once magnificent terraces of Edwardian town houses having fallen into terminal decline since their conversion into pokey bedsits. Even the trees that lined the street had given up the ghost – their birdlime-encrusted boughs sporting a mere token of leaves. The area had been dumped on big time and so had they.

George went to open his door when a heavy BMW with blacked-out windows and an earth-tremor sound-system crawled to halt alongside within an ace of rearranging his wing mirror. Presumably, the owner of the convenient parking space had returned and wasn't best pleased to find it now occupied.

The pimpmobile sat motionless beside him like huge lurking predator for what seemed an age, its throbbing bass vibrating the car windows and George's viscera in equal measure. Finally, and only moments before blood ran from his ears, the BM's engine note rose to a burble and the car reluctantly sloped away.

The neighbourhood was like a war zone. It set his nerves on edge and sent his blood pressure rocketing. Resigned to the fact that his car will now suffer for his unintentional transgression, he didn't care as long it remained in a fit state to be driven out of there. It was places like this that company cars and locking wheel nuts were designed for.

George didn't hang around. He sprung out of the car and bounded up the four concrete steps to the street door. He stepped into the lobby and climbed the steep internal staircase to his son's flat.

The whole arrangement was rather snug. How anyone got something like a bed or a sofa up into the flat appeared to require a technique, which, short of cutting them in two, wasn't immediately obvious.

At the top of the staircase there was a small square of landing where the swinging of cats or even tiny kittens would have ended very messily. George self-consciously tapped on Kit's door, but even that gentle sound still resonated loudly in the confined space. He craned his ear to the woodwork to listen for any movement inside, but was startled by a sudden commotion in the lobby below. The street door had swung open and a hulk of a man lumbered in.

George froze. Had the BM's owner tracked him down to explain in simple terms how things worked around here? With slow deliberation the huge hunched figure began to climb the stairs, his bulk filling the confined space as neatly as a cork in a bottle. Each step was accompanied by a laborious grunt. The man clearly wasn't in any great shape fitness wise – although admittedly, if the shape he had aspired to was great big bloated bear, then he had nailed it. George was a lover not a fighter, given half-a-chance that was, and knew he'd be second best if it came to a scuffle. George cajoled his face, against its better judgement or aptitude at that moment, into a smile. He could tell even from the wrong side of it that his twisted expression was one that would have frightened small children or suggest he was in need of urgent medical treatment. Quite understandably, the man, who had a swarthy middle-eastern appearance and was built like two steroid-inflated Russian shot putters melded together, made no effort to reciprocate.

'I'll be here five minutes and then I'm gone. Okay?'

The man said nothing – his face expressionless. One hand held the handrail while seemly determined to keep the other planted in his jacket pocket out of sight.

With just three steps separating them, George, in a last desperate gambit, threw out his arm and hammered his fist on Kit's door.

'Kit, are you in? It's your father,' he said, putting his ear to the woodwork feigning to listen. Even if the Hulk didn't understand English, surely he would have realised George was an innocent out-of-towner unaware of the neighbourhood parking protocols.

The Hulk took a step onto the cramped landing. The stranger, who stood a head taller and was twice as wide, stared down with dark, deep-set eyes that were frighteningly devoid of humanity.

Then in a lightening whirl of motion, the stranger's concealed hand shot out of his pocket. A silver blur arced through the air. George cried out, throwing his hands up to protect himself cowering back against Kit's door.

Yet the 'weapon' was nothing more deadly than a door key. The man grunted something unintelligible and shuffled into his flat slamming the door behind him. George shakily wiped the sweat from his forehead and immediately sought to justify his craven cowardice. It took him barely a moment to conclude that in the right hands a Yale could be lethal.

Although any real peril had been a product of his imagination, it didn't stop adrenalin coursing through his veins in a wild overreaction. His chest tightened and his breath became short. With his heart pounding erratically, he became bathed in a cold sweat that ran down his face and back. Then the tight knot in his chest that had been plaguing him for days exploded in burning fury. He clenched his teeth to stifle a groan, but was a fraction too late. The building conspired against him and amplified his anguish into a primal wail. He sagged as his legs lost their strength and his knees knocked together uncontrollably.

In the past, he had always had a good laugh watching the runners at the end of a marathon, staggering towards the line with their wayward rubbery legs. He would have appreciated the comedy gold of his own situation, if he hadn't been in such agony.

He screwed his eyes shut and clawed at the wall for support. After a grim, timeless period, in which he clutched his chest with one hand and clung to the wall with the other, the agonising cramping subsided. Its passing left him depleted of all energy at the point of collapse. He desperately needed to get back to the relative sanctuary of his car, but as dreadful as he felt he couldn't just go without leaving some evidence of his visit; something more substantial than a few clawed marks on the wall and a pool of sweat on the floor.

Why, if Kit were around, he would have responded to a hastily written note put through his door rather than any of the modern electronic forms of communication, goodness only knows, but it was the sort of tangible deed that would earn George a few Brownie points with Diane.

His hand shook as he scribbled on the back of an envelope:

.

Kit, we can't get hold of you and your mother's worried! Call as soon as you can. Dad

He bent down and slipped it through the letterbox at the bottom of the door. His head swam as he stood up and he nearly toppled down the stairs. He needed to get out of there, and fast.

George gripped the handrail with both hands and began a slow descent, one faltering step at a time. Any error and he would have had little strength to prevent a spectacular express appearance onto the street by way of the glazed lobby door. Halfway down he nearly blacked out again and swayed precariously, clinging to the rail. He took a moment to allow his head to clear before going on.

Finally, he pushed open the street door and tottered down the concrete steps. He lunged at his car and fell inside. Out of vain curiosity, he couldn't resist looking in the mirror to see the damage.

His skin had turned a ghostly grey and his eyes were like two piss-holes in the snow. Yes, he had looked better. In fact, he reckoned for 99.99% of his life he had looked better – and if that deathly facade wasn't to be the world's last abiding memory of him, he needed some serious time-out. George hit the seat recline button and rested back.

4

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, but it was certainly some time before he even had the strength to open his eyes. He steeled himself with a deep breath and re-adjusted the seat into the upright position.

Most of the cars in the street had departed, but with the onset of dusk, it was as if a large stone had been lifted, and all the creatures of the night had crawled out. Gangs of Hoodies loitered on corners. Low-slung cars with little or no suspension, and less in the way of exhaust baffles took turns to use the road as a drag strip, while sirens wailed incessantly all around. It was all so different from their adopted home in the country where the droning regiment of Sunday afternoon lawn mowers was the highest priority for the council's war on anti-social behaviour.

He put the car in gear and made to pull away, but something held him back. A hazy disquiet, a vague feeling of something having been left undone, something he should have remembered. It was the ominous foreboding of the 'pan-on-the-stove' syndrome. He tried to dismiss it and drive away, but the feeling wouldn't let up. Without warning a terrifying vision formed in his head and with a dread only a parent can understand, he leapt out of the car. Despite his desperate tiredness, he propelled himself up the steps two at a time to Kit's door. This time there was no self-conscious tapping. He banged repeatedly on the door, calling out Kit's name until something inside snapped.

He rocked back and launched himself against the door. The door imploded angrily, sending George flailing inside stumbling into the hallway, grabbing out to stop himself crashing down. He steadied himself and then swung the door back into the remains of the shattered frame. He then prepared himself for what he might find.

To the best of his knowledge it had only ever happened the once when Kit was seven. Without warning, he collapsed unconscious with a seizure and given adrenalin for suspected anaphylactic shock. The doctors in the A&E department initially diagnosed a nut allergy, but it was never confirmed.

Their GP subsequently advised them that they needed to monitor his diet but don't get unduly worried about the boy as he was a fine strong lad.

But it was while Diane was out of earshot that the GP candidly warned George how dangerous another attack could be if not treated in time. It didn't require Diane to be apprised of this fact to get her maternal instincts fully into gear.

During the weekly shop, Diane had inspected every label and list of ingredients with a thoroughness that bordered on OCD, regularly interrogating the staff over various E-numbers and additives. Yet, perhaps, to her credit there was never a repeat incident, and slowly the event past into Kit's childhood folklore becoming lost amongst all the other countless terrifying ailments that his mother believed to have befallen him in the intervening years.

So, perhaps it had been simply luck Kit had enjoyed all this time and now it had chosen to run out.

George gripped the door handle to the living room almost numb with fear. He couldn't help sniff the air as he pushed the door open. It smelt of polish and leather. George dared breathe again. With record August temperatures, Kit would have been kicking up something wicked if he had been dead on the floor for any length of time. Entering the room only confirmed what George's nose had already told him. He quickly checked the rest of the apartment. Not only was place empty, it was clear Kit had been gone a while.

There was little time to indulge in any euphoria before the reality of his actions hit home. He had bludgeoned his way into the flat like some oafish burglar. He stood guiltily and waited with his hands clasped together almost in anticipation of the 'cuffs going on.

He listened out for shouts of protest; the gathering of an angry mob armed with pitchforks and torches, anything that might indicate justice would be meted out for his hasty misdemeanour.

But after several anxious minutes, in which he had prepared his defence and retrieved his driving licence, holding it out like a Get out of jail free card, it became apparent that there was going to be no outraged response from anyone, including the bear of a man next door.

George suspected that in neighbourhoods like this, murder could take place in broad daylight and people would walk by on the other side. Or if they did intervene, it would be to give the assailant a helping hand.

He returned to the living room and called Diane on his mobile. She was confused.

'But how did you get in?'

He received little praise for his initiative and derring-do, as she cried, 'Oh my God, didn't I tell you! You should have done something before now. He could have been lying there for weeks.'

'But he isn't,' George growled. 'And stop being so bloody melodramatic.'

Within seconds she did what she did best and began barking out orders.

'Right, you need to check his clothes, documents, post, anything that might help. Don't forget all the cupboards, everywhere, under the bed, his clothes. And phone me back the minute you've finished.'

'Of course none of that had occurred to me,' George said, making sure his weary sarcasm wasn't lost on her.

The search wouldn't take long. The flat only had four rooms. He started in the biggest, the lounge. Although it was the largest room it still barely accommodated the few sticks of furniture Kit had accumulated; a T.V., a two-seater leather sofa, a tall rack of DVDs and most importantly his computer. Not a tablet or laptop for Kit. His computer by modern standards was a retro-styled box unit the size of a small suitcase – but it packed a computing punch with tens of mega-bites of memory running intricate design software for 3-D printing and the like. It was accommodated under a desk that was shoehorned into the bay window.

For a bachelor crash-pad, the place was unexpectedly ship-shape and quite frankly, if George didn't know better, Kit seemed worryingly in touch with his feminine side. There were no unsightly messes in the kitchen, the sink was clear and all the crockery put away. The bathroom was surgically clean with the toothpaste capped and the toilet bleached. The only exception to the general orderliness was the heap of papers on the desk. It was a shambles. He had seen places tidier after a bomb had gone off.

George marshalled any likely looking correspondence into a pile and started to thumb his way through.

George hadn't noticed Kit's personalised screen saver scrolling languidly across the monitor. It was a big 3-D font in deep gold and bore the curious legend 'EL DORADO'. George stared at it, strangely captivated. If Kit had left in a hurry, there was no sign of it – so why then was the computer left on?

George resumed his mail sort with a chuckle. El Dorado, the City of Gold – London? Not where Kit lived, anyway. It was nice to see that his son was still either an aspirational Yuppie or his sense of irony was alive and well.

As George flicked through the post another terrifying thought occurred to him. 'The computer wasn't shutdown because Kit hadn't expected to be out for long?'

George reacted instantly. He was convinced that Kit's Passport was the key. When Kit travelled, it was far and wide. He saw the delights of this country as far too mundane for someone with his taste for adventure.

George searched the living room with a forensic thoroughness that only just fell short of lifting the floorboards, and then he switched his attention to the bedroom.

In the wardrobe no item of clothing had a pocket left unpicked or drawer unrifled. Although the bed had been neatly turned down, it didn't long stay that way. When George had finished, the bedroom could have featured in a Tracey Emin retrospective.

George then set about the kitchen. He tipped out the contents of the drawers. All manner of cutlery and odds and ends clattered everywhere. He then went through each cupboard in turn, and finally leaving nothing to chance, he checked inside the oven and the fridge. The former was immaculate and looked as though it had never been used and the fridge had nothing in it except a couple of cans of beer and an open milk carton. George guessed it had been there quite a while, as it contained a festering substance which wasn't normally to be seen anywhere outside a mad scientist's bubbling retort.

When he had finished, he stood with his hands on his hips exhausted; there was nowhere else the passport could be. It was pretty safe to assume wherever Kit had gone, his passport had gone with him.

He called Diane. Quickly taking command, she directed him to check Kit's bank and credit card statements for payments for airline tickets. He casually mentioned that the computer had been left on. She seized upon that information with gusto.

'Ah-ha! If he's booked via the Internet, he'll have had an acknowledgement. Check that as well. Do it now.'

'Yes, Sir,' he replied, offering a mock salute.

He put the phone down, picked up the spilt mail and began over. The last batch of bank statements had been sent over a month ago and revealed nothing beyond confirming the fact that Kit was no slouch on the salary stakes and his singular appetite for the high life. It was little wonder that the kitchen was pristine. Without Kit's monumental support, the local take-away industry would have been on its knees. The one glaring exception to his self-indulgent lifestyle was a monthly six-hundred pounds standing order to 'Julia Harper'.

Julia was an ex, and the money was for Lucy the unexpected progeny of that brief union. Not that anyone ever saw much of the child since she was born, including Kit.

Ms Harper was thoroughly modern and formidable woman and as such, in George's humble opinion, she was a right royal pain in the arse. Her attitude towards men and their role in society, especially in relation to parenting and childcare, was extreme. Fathers, according to Julia, were an irrelevance and distraction. She proudly proclaimed the child could get everything she needed and more, from her mother alone.

Needless to say there was something Julia would have been rather less than proud about – giving her daughter an incurable and ultimately fatal genetic disorder. Unknown at the time of conception, Julia was a carrier of a defective gene. It was to her that Lucy could thank for inheriting a time bomb. The poor little thing would be lucky to reach sixteen, but in all probability any true quality of life would have long since passed. The childhood variant of Huntingdon's Disease acted with a speed that ruthlessly outpaced its adult counterpart by many years.

George glanced up above Kit's fireplace, where a recent framed picture of Lucy, a smiley, gapped-toothed six-year old, took pride of place. Her untroubled innocence was even more poignant knowing what heartbreak the future held. George had always suspected that ultimately – Life's a shit – but seeing that photo somehow confirmed it. He shook his head and returned to the job in hand.

The paperwork revealed nothing obviously related to travel or distant horizons, so George turned his attention to the computer.

He pulled up the black padded leather chair and slid out the lower shelf to reveal the keyboard. On the pull-out shelf sat Kit's smart phone. George looked at it long and hard before picking it up. He eyed it in his palm like an old curiosity. Now that was strange.

Backpacking, Kit travelled light. He would happily venture off around the world in just a pair of boxers, if he could get away with it, but he never went anywhere without his phone. George recalled Kit ringing them last year. He was distraught because his phone had been stolen. During the conversation it came to light that he had left it in the glove compartment of his beloved sports car.

'They broke into the car?'

'No, they took the car as well.'

So, for Kit to go anywhere, especially abroad, without a phone, was almost unthinkable. George realised of course there was a less sinister and far simpler explanation – his son had gone in for an upgrade. The modern generation did it all the time; throwing away what they perceive as yesterday's technology as casually as a used Bic razor. Then again, George recalled it had only been about six weeks ago when Kit had rung excitedly, saying how cutting edge his latest toy was: there appeared nothing it couldn't do including making him irresistible to women and a free App installed to alleviate global poverty and Third World debt.

In Kit's absence, it seemed oddly redundant, and being unsure what to do with it, George slipped it into his jacket pocket.

He pushed his glasses up onto his head and squinted at the screen. It was filled with a solid patchwork of icons. He located Outlook Express, clicked it open and went straight to the In-box. There were two hundred and eighty-three new messages. Kit was either Mr Popular or his spam filter wasn't working.

George scrolled down to the start of the list. The first new message was received on Saturday, 12th August. The last time they had spoken to Kit had been on the evening of the eleventh.

He then noticed something that was odd. There were no emails prior to that date. Presumably they had been deleted. George knew of no one who was that meticulous in clearing out old messages, except for Government ministers caught with their pants down. And even if it were done simply for practical reasons, i.e. not clog up the hard-drive, surely there would have been some that Kit had wanted to keep?

He opened the 'Sent Items' folder. Empty. There was nothing in the 'Address Book' and even the contents of the 'Deleted' folder had been deleted.

He stared at the screen, unsure what to make of it. Was it evidence of something afoot or something as simple as a system crash? If so, there was certainly some synchronicity at work as regards to its timing. George set aside further speculation for the time being to concentrate on the task in hand. He systematically worked his way up the column of tiny golden envelopes.

Assuming he wanted Viagra to pep-up his sex life, obtain a penis extension, or was inclined to hand over all his private account details to 'His Bank' for security reasons, he was spoilt for choice, but as for anything related to travel to distant horizons, there was nothing.

Sexual enhancement and blatant fraud aside, George could only wonder at the sheer variety of the weird and wonderful subject matter that Kit regularly received. George remembered the incident well that perhaps first sparked Kit's fascination with so-called Earth Mysteries and the Paranormal.

Kit was still at primary school. One day at home time he ran up to George in tears. Apparently during a lesson on pre-historic mammals, and having an inquiring mind, Kit had asked the teacher, 'Why were there so many giant animals like tigers, bears and sloths in those days, but not now?'

The teacher replied, 'Because they ate a lot of small boys who asked too many questions.'

With a barrister's eye for a faltering witness, Kit zeroed in.

'But Lions and Tigers nowadays can eat as much as they like, but they're not as big.'

Then the teacher was then supposed to have said rather off-handedly, 'I suggest you find that out in your own time and stop ruining the lesson for the others by asking so many silly questions.'

Kit looked deep into his father's eyes and asked, 'But why was he so cross?'

George remembers his response as if it were yesterday.

'It was because he didn't know the answer,' George replied, tousling his son's hair affectionately. 'And Kit, what you need to remember is that no one likes a smart-arse.'

Yet despite George's wise words, from that moment on, he saw the change in Kit, and his son was never again afraid to challenge accepted wisdom. So it came as no surprise to find newsletters and email links to Web sites such as Crop Circle Phenomena, Earth Mysteries, Paranormal Research and Conspiracy Theories.

George waded through them all, with growing incredulity. The only thing unexplained as far as he was concerned, was how anybody took any of that nonsense seriously. One of the two most recent was from someone who had signed himself off as 'The Seeker'. The communication, a jolly appraisal of the human condition, had clearly been written with a sharp knife poised over his wrist.

Thought for the Day

Our lives are but a filling of the void before we die.

Even the lives of the greatest amongst us will become nothing as they return to the dust of the earth. Yet we chose to ignore the fact that whatever we do in this short life will end in the failure of the grave. Even with this knowledge we still inflict this same certainty upon our children as our parents did upon us.

And so it goes on. For one hundred thousand years Mankind has toiled, enslaved, forever building upon our knowledge. But what is it for? Are we happier now than when we first raised a stone as a tool? And when will we know it is done, it is complete, and we have achieved what we were intended to achieve?

The Seeker

And another from a bod called Jacob who was far more upbeat.

Kit. Check out the attachment forwarded from JO. Could be of interest! Jacob

George opened the attached file that was titled:

Extract from the Cosmology of the Native Indians of Eastern Peru. By Gerard White

George glanced briefly at the content. He hadn't the slightest inclination to read it even if paid a sizeable sum of money. It was an intimidating dense block of text, originally written some forty years ago which ran to over twenty pages and in a font size that required a jeweller's eyepiece to read. It was clear from the headings that the extracts dealt mainly with their hallucinogenically drug-inspired creation myths.

An unimpeachable source of information, mused George, which had no doubt been subject to interminable dissected by those lost souls seeking epiphany.

While staring blankly at the screen it occurred to him that Kit's absence might have been related in some way to all that nonsense. There was nothing Kit would have loved more than wandering around the standing stones at Carnac or checking the geometric alignment of the Great pyramid at Giza. He quickly composed a message and emailed both the terminally depressed 'Seeker' and Jacob.

Hello, I am Kit Bannister's father.

Kit has gone away but we don't know where.

If you have any information in this regard please

contact me urgently.

Your assistance will be appreciated.

Please forward this email to any others who

you think might be able to help.

Thanking you in advance.

George Bannister

He hit 'Send'.

As he stood up his stomach rumbled loudly in protest. It hadn't been fed since lunchtime. He leant over and looked out of the window onto the street below. His car was still there, in one piece and with all four wheels, which was a something of a surprise. Although there was no guarantee how much longer it would stay that way, he really couldn't face the ordeal of driving home. The exhaustion had returned and every muscle in his body had seized-up from his back-breaking stint in front of the computer. Even if he could have coaxed some life back into those weary limbs, there was still the question of Kit's door. He couldn't leave the flat until it was secured.

He shuffled stiffly out into the hallway to inspect the damage. It was worse than he first thought. Merely pressing the bits vaguely back into the place where they had been failed miserably, as did encouraging them with several well-timed blows from a weighty telephone directory. And as Kit didn't see fit to keep any proper tools in the flat, George was marooned.

George wedged some junk mail under the door to keep it closed. He called Diane and broke the news. She wasn't happy.

'I won't be able to sleep. You know I can't relax here on my own. You're so selfish! Why did you have to smash the place up like that?'

He was too tired to point out that he was a bit of a novice in the housebreaking game.

'I'll phone a locksmith first thing tomorrow.'

'Well, if you must stay don't just enjoy yourself in front of the T.V. make sure you search through everything again.'

'I haven't had anything to eat.'

'You can't go out with the door like that.'

'It'll only take a couple of minutes. There's a take-away on the corner.'

She gasped, appalled. 'George! Anything could happen!'

Yes of course. There were hordes of marauding burglars, squatters and all manner of undesirables roaming the streets looking to take advantage of unsecured premises in those precious few Nano-seconds it would have taken to buy some fish & chips. In such desperate circumstances, George had dare not even chance closing the bathroom door when he went for a pee.

'I'm starving.'

'Well you should have thought of that before, shouldn't you!'

'Of course, how silly of me,' George said as he hung up.

He left a message at his office not to expect him next day and then did as he was commanded. A repeated search of the flat once again bore no fruit.

He spent the remainder of a long evening stretched out on the sofa with Kit's two cans of beer for company, until at some unknown point before twelve he finally dozed off. Gone were the gentle rustic sounds that formed the usual backdrop to the night. In its place was the harsh abrasive cacophony of city life that had no respect for the small hours or the weary.

5

He eventually awoke early, with eyes like sandpaper and a body that had developed rigour mortis overnight, but how different the world appeared in daylight. There was a flawless azure sky and the sun streamed in through the window. For the first time since he had arrived there was nothing but silence to be heard. All those abominable creatures of the night had scurried back to their dark places to await nightfall once more.

A belt of caffeine soon cleared the muzziness from his head as he set about the task of thumbing through the local directory for a locksmith. The first two numbers were answered by machines, while someone, who devoted most of their limited energy to yawning, picked-up the third. With a hint of sarcasm that passed the sleepy locksmith by, George apologised for getting him out of bed and explained the problem.

The locksmith, who produced any number of excuses to decline the job, including the weakest of the lot, which was "It was a bit early", finally relented after an offer of payment in cash. First Call Locksmiths promised to be there within the hour.

George whiled away the time becoming increasingly hyper on black coffee, yet in equal measure, depressed by watching Breakfast T.V., the partaking in of either was normally unthinkable at Chez Bannister.

A good hour past before he heard footfalls reverberate from the hallway. They were followed by a confident wrap at the door. George removed the wedge of paper and swung the door open.

'Locksmith?'

'Mr Bannister, I presume?' he said, with unintentional echoes of Stanley stumbling across Livingstone. 'I'm Kevin. Is this the offending door?'

And before George could answer, the locksmith was already assessing the damage as he ran a close professional eye over the shattered frame.

'Oh dear, it could be a bit more than I quoted.'

George sighed inwardly. Why wasn't he surprised? Resigned to being fleeced, he asked, 'How long do you think it will take?'

'Well, with this much damage...' Kevin took a theatrical sharp intake of breath and ran his hand, closely followed by his nose, along the splintered woodwork. 'At least two hours.'

'At fifty pounds an hour!' George gasped as if struck with a dagger in the heart.

'Plus the call-out we agreed and there are the materials.'

'Materials?' George squirmed as Kevin mercilessly turned the knife.

'The wood, a new lock, paint and fixings,' beamed Kevin. 'You won't lose your key again in a hurry will you.'

Sleepy Kev's attitude had turned around completely with the prospect of a bumper payday. George considered explaining what had happened, but not only would he be wasting his breath, but also more importantly, his money if he detained Kevin for a moment longer than was necessary. He left Kevin to get on with it and returned to the living room in anticipation of having to endure another one-hundred and twenty minutes of legalised torture in front of the television.

Kevin was as good as his word and two hours later, after a great deal of banging, sawing and a personal discourse on the catastrophic state of the nation, he handed over a new set of keys.

'All done Mr Bannister, as good as new.'

George eyed the finished work. 'Looks okay.'

'You won't come through that again in a hurry. Give it an hour for the glue to dry and it'll be like Fort Knox. Can't take any chances round here you know. The crime rate . . .' Kevin tutted loudly. 'Not like that when I was young.'

George smiled politely and settled the bill. With a broad smile Kevin trousered the thick bundle of notes.

'Don't spend it all at once,' George called out as Kevin trotted down the stairs. Adding, once he was safely out of earshot, '...unless you're intending to pay off the National Debt.'

George returned to the living room collected his jacket and glanced at the computer. A new message had arrived. It wasn't the usual spam, but nor did it appear to be a specific response to his appeal for help.

We are aware of the issue you raised.

Check out the latest C F posted on our

CCResearch site.

Our team will be there this Saturday at 2pm.

I hope you can join us.

Old Pete

George let out a long disappointed sigh like a tyre being deflated. 'Old Pete' was just another in a long line of those who didn't know Kit wasn't around. He looked at it again and wondered what Old Pete was on about anyway. Why were the modern generation so in love with acronyms and jargon? George blamed it on texting and the Americans. Anyone who had ever seen a Hollywood thriller knew DEFCON 1 was serious stuff and MEDEVAC was a hospital cleaning appliance, but who really understood what they meant?

For a moment George considered dashing-off a reply, but he was desperate to hit the road. He noted both 'Old Pete's' and 'The Seekers' email addresses then pulled the front door shut and trotted briskly down the stairs.

At the bottom he came to regret his vigour. Breathing hard, he was appalled at his lack of fitness from so trifling a workout. He hadn't realised quite how out of shape he had become since giving up his weekly thrash at the Badminton club.

He took a moment to catch his breath. He saw the mornings post had arrived. Obviously four small envelopes were too much for the postman to lug all the way up a short flight of stairs. He gathered them up. One was Kit's telephone bill. The others were for the other flat on Kit's landing, but they were addressed to three different individuals, none of which were likely epithets for Kit's bear-like neighbour. There was one for a Mr Saunders, another for a Miss Thompson and the unlikeliest of all was for someone called Mr Sen Tau We. George wasn't inclined to the neighbourly thing. So he held onto Kit's bill and tossed the others back onto the mat, leaving them for whichever of the bear's alter-egos appeared first.

6

George swung the car onto the gravel drive beside their home. Apart from the stone chippings, which were slowly wrecking the underside of his car, their country retreat was nothing short of idyllic. Built over two hundred years ago as the gatehouse to a long since vanished country pile, the cottage stood in splendid isolation at the end of the village.

The bricks were still strong and the roof straight, but the windows were interestingly warped. So interestingly warped that the powers-that-be had them designated as of historical interest and decreed they couldn't be changed. Those drafty sashes left them at the chill mercy of every winter gale. People were impressed they owned a listed property, but none came to visit after the leaves fell.

He prised himself out of the car wanting nothing more than a proper sit down and a nice cup of tea. Yet as soon as he was through the door Diane was down the hallway like an Exocet.

'Anything?' she asked in breathless expectation.

George pushed the heavy oak door to and wrestled free of his jacket. In failing to respond instantly her attitude immediately changed.

'Well?' she scowled.

George shook his head.

'Anything from the Internet?'

'No, not really,' George replied vaguely.

He groaned inwardly realising that was not an acceptable response. His head throbbed and he was desperate to just get in and put his feet up before plunging into a full debrief, but she would grant him no such favour.

Her eyes narrowed. 'What do you mean, "Not really"?'

He was too tired to play games. 'No danger of getting my coat off first! Look, an email did arrive this morning for Kit. They obviously didn't know he wasn't around either. It was probably a network newsletter thing. Somebody called 'Old Peter'. It wasn't important. I couldn't make sense of it anyway.' He waved his arm in a tired, dismissive gesture, adding. 'You know the stuff he's into. It was just a string of jargon. C.C. research and C.F's. God knows what it was about.'

Diane visibly shrivelled in disappointment.

'You went through all the bills and bank statements as I told you?'

George screwed his eyes shut. One thing he resented above all else was being treated like an idiot. He might be one sometimes, but it was the routine presumption of mental inadequacy that really got his goat.

'I checked everything, as I told you,' he said.

Her eyes glistened. 'I'm so worried.'

He needed a drink and to put his feet up, but selflessly set that aside to offer a few words of comfort.

'You've got to let go, he's his own man now. He's clearly planned all this. If he wanted to tell us where he was going he would have.' George rubbed his hands and made toward the sitting room. 'Now, let me have a sit down. A cup of tea would be nice.'

She was unmoved. 'How can you think of yourself at a time like this?'

'Look, he's a sensible lad; he knows what he's doing.'

'How do you know?' she said as her lip trembled. 'You do hear of people who are there one minute surrounded by all their friends and family and then are never ever seen again.'

'They're called funerals.' But he left this observation unstated.

'And what if he's in some sort of trouble?' she continued.

That was the one thing he hadn't really considered. Kit had never been the sort of lad to get into trouble, even during the obligatory rebellious teenager years. Then again, he was no saint either. He drank like a fish with issues and whored like a holiday rep, but he had always been too smart really to go off the rails.

Where he lived was like Dodge City in its pomp, with the highest gun-related crime rate in the country, yet George was confident that Kit could look after himself. Five years of Marshal Arts training should have seen to that, although a bullet-proof vest might have been a better investment. And, not that George wanted to dwell upon such things, but surely they would have heard if something bad had happened to him?

George shook his head sagely. 'No, he's not in trouble,' he announced confidently. 'He's gone, because that's what he wanted to do.'

'I just want to know he's safe.'

'He'll be fine. Now where's that cup of tea?'

With the interrogation over for the time being, George escaped to relax and take the weight off his feet. He fell into the leather recliner that was parked adjacent to the huge red brick inglenook fireplace. That chair, with its soft folds, was heaven on a cold winter's night with a whisky in hand and a roaring fire roasting his toes.

With a rumble of protest, his empty stomach reminded him it had been quite a while since it was fed. Almost on cue Diane brought him a much-awaited cup of tea with a biscuit on the side. He savoured the piping hot liquid while reflecting despondently what he had achieved to-date – precisely nothing.

So far every avenue had led to a dead-end. It appeared his best, if not final hope, lay with Kit's Internet pals. It was time to contact 'Old Pete' & Co.

He downed the tea in two hits, and with the custard cream clenched between his teeth he plodded stiffly through the kitchen into what they called 'The Study'. It was not really a room at all. It was a small recess to the rear of the kitchen, possibly once a large walk-in pantry, but ideal to house a computer desk and a few shelves. He sat down to marshal his thoughts. The first draft, adopting the modern vernacular, was:

v

OMG – Do u no where KB is and what the bloody hell was that email about? LOL

T.T.F.N.

GAB 

This after much consideration got amended to:-

In response to your recent email.

Hello, I am Kit's father.

He hasn't been around for a few weeks and we are keen to contact him.

If you have any idea where he is or if he's been in touch recently, please let us know.

Any assistance will be greatly appreciated.

Regards

George Bannister.

Spell check gave it the all clear, so he hit 'Send'. In a moment it was gone, sent into cyberspace in a series of electronic noughts and ones. He stared at the screen as the awful realisation hit him that the email was his last shot. He wasn't allowed to ponder that sobering thought for long before Diane's shrill voice called out, 'George – I've been thinking.'

He knew that meant trouble.

'I really think we need to contact the police, for Kit's sake.'

George pushed up his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose.

'And for Kit's sake, I don't. They'd laugh.'

Affronted, she sniffed, 'Why?'

'What do you think they'd say? Hey, don't worry we'll get the full might of Interpol on it straight away!'

'It's not funny,' she said angrily. 'We can't just sit here and do nothing. He could be in a hospital somewhere or – or, worse.'

'Oh, I do wish you'd pack it in!' he snapped, stung by her infinite capacity to envisage doom and disaster. 'Don't you think we'd have known something like that by now?'

'George, please, please, can't you just call them, just to let them know?'

'Know what!' said George. 'There's nothing to know. There's no need to get them involved.'

He clumped back to the sitting room as noisily as possible to emphasise his irritation and flung himself in his chair.

He lost the complete afternoon to sleep until Diane's piping voice startled him out of his nap.

'What's this, George?' she called out from the kitchen.

'What's what?' he groaned, half awake, but wishing he wasn't.

'Kit's telephone bill.'

He had forgotten about it.

'Oh yeah, picked it up before I left,' he said through a yawn.

She popped her head around the door. 'It'll need to be paid.'

'It's okay, it's on direct debit.'

'It was a good idea. Why didn't you tell me earlier?'

George stared up at her groggily.

'What – about paying by direct debit?'

Diane scowled as she slid a finger along the seam.

'I worry about you, George. Dementia runs in your family.'

'And Mad Cow disease in yours,' George retorted smartly, but only in his head.

'No,' she continued, 'we can see if there are any numbers on here that we haven't rung.'

'What?' George said. 'There could be loads; we won't have a clue who we are talking to. You can't call them all?'

She didn't have to say anything. Her determined look said it all. She did a smart about turn and retraced her steps to the kitchen. Although he had been asleep for over two hours, the rest had done little to rid him of a bone-aching tiredness. It seemed he could never get enough sleep lately. He stiffly got out of the chair and dutifully followed.

She was already sat hunched-over scrutinising the bill while tapping the business end of a ballpoint pen into the pine breakfast table. It wasn't the first time she had systematically abused that fine old piece of furniture. The table was ancient and beaten up, but it was one of the few family heirlooms he had inherited from his mother.

'You're ruining the table – again,' said George.

'Look,' she said ignoring him. 'I'm putting a mark against the one's we don't know.'

'Well, try doing it on the paper instead.'

He saw twenty plus numbers already highlighted. Knowing the job of phoning them would undoubtedly fall to him he rolled his eyes.

He left her to get on with it and walked over to the computer. As the monitor brightened he saw the New Mail icon at the bottom of the screen.

'Excellent,' he said, rubbing his hands in expectation.

'Old Pete' had responded. George pulled up the chair to read the reply and almost in the same instant threw himself back into the seat and bellowed, 'What is the matter with these people! DO! – THEY! – NOT! – UNDERSTAND! – ENGLISH!'

Diane bustled over. 'What's the matter? What have they said?'

'Nothing!' he wailed. 'That's the point. Absolutely nothing. It is just a repeat of the email he sent to Kit.'

Diane leaned closer. 'Let me have a look.'

'But it's the same gobbledegook as before! Blithering idiot. They say there's more out than in.'

Diane elbowed George sharply in his ribs to shove him over and make room.

We are aware of the issue you raised.

Check out the latest C F posted on our

CCResearch site.

Our team will be there this Saturday at 2pm.

I hope you can join us.

Old Pete

'That is definitely the same as before?'

'Exactly,' George growled.

'How do you know this is for Kit?'

He resented explaining the blindingly obvious.

'Why on earth would they contact me about this?'

'Well, look at it.'

'Why would they talk about CFs and CC research on Saturday, whatever they are? It wasn't a difficult concept. All I asked was if they knew where Kit was?'

'But taking it on face value, it's an invitation to meet them.'

'And why would I want to do that? If they know something, why waste my time with this rubbish? Typical of these people. I can't believe Kit has anything to do with them.'

He turned to her for agreement. She shrugged.

'Maybe if you go on the Internet and put in CF or CC Research it might come up with something?'

George resentfully punched the two acronyms into the search engine if only to prove her wrong. In moments he got a response and leant back, smugly vindicated. There were over twenty-million matches.

'It's found something.'

George raised his eyes.

'Great. It could mean anything. Look how many there are. Waste of time,' he announced folding his arms.

'Let's just look, we might find something.'

They scrolled down the list. Almost without exception those on the first page related to medical research, mainly in the field of cancer. George opened the second page and half way down the name of a web site leapt off the screen. He leant forward.

'Um...' he said slowly, resenting the fact that she could be right. '"CC research" could be CROP-CIRCLE RESEARCH?'

George whimpered as Diane elbowed him in the ribs again. Surfing the net with his wife was like going in a cage with Conor McGregor.

'There see! Kit's into all that stuff.'

'All right, all right,' George conceded grudgingly. 'It's one of the sites that he gets news letters from.'

The home page on the site displayed an impressive geometric pictogram sculpted into the arable landscape. To George, whatever its dubious artistic merits, the accompanying sub-headings immediately destroyed its credibility.

'UFO Contacts – Sighting over Warminster'

'The Truth is here'

'Other activity in UK'

'Spiritual Thinking'

'Electro-Static Resonance'

George bypassed the more fanciful articles and went straight into 'Latest News'. The first item was posted only three days earlier. It contained a magnificently detailed crop formation, which was not unlike something that could be produced by a child's Spirograph drawing toy. According to the news-sheet it had appeared at night over the weekend in a wheat field outside Salisbury in Wiltshire.

The author offered a detailed opinion of the true significance of the interlocking multi-diameter circles and with a visionary perception not seen this side of an acid trip, he described it as further evidence regarding the 'Last Times' and the 'End of the World'.

George shook his head. From what he saw, he came to an entirely different conclusion. Two men, with a little skill, a rope and board could produce the same without the recourse to divine intervention or aliens. And beyond a certain sense of achievement, it baffled him why anyone would want to spend a night in the cold and dark to produce such a thing. If they sought accolades surely it would have been far more sensible to create their masterpiece in front of a receptive audience on a warm sunny afternoon.

'Quite amazing aren't they,' Diane said.

'Clever and intricate yes, but extra-terrestrially produced or supernatural – oh, I don't think so.'

'Well that doesn't really matter does it. That must be where this Old Peter will be on Saturday. It's not going to do any harm to meet him, is it?'

'Harm! Apart from the bloody journey. Do you know how far that is? Anyway I'm still not convinced that was intended for me. The message could have come from an automatic mailer.' With his arms tightly folded, he declared, 'Waste of time.'

'But why would he email you twice?' Diane asked. 'He must know something?'

'These mailers send these things out automatically to every email address it receives.'

Diane pondered that thought for a moment and said, 'Couldn't we get someone else to send an email, to see what happens, and then we'd know?'

It made sense, but George was pretty sure he would be proved right.

'Matt, possibly?' George glanced at the clock. 'He should still be at work. If not – I'll sack him.'

He made a quick call to the plant and as expected Matt Baxter, the head of the CAD department, was still in the office.

'Hi, George, everything okay?'

'No, fine, fine,' George said, wishing to move on quickly. 'Hey, Matt, can you do me a favour.'

'What's that? Let you beat me at golf?'

'No,' George replied, ignoring the quip. 'Can you send an email from there? I need to know if it's an auto-mailer.'

'Those singles dating sites after you again?'

George carefully ignored the banter explicitly designed to embarrass him in front of his wife, 'Could you do it now and give me a call if you get a reply?'

They went to the sitting room and waited anxiously. To Diane, the exercise represented a glimmer of hope and to George, solely the prospect of a long and undoubtedly pointless jaunt halfway across the country. It was something that he could have done without, especially the way he had been feeling lately.

Half an hour later the phone rang. It was Matt.

'I'm just leaving. No reply. I think you're in the clear. If it is an automatic responder, I'd have expected to get something by now.'

Unfortunately, it appeared that against all historical precedent, Diane was actually right and it really was an invitation to motor two-hundred miles to meet with some oddball called 'Old Pete'.

He wondered if he was physically up to the task. In the last few weeks it was as though someone had slipped some Kryptonite in his pocket. To say he lacked energy was an understatement; he had seen snails with more zip. But if the message was genuine and they had useful information, then for his son's sake, and their peace of mind, he had to go. Kit had better appreciate the trouble George was going to. He could only hope that his son would repay the favour in years to come when George dribbled a lot and couldn't remember his own name.

7

The next few days dragged like two weeks at an insurance seminar. At the office, the contents of his In-Box had grown exponentially while the 'Send' faced near redundancy. George found putting his mind to productive work a near impossibility.

Old Pete's email had been the solitary response to his appeal for help. As Saturday loomed, no one else had emerged from cyber space to save him from what he was increasingly convinced was a fool's errand.

Although George had emailed Old Pete several times for clarification, the only communication he had received had been another barely disguised suicide note from 'The Seeker'.

George had viewed the latest offering with not only some amusement, but also a certain degree of sadness. Why did those people believe that ancient manuscripts contained greater truths than those revealed during the Age of Reason or the discoveries of modern science? He always believed that if those long dead Sages were so bloody clever why was everything they penned rapped up in so much impenetrable mumbo-jumbo?

Thought for the Day

Does it not say in the Books of Enoch that God will have vengeance on Mankind and the Watchers, the fallen angels sentenced to be bound for seventy generations until the Day of Judgement? The Watchers who took the women of men and impregnated them to bear gigantic children. The Watchers who taught the secrets of making weapons of war and ornaments, sorcery, spells and the cutting of medicinal roots. What has become of them? Do they still dwell amongst us?

The Seeker

George reckoned 'The Seeker' needed to get out a bit more.

What really rankled most was that the proposed meeting, apart from the time taken out of the weekend, had all the necessary ingredients for a farce. Bizarre people, enigmatic messages and a surreal venue halfway across the country, all of which under normal circumstances George would have avoided like an appointment to have his teeth drilled.

After breakfast on Saturday he hovered restlessly, going back and forth to the computer in the desperate hope of receiving a response to any of the three emails he had sent Old Pete earlier that morning. He yearned for the tiniest crumb of an excuse that would relieve him of his undertaking. But at ten o'clock, with the same selfless fortitude epitomised by Captain Oates at the South Pole, he announced that he was going out and he might be some time.

It was the first of September and a glorious late summer's day. With the morning Sun warm on his back and having sucked in several deep lungfulls of the invigorating fresh air, he fired-up the car and readied himself for the utterly pointless task ahead.

8

Three hours later he entered Salisbury's city limits.

It was an ancient, but still very much a working county town made famous by the cathedral whose spire dominated the countryside for miles around.

The place was also larger than George had judged from its size on the map. It was a mixture of the old and the new that sat along side each other, but not necessarily in harmony.

George joined the shuffling line of traffic on the sensibly introduced, but inadequate ring road that ran around the city. His journey thus far hadn't required much thought, but that had now all changed. Being vociferously campaigner against the use of a modern Sat Nav in favour of keeping your wits about you combined with an old fashioned good sense of direction, he had the awkward task of discovering the way to Dupeham.

His initial reaction when he saw the crop-circle had appeared in a place called 'Dupeham' was that it was all an elaborate hoax. Yet much to his surprise it was a real; a small speck on the map – a hamlet located on a back road, two miles outside Salisbury.

The congestion, although frustrating, worked in George's favour, giving him time to study the road signs; but obviously not closely enough. It didn't prevent two torturous circumnavigations of the city, before he finally struck out in the right direction.

Only once he had driven out of the town did he appreciate the enormity of the task before him. The tight lanes were hemmed in by tall crop-laden fields as far as the eye could see. Undoubtedly, he would have stumbled upon the hamlet at some point, but without the assistance of a helicopter, his chances of locating the correct field and or 'Old Pete' in it, appeared remote. Thankfully those concerns were soon allayed.

George followed the wayside signpost that directed him along a single-track lane toward Dupeham and he spotted a clumsily painted board at the side of the road.

'Official Crop-Circle viewpoint. Entry £1'

And there, to George's amusement, was someone in attendance, presumably the owner of the field in question. The ruddy faced farmer wore a battered floppy hat and was sat beside a picnic table covered with a Gingham cloth.

George pulled onto the verge at the head of half-a-dozen parked cars. He stepped out and was immediately hailed by the farmer as a long-lost friend.

'Good afternoon, good afternoon, how are you? Splendid weather,' he said cheerily and then immediately seized upon the chance to part another gullible curiosity seeker from their money. 'Is it the circle you're here to see?'

'Yes, well of sorts,' George said, eyeing the farmer warily as he approached the stand. He considered whether it was sensible to inquire about 'Old Pete'. On balance, he thought not.

George dipped his hand in his pocket and produced a pound coin. The farmer handed him a yellow ticket, number eighty-seven, torn from a book normally used for raffles.

'Do I need to keep this?' George asked, adding wryly. 'Is there a prize draw later, or something?'

The farmer winked. 'Need to make up for the damage caused by those Aliens, you know.'

George reckoned the only thing the farmer was planting that day was his tongue firmly in his cheek. The farmer, having received his donation toward the 'ET Vandal Fund', slipped off his hat and scratched his head. 'If you don't mind me sayin' you're not the usual type we got in 'ere over the last week.'

George, in his shirt, tie and knife-edge crease trousers, took it as a small compliment against what he imagined to be the ragbag army of the unwashed traipsing around the field at that moment. It was his cue to ask about 'Old Pete'.

'Actually, I'm looking for someone.'

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted it.

The farmer stroked his chin. His sole remit was to extract cash from the punters, not to be a rural extension of the Missing Persons Bureau.

'In the village?' the farmer asked.

George thought the description of no more than five houses as a village was gilding the lily, but he let it pass.

'No. I think he will be in there somewhere,' he said pointing toward the field.

The farmer smiled. 'Had quite a few in today. All those 'New-Age' people, 'appy lot ain't they? Well, you've paid your pound, go and 'ave a look round.'

George stood his ground self-consciously. He hadn't given much thought to actually locating Old Pete once he was there. He found it hard to believe there were so many people interested in this sort of thing. Although 'Old Pete' was probably no more than a shout away, in reality they were still as far apart as ever.

George took a deep breath. 'I'm looking for someone called Old Pete.'

He caught the bemused look on the farmer's face.

'Roight,' he replied, in a wickedly slow Wiltshire drawl. 'I don't know 'ow to help you. You see, I don't take their names as they go in, just their money.'

They both laughed, but for different reasons. To the farmer it added to the wealth of material to regale his pals with later on in the pub, and as for George, he just felt stupid. What on earth was he doing there? If it wasn't for Old Pete's cryptic email and the tantalising possibility of news about Kit he would have turned around and gone home that instant.

With a look of grim resignation, he reluctantly trudged off toward the narrow entrance to the field. He followed the path that had been trodden into the wheat by the more enthusiastic before him.

'This way?' George called back.

'Just follow your nose and keep to the path. Can't miss it.'

It was time to abandon his natural reserve if he was to find 'Old Pete'. But who was he to look for? Was it sexist to presume being called 'Old Pete' eliminated the female of the species? Someone obviously old? Again, not necessarily either as it could be an affectionate term as in 'Good Ol' Boy'. Basically, it could be anyone. Worse still, George was an hour later than he had planned thanks to the Salisbury highways department and their abysmal signage. There was a serious possibility that 'Old Pete' had already been and gone, rendering the whole escapade pointless. George blew out his cheeks. This character wasn't going to find him, so he might just as well get on with it.

George cautiously edged forward into the field. A hundred yards ahead, he saw a group of people milling around.

George checked the time to see just how late he was. In the fleeting moment it took to glance down at his watch, he nearly bumped into an odd-looking character that had waddled back along the path towards him. The figure walked slightly hunched with clumsy turned-out feet and had skin as pale as chalk. Yet the most striking feature was his hair: Two bright red gravity defying tufts that extended at least four inches upwards from his head, cleanly separated by a swathe of shiny bald pate.

George couldn't help smiling at aesthetically challenged individual. 'Sorry, I'm looking for the Crop-Circle.'

'Oh right, yes,' replied the understandably bashful stranger, whose genes had conspired so disastrously against him. He kept his head bowed and with his voice barely rising above a reedy whisper, he motioned toward the gaggle of heads in the distance. 'It's there.'

George seized the opportunity.

'Look, I'm actually looking for someone. Old Pete, Old Peter?'

The stranger looked up, startled. 'Oh yes, right. And you are?'

This struck George as oddly formal, almost as if he had arrived for a job interview.

'George Bannister. I'm Kit Bannister's father.'

'Okay, okay, right, yes,' the figure responded slowly, as if he were buying time. He reluctantly raised his head with his eyes darting furtively. 'This might sound a bit – well, erm – I'm sorry. Have you got any ID?'

George laughed. 'What?'

The stranger's weak eyes blinked rapidly. Still puzzled, George pulled out his wallet and produced a photo-ID driving license. The stranger scrutinized it carefully then handed it back looking as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

'Erm, this way.'

The stranger spun round and waddled back up the narrow track, snatching the odd nervous glance over his shoulder to ensure George was still in tow.

Finally they arrived in a wide circular area of flattened wheat about the size of a circus ring. George counted at least ten people who were indulging in some sort of activity within its perimeter. Two were freely snapping away with cameras, leaving no stem, fallen or otherwise, photographed. Others attended to various pieces of electronic equipment one of which included a metal detector-type devise that was attached to something that started out in life as a wire coat-hanger.

Yet seemingly oblivious to all the industry, a young woman, about Kit's age, was at its centre meditating serenely. Beneath her explosion of black corkscrew hair, she sat motionless in the lotus position periodically ringing the tiny cymbals on her fingers.

'Tony, this is George,' the stranger said, calling over to one of the others, 'Kit's father.'

Tony approached with a hand extended in welcome. The round glasses, narrow face and prominent nose gave him a decidedly ferrety appearance, but there was warmth in his peg-toothed smile.

'Hi, Mr Bannister, I see you found Peter.'

George turned sharply.

'You're 'Old Pete'?'

Pete's only acknowledgement was to burrow his head deeper into his chest than George thought was humanly possible.

'Old' seemed a bit harsh considering this Peter could easily be George's junior by ten years. But then again, the young thought anyone over the age of forty was ancient.

'I'm glad to have found you, with so many people and everything,' George said awkwardly. 'I received the email, I wasn't sure . . .'

Old Pete wouldn't be drawn into a conversation.

Tony interjected, his face twitching enthusiastically.

'Glad you made it. There was some debate. We thought the message might be too cryptic.'

George shrugged nonchalantly. 'Not at all. Pretty obvious really.'

'We've had some great readings from this formation. Have you seen a crop circle at first hand, before?'

'Eh, no . . . I haven't.' George's response was measured and a little confused. He really hoped they didn't think he had come all that way because he might actually be interested the destruction wrought upon a perfectly good field of wheat.

'This is one of the latest technically superior formations. Take a look at these.' Tony produced a wad of photographs from his back pocket and thrust them into George's hand. George flicked through mechanically, taking as little interest as you would a stranger's holiday snaps.

'We got a guy with in a micro-light to take them,' Tony said winking at him furiously.

George handed them back without comment, unsure whether it was Tony's idea of a leg-pull or he suffered from a disastrous facial tic when excited.

'What do you think?'

'Interesting,' George replied, his tone indicating they were anything but.

Old Pete had slipped away to the far side of the circle and in deep conversation with a young man with a retro-style ponytail swinging a short pendulum back and forth at ground level.

'George, look at this.' Tony went down on his haunches and invited George to step closer.

'Some people claim these formations are made by wind eddies. But take a look at the direction of the swirl pattern.'

George felt duly obliged to examine the decimated crop. It had indeed been flattened in a distinctive radial pattern.

'You see, they're lying clockwise,' announced Tony with a wink. George remained silent, determined to be unimpressed. Tony continued with a knowing look. 'It can't be wind or eddies or any meteorological phenomena,' he said with a flourish and a wink, to indicate that a momentous proclamation was at hand. 'Weather systems with strong winds – eddies and tornadoes – in the northern hemi-sphere always rotate Anti-clockwise due to the rotation of the Earth. It would be impossible for wind phenomena to create this circle. Nor any of those secondary features interlocking with the main circle, they all lie with the same clock-wise pattern.'

George was losing his patience. 'It's aliens then? That's what the farmer reckons.'

Tony either hadn't noticed George's sarcasm or if he had, didn't rise to the bait. 'I think the farmer says what he thinks is good for business.'

'Presumably you've ruled out a couple of men with rope and scaffolding boards too?'

If George expected the bubble of Tony's bizarre world to burst having introduced a perfectly rational explanation, he was wrong. Tony's smile remained as fixed as it could be, while being pulled about by his delinquent facial muscles. It was almost as if it were George who had fallen into an ambush for the uninitiated.

'No, we think it is Gaea giving us a sign,' Tony said casually.

'Gaea?'

Tony walked off and called George over.

'Let me show you something.'

Tony made for a spur leading off the main feature. George shook his head, but duly followed after him.

He found Tony crouched on one knee gently cradling the toppled stalks of wheat in his lap as if comforting the dying on a battlefield.

'Look, we're here,' Tony pointed to the photograph. 'This forms part of another segmented circle interlocking onto the main feature. The reason I brought you here is that these haven't been trodden down. Now look at these stems. They have been laid down in the same clockwise spiral,' He carefully lifted a few of the stems toward George. 'But none of the stems are kinked. They are curved into an arc, like a plumber putting a neat bend into a pipe. It is impossible to do that by mechanical means. Here, try it.'

'No that's fine. I'm sure you're onto something. Keep at it,' George said, hoping the intent to patronise wasn't missed. He glanced at his watch. 'Time's getting on. I've assumed you asked me here because Old Pete knows something about Kit's whereabouts, yes?'

Tony's twitching stopped instantly. 'Ah, Peter. Not the most talkative of people. Shy around strangers.'

'And?' encouraged George, who wasn't interested in Old Pete's personal problems.

'No, I'm sorry, we do need to talk. You're probably not into all this stuff, are you?' said Tony.

Miracle of miracles, George nearly fell to his knees and rejoiced.

'Look,' said Tony, 'all the other guys have finished here and they've gone over to the pub. Why don't you come along and we'll have a chat?'

A chat!!! George was ready to explode. He hadn't driven three hours just for a natter with some undoubtedly sincere, but seriously deluded people, but there seemed little option. Everyone including, Old Pete, had left and Tony was already heading off in the same direction. With a sigh, George plodded after him.

9

Across the way, the Green Man was an old rustic pub in the finest tradition, half timbered and outwardly welcoming, but once inside, it was as if they had stepped deep into the bowels of the earth. With its tiny windows and smoke blackened walls, it was either conceived as a Hobbit theme pub or had been in a fire.

The landlord, a man of few words and fewer social graces, grudgingly served them.

'Yeah,' he said, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

'Two pints of that,' Tony said, pointing to the precariously chocked keg on the bar. Then he asked to his cost. 'Is that a Real Ale?'

'Don't do fake ones,' said the landlord, thumping a frothy pint on the bar.

Tony's facial tic went into overdrive as he offered George the brimming glass. George grabbed it quickly should Tony's involuntary spasms extend below his neck. While Tony paid for the drinks, and unintentionally winked at the landlord in a way that could have been easily misconstrued in those parts, George checked out the bar. It was noticeably empty with just a few locals gathered at the far end, including the entrepreneurial farmer. George accidentally caught his eye.

'You found 'im then,' the farmer called over, raising his glass.

The farmer then huddled his buddies together. A moment later there were peels of laughter and all eyes fell upon George. George smiled weakly and half raised his glass in return, but in more of an 'up yours' gesture.

'This is George,' Tony announced to the others.

'Hi,' George said, acknowledging each in turn.

'You've met Peter,' Tony said turning to 'Old Pete'. So skilled was Old Pete's ability to burrow his head into his chest that from the rear he appeared not to have one. George felt sorry for him. He must have spent the vast majority of his life with the sole view of the world being his feet.

Tony pointed at the slim serious faced figure sat opposite.

'Jed. He's an American and an accountant in real life, would you believe!' A guffaw went around the table. Seemingly one or both of those pieces of information was hilarious to everyone except Jed, who sat unamused, admirably upholding the profession's dour reputation.

'And Jeff. He's an architect. You may have seen him with the tape.'

Tony then turned toward the girl, with the wild gipsy hair, who had been meditating in the circle earlier. 'And, this is Janis.'

The introductions over with, he and George pulled up seats to sit down. The lively conversation around the table before their arrival was instantly replaced by an awkward silence. It was as if a grown-up had intruded upon a gang of furtive teenagers.

'So . . .' Tony said with a forced joviality, clapping his hands wildly. Whether it was intended or not, it was hard to tell. 'It's been a good day. Well worth the journey. And what's more this looks great.'

And as if to prove a point he took a large swig of beer and nearly choked on it. After several loud restorative slaps on the back by Jed, silence descended once more. When Tony could once again breathe unaided, he tried once again to crank up the conversation.

'The geometric precision on the formation was phenomenal, don't you think?'

For a scary moment George thought the question was directed at him, but he seized the chance to challenge Old Pete.

'Peter,' George said firmly, leaning forward across the table directly addressing his new kipper-footed friend directly as much as was possible when presented with only with the top of his head. 'By suggesting I came here today I assume you know something of Kit's whereabouts?'

A faint gasp went around the table as Old Pete further attempted to emulate a terrified turtle. George looked up and saw almost horror on the other's faces. For a dreadful moment he thought he had committed a huge social gaff by haranguing someone on some serious mental disability spectrum or other. Embarrassed, George coughed self-consciously and turned quickly to Tony.

'That's right isn't it?'

Tony squirmed on his seat as though afflicted by a terrible itch on his behind.

'Um – the thing is, George – we don't really know that much, but Kit warned us that our forums and emails were being hacked into.'

George was a self-declared Luddite, but surely good anti-virus software should have prevented that.

'And,' continued Tony hesitantly, 'he was sure our phones were being tapped as well.'

'Your phones?' Initially the notion brought a wicked smile to George's face. No one else thought it was funny.

George's head swam as questions flooded into his head. 'And Kit's?'

They nodded in unison.

'Especially Kit's,' said Tony.

'What's going on?' demanded George.

'We don't know,' Tony said with a twitchy wink. 'That's why we were a bit edgy when you arrived.'

'And we couldn't warn you when you emailed us,' Janis said quietly.

'So, do you know where Kit is?' None of them could look him in the eye. George needed answers. 'When was the last time any of you have seen or heard from him?'

'Well, the thing is, George . . .' said Tony. 'We've never actually met Kit face to face. None of us.'

It took a second or two for Tony's announcement to sink in before George let out a deep groan. At that moment he didn't know what he should have felt. Disappointed, angry, even mildly amused; each had a good case for expression. George's reaction rushed Tony into a hasty explanation.

'We've not actually met him, but all of us at one time or another have been in contact via the internet on social media. His interests are the same as ours and although we have never really met, I think we would call ourselves friends.'

'Cyber pals!' George groaned. 'I'm sure he'd appreciate the sentiment, if we ever find him.'

'Because of what we're into, I assume that's why he warned us,' Tony added.

George massaged the bridge of his nose to mask his annoyance. 'Tell me, who would be interested eves-dropping on your chit-chat about this sort of stuff.'

He scowled around the table challenging them to answer. George then got to his feet scraping the chair noisily backward on the wooden floor.

'All I can ask,' he said wearily, 'if you hear from Kit, just please let me know, okay?'

'We're sorry,' Tony said fidgeting in his seat sheepishly. 'You probably think you've had a wasted journey.'

'Wasted journey!' George said waving his arms animatedly as if practising semaphore. 'What could possibly make you think that? No, I'm very fond of strolling about farmer's fields in the middle of nowhere.'

'Oh,' said Jed, a brawny, helium-voiced six-footer, 'that's not so bad then.'

Jed had either confirmed that some Americans had no sense of irony or he was poking fun. The hurt look that resulted from George's withering glare suggested the former.

'Okay, I'd better get going.'

Tony and Janis exchanged urgent glances for one of them to speak out. It fell to Tony.

'There was another reason we asked you to come.' Tony toyed nervously with a beer mat just once too often, before it sailed out of his hand and landed in a distant corner. 'But now having met you, it's probably something you wouldn't have any time for . . .'

He paused to gauge George's reaction. The best that could be said was that George was still there.

Tony took a deep breath. 'Look this may sound a little strange, but you wouldn't have any personal items that belong to Kit, with you? Anything might do.' He cleared his throat apologetically. 'Perhaps we should have mentioned it before you came.'

George frowned. 'Something of Kit's? I don't understand.'

'If you did, we might be able to help.'

'Help?' George said, standing with his arms tightly folded. 'I'm sorry, I really have no idea what you are talking about.'

'No, that's okay,' Tony mumbled bowing his head.

Jed stepped in.

'It's Janis, you see, she has second sight. She's a white witch. With something personal of Kit's she may be able to obtain a reading to see if he's okay.'

'It's a bit like clairvoyance,' Jeff added helpfully.

George was sure that his alarm clock was going to wake him up at any moment.

'A witch?' he said slowly. He observed the apparently well-educated flower of youth arrayed before him with something close to despair. He made great play of looking at his watch.

'I can't say I'm not disappointed and I have a long journey.'

But before he could go Tony found the courage to call him back.

'Look, we're sorry to really drag you down here,' he said quickly. 'It was done with the best of intentions.' Tony offered a brave twitchy smile and pushed George's beer across the table toward him. 'Why don't you at least finish your beer?'

Was it the childlike appeal on their faces that made George hesitate, or was it was the irresistible lure of his unfinished pint? After all, it would have been criminal to waste such a fine local brew.

'Yes, well perhaps.' George pulled up the chair and sat back down, drawing the glass toward him. He stared wistfully into the bottom of the glass or as much as the swirling cloud of sediment would allow. 'As you may have gathered, I am bit of a sceptic.'

'And you're quite right to be,' said Tony. 'You won't find anyone literally more down to earth than me. I work as an undertaker during the week.'

Everyone laughed. Another occupation they obviously found innately amusing. George looked up at Tony's beaming, but unruly face, wondering how on earth he held down a job like that. Surely, as they laid the dear departed to rest, there was a danger that he would destroy the solemnity of the occasion by winking suggestively at the grieving widow.

As the mirth subsided Janis leant forward, and with her slim porcelain white fingers, she pointed to the ring on George's hand.

'May I?'

He slipped the gold signet ring off his finger and placed it on the table. Immediately her fingers closed over it and she drew it toward her chest. She slumped forward motionless, as if instantly asleep, then moments later her head rose slowly and began to roll around like the dying throws of a spinning top. Before George could object, Tony held up his hand.

'She's in a trance,' he whispered excitedly. 'You mustn't wake her.'

'Will it take long?' George asked with noticeably less enthusiasm and pointing to his watch.

Before Tony could reply, Janis began to speak. Her voice sounded distant and of another world.

'You are a good man, George. You are a kind and caring man, but I am told, too inclined toward earthly matters – you must consider your spirit, your soul.'

George rolled his eyes. Yet again, it was more unsolicited lifestyle-advice he could do without.

Janis' head snapped back as her arms shot dramatically onto the table. 'George, there is something – I must tell you. I see a shadow ahead – a warning. It lies hidden beyond a veil. You must be careful. Do not let your fate be in other's hands.'

All eyes were on George now. He gulped down a mouthful of beer self-consciously. Even hardened sceptics preferred to hear nothing less than good news.

Janis closed her eyes and held the ring tightly to her cheek.

'This ring is old. It's been in your family a long time. An heirloom. I see an old man, I think he's you father. This was given to you at his passing. A tradition – it being passed from generation to generation to the first born son.'

George thrust out his jaw defiantly. That had been a lucky hit that's all. It was always possible that Kit had mentioned it; their family tradition was no secret. Short of seeing her on a broom in close formation with the Red Arrows, George would remain unimpressed.

'I can see your father here, George. I hear a name . . . Ian.'

George sat unmoved. Another lucky hit. A reasonable guess knowing the Bannister surname had Scottish origins and Ian's preponderance as a given name north of the border.

'He is sad that you hold guilt over his death. He says you couldn't have helped any more than you did with what he calls "His little problem". He is raising a glass and says "Cheers".'

A trapdoor opened in George's stomach. No one, but no one outside his side of family would have known that his father had been an alcoholic. Even the ever-judgemental Diane had not known the full details and it certainly had never been discussed with Kit. George had always considered his father was simply a man ahead of his time, a trailblazer for the now accepted modern binge drinking culture. His discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed.

'Sorry. Sometimes Janis just picks up on things and says whatever has been communicated to her,' said Tony.

Janis slumped back into the chair and she began to stir like a waking sleeper. Her eyelids flickered open and she smiled, as she placed the ring on the table.

Before he slipped it back onto his finger, George took a moment to study the ring. He compared the beaten-up outside with its myriad of small dents and scratches accumulated by several generations of Bannisters, with the mirror smooth finish inside; its only discernible feature being a worn hallmark.

How had she done that? George shook his head. Surely, it had been nothing but a keen eye and guesswork. He had seen stage magicians perform very much the same trick without recourse to ghosts and ghoulies.

He was still puzzling it over when Tony asked, 'Erm . . . if you've got something of Kit's, perhaps Janis . . .'

'I don't think I have.'

He felt various pockets about his person and in the jacket's hip pocket he felt a small, but solid lump. He reached inside and laid the palm-sized object on the table. It was Kit's phone. Admittedly, he hadn't worn that suit since the trip to Kit's flat, but to have totally forgotten about it was one hell of a senior moment. He spun the phone across the table in self-disgust.

'This any good? It's Kit's.'

'A more personal object will have greater Auric Energy,'

'What? Auric . . .' George didn't bother to pursue it. It would have only been nonsense anyway.

Tony turned to Janis, who nodded. 'But we'll try.'

She took it in her hand and repeated the previous incantation. As her head turned, falling just short of a full three-sixty Exorcist-style rotation, she announced in an ethereal wail.

'Kit is still on this material plane.'

'He's alive,' Tony said in a reverential whisper.

'I'm glad to hear it,' George said raising an eyebrow.

By then George was more concerned with retrieving the real information from the phone, such as voice messages and call records, rather than listening to her dubious pronouncements.

'He is unharmed – he is not seeking to be found – he's waiting – for what, he keeps hidden – but it is for good – yet, I sense he is afraid . . .' Janis slumped forward with a dramatic sigh, as if depleted of all energy. She reluctantly placed the phone back on the table and said quietly, 'I can tell you no more.'

'No, that's very good,' Tony said stroking her arm reassuringly. He turned to George. 'It seems he's okay.'

'I'll rest easy now.'

George leant over to retrieve the phone. His fingers accidentally brushed against Janis' out stretched hand. Her fingers snapped back as if she had had an electric shock. He was about to explain in dry weather he was terrible for accumulating static when she grabbed his hand and clutched it to her bosom.

'George.' There was a tremor of excitement in her voice. 'I sense there is something within you that lies dormant.'

George gulped and ran a finger around his collar that had shrunk two sizes. He knew things wouldn't lie dormant for long if his hand stayed where it was. He nearly yelped as she squeezed it harder as though torturing it to extract more information.

'It's a force waiting to emerge . . . waiting for the time, for the awakening. Yet you have no knowledge of it.'

She released her grip. There was a moment of hesitation, but out of decency, George reluctantly withdrew his hand. All eyes were on him including Old Pete, who with his weak and watery eyes, stared at him almost in awe.

'These finished wiv'?' growled voice from behind.

The landlord didn't wait for an answer as he muscled between them to collect the glasses. It was George's cue to leave.

'I need to go. They said its heavy rain tonight.' He was in half a mind to shake their hands, but he thought better of it. These tree-huggers never washed. 'If you hear anything from Kit, please let me know.'

The entrepreneurial farmer raised his glass again as George headed toward the door. George smiled politely and stepped into the lobby offering a small prayer for a terrible blight to be visited upon his fields. As the door swung shut, George caught a tiny snatch of conversation that include the words '. . . El Dorado . . .'

George was in half a mind to go back and enquire whether it had been intended for his ears as a cryptic reference to Kit's disappearance or because they had just fallen into discussion about a crappy old BBC soap opera set in Spain. But there was only so much nonsense a sane man could take in one day.

10

It was just after six as George stepped out of the pub. He had stayed longer than he had intended. A glance at the sky confirmed that, for once, the weather forecasters had got it right. In the time it took to cross the road and reach his car, a steady drizzle had begun to fall.

As twilight turned to darkness, the rain became relentless. Even with wipers batting back and forth at full tilt, he still drove mainly by guesswork. Constantly dazzled by the lights of the endless snake of on-coming traffic, he leant perilously forward in his seat peering into the dark to distinguish the dark ribbon of road from the rest of the landscape. The concentration was completely draining. He desperately needed a break.

As George pulled into the service station, he was surprised how busy the car park was for gone nine on a Sunday evening. He wondered if they had turned it into a vast holding area for the terminally lost and aimless.

He made his way through the jostling throng of fellow travellers and into the main building, heading straight for the cafeteria. He virtually had the place to himself.

He bought a coffee and something described as Roquefort et Confiture au Pan. He tucked ravenously into the French delicacy, noting that it had more than a passing resemblance to a good old-fashioned cheese and pickle sandwich. George dismissed such a ridiculous notion, especially as the top-notch sarnie cost over six quid.

With his hunger sated, without a cautionary sip, he took a hearty mouthful of coffee to wash it down. Putting a blowtorch in his mouth would have been marginally less painful. With eyes watering and fanning his blistering tongue, he retrieved Kit's phone from his pocket. He hit the operate button and was instantly greeted by a trio of beeps followed by a flashing low battery warning as it powered-up.

He had to act quickly before it died completely. He found Call Records on the menu and clicked on Calls Made. There was just one, to a mobile number. It had been made the day before they assumed Kit left. George jotted it down.

Next he tried Missed Calls. There were loads. As he scrolled down, one number, another mobile, featured enough times to warrant being designated, 'Stalker'. Calls Received had two numbers. He jotted those down as well. Although the device did its best to finish the battery off with incessant bleeping and flashing, undeterred, George found the voice mail button. A trill tone was followed by, 'You have . . . nine new messages. No saved messages. First message received Monday the 14th of August at 9.43am.'

George repositioned the phone on his ear. He was sure he had been going a bit deaf lately. Diane had been telling him that for years, but selective deafness had always been a shrewd policy decision on his part.

A man's voice crackled out of the phone. The caller spoke with a slow calculating delivery, as though each word had been appropriately hand picked, but devoid of any human emotion. It was like listening to a menacing version of the talking clock.

'Kit – listen to me – you are reluctant to talk – but we both know – you need help – I insist you call.'

Although infuriated by the self-important pauses, George listened spellbound.

'. . . if you are to – save – the life of...'

Then nothing. The bleeping and flashing had won and the phone chose that moment to give out. As he stared at the lifeless screen that malevolent voice echoed in his head.

'Save the life of . . .' Who? George's stomach lurched. Just what exactly had Kit got himself involved in?

In terms of getting a handle on what was going on, the day had been a disaster. It was no longer just a case of missing persons, but phone tapping and lives to be saved. It had raised the bar way above any presumption of Kit's youthful lack of consideration in disappearing without a bye or leave you.

While warily sipping at the last of his coffee, which had thankfully cooled below the Sun's core temperature, George realised that the person on the end of the last call Kit had made might throw some light on what was going on. It was fast approaching ten o'clock and an unsociable hour to randomly call anyone, but regardless George pulled out his own phone and rung the number. He needed answers regardless the time of day. It connected quickly, then made the tell-tale electronic click of being answered, but was followed by silence.

'Hello?' George said quickly. Nothing. 'Hello?' he repeated, but with more urgency.

It had obviously clicked straight to answerphone. He hesitated, unsure if he should leave a message – the number could well be just one to Kit's all too frequent takeaways.

'Hello, well my names . . . George Bannister. I . . . I got your number from Kit's phone, he's my son. I am hoping you are an acquaintance. A friend. This is important – so, if you are, can you please give me a call back on this number, which is my phone and not Kit's. Died... the phone that is,' he added quickly, '...its 07... Oh, actually, you'll have it now anyway. Thanks, bye.'

He hung up. That went well. If it was one of Kit's regular takeaways, the garbled message from his clearly lunatic father might cause much scratching of heads.

With his first effort unlikely to encourage a return call, George tried his luck with the Stalker's number. If someone was that persistent in their determination to contact Kit, then they must have good reason. It connected switching immediately to answerphone.

'You have reached the voice mail of...' A voice cut in. 'Henry – Felixstone – please leave––'

It was none other than Talking Clock man. George hung-up instantly. The man obviously had no idea where Kit was either, which, taking into account the sinister tone of his message, now appeared to be a jolly good thing.

In the space of a few hours, George had become more than a little troubled by the turn of events. And if he were worried, what would Diane be like? He dreaded breaking the news. His life will be hell.

11

Dawn on Sunday broke bright and clear. George woke earlier than normal from a restless night's sleep. Diane remained comatose at his side, snoring with gusto. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the myriad of tiny motes dance in the beams of sunlight streaming through the window. It could have been the start of any other easy Sunday; a day to relax, put his feet up and do nothing, perhaps other than give the place a good Spring clean.

Yet that reassuring normality was in sharp contrast to the events of the previous day. Was it melodramatic to think that in some indefinable way the relationship with his son had changed forever? Where once there were no secrets, there were mysteries.

Over a welcome breakfast of tea and cremated toast, Diane resumed her interrogation. Although she had pounced on him the moment he had walk through the door at just after midnight, he had been too exhausted to talk or even walk straight for that matter. He had laboured up the stairs with Diane flapping behind him, rapidly firing salvos of questions. Erroneously, he had assumed climbing into bed and shutting his eyes would have hinted at extreme tiredness and therefore not being in a fit state to face an interrogation, but apparently not.

It wasn't that he hadn't told her repeatedly that Kit seemed to be, 'Okay'.

But she had wanted more, and even as he pulled the covers over his head she persisted. 'What did they say?'

'He's okay.'

'Yes, but...'

He summoned the last of his energy, as he growled, 'Not now, please! I need sleep.'

He pulled the covers over his head and shut his eyes. Thankfully, when he opened them again it was morning.

'So you say she was a clairvoyant,' Diane said excitedly. 'She sounds more like a medium to me.'

George neither knew nor cared enough to dispute the difference, but he carefully avoided describing her as a witch. He knew that, although Diane was more than happy to embrace the concept of Mediumship and some airy-fairy Spirit World, an association with witches held an altogether different connotation. By a leap of imagination only she could perform, she would have had Kit embroiled in Occult practices and dark Satanic Rites that involved biting the heads off chickens, while cavorting around naked. Nor had he cared to mention his personal reading. He had been happy to relate Janis' assertion that Kit was okay, but drew the line at giving any greater credence to having his runes read.

'And that's all they said?' Her eyes narrowed hawk-like. 'Are you sure?'

'Mobile phones aren't good for that sort of thing,' he replied, sounding quite the expert.

'So why didn't you tell me about Kit's phone before?' She threw head back affecting a deeply hurt pose. 'It could have saved me a lot of worry, you know.'

Point scored, she then asked, 'And do we know who this man is, and why should Kit need his help?'

George pulled a face and shrugged. Unfortunately, he saw the cogs in Diane's brain were still turning.

'Is he something to do with the people you met yesterday?' she asked.

'I don't think so.'

'Well, you've got to call him back.'

'Can't see the point,' he said, being careful not to mention that he already had done so.

'What!' she exploded, as if he had just declared his parental duty of care had reached its Best-Before-Date.

'George,' she said. 'He – might – know – where – Kit – is?'

'He doesn't or he wouldn't keep phoning.'

She leapt on the chance disclosure. 'Keep phoning?' She then scowled and with a voice used for chastising a four-year old, demanded, 'George, what's going on?'

George lied, but he wasn't very good at it.

'It's just that he called a couple of times, that's all.' George said casually.

'Why? What help does Kit need?' She pulled the long face on him. 'I'm so worried.'

George made a dash for the phone before he caved in under the pressure.

'I'll get in touch with Matt. If he's got a charger for it, he can bring into work tomorrow. Then I can retrieve the other messages off the phone.'

That wasn't the only reason. Of the many details he had omitted from his account was the claim by Tony and his pals that someone was hacking into their communications. George had a vague understanding of such things, but he knew Matt, twenty years his junior, and into all things electronic and gadgety, was the man to ask.

'Matt, its George.'

'Don't tell me you're coming out of retirement,' Matt said breezily. George's one-time golfing partner always sounded like he didn't have a care in the world. George suspected that they were paying him too much.

'No, I've still been told to take things easy. The wrist.'

'I warned you what might happen with those unseemly habits of yours,' Matt said laughing. 'So, what's up?'

'No, the thing is, you being up on these things––'

Matt had heard this opening gambit many times before and guessed what was coming.

'Your computer?'

'No. It's any computer really. How would you know if someone was hacking into your emails?'

'Oh, that's interesting,' Matt said slowly as he considered his answer.

'Well, yes. Scammers are trying it all the time. With the right software and nous it's more than possible. They only need your email address and password, then bingo.'

'Even with full virus protection?'

'Protection is often retrospective. And as for passwords; people often use the same one for all their security. The – exact – same – one – all – the – time! Can you believe that! Stupid, eh.'

'Really? Tish!' George snorted, cringing inside. He sometimes struggled to remember the only password he did use. 'So, okay that aside, how would you know it was happening?'

'If it was good, you wouldn't, not until you found your bank account empty or your identity stolen.'

George tried another tack. 'But honestly, how likely would it be?'

'As I said, they're at it all the time.'

'What about tapping mobile phones?'

'Well, the technology is out there, digital readers, I don't see why not. Normally though, you have to be within reasonably close proximity of the target to get a signal, unless of course, you're MI5 or something who can intercept the networks. Voice mail can be quite susceptible as all those celebrities found out,' Matt added with a chuckle.

'Right, I see. 'No, that's brilliant thanks for that. Oh, by the way, you don't know where I can get hold of a phone charger? The latest from Nokia.'

'Any good phone shop should have one, but it's your lucky day. The wife's just bought the same model. I'll bring hers in tomorrow.'

The rest of the morning, Diane, or Oberleutenant as George had long since called her, intended him to be kept busy with a comprehensive list of DIY fatigues. He carefully ignored those and spent the time precariously aloft a ladder outside. Ostensibly, it was to fix errant roof tiles, but more importantly it was to avoid the forlorn sighing and the thousands of questions still in store.

Strangely, he could have awoken that day feeling so different. He surprised himself that he took some comfort from Janis' reassurance that Kit was okay. Undoubtedly it was a combination of wishful thinking and perhaps the onset of senility, but that Sunday he would have felt just a little more at ease, a little more relaxed, if it hadn't been for the shadow cast by the sinister Talking Clock man, Henry Felixstone.

After his exertions, he retreated to the sitting room with a snack of tea and biscuits and sank into his chair by the fireplace. He considered it a deserved break after his labours. Not so Diane, who, no sooner George had stepped off the ladder, subpoenaed him once again with her extensive 'to-do' list.

Diane never ceased to amaze him with her range of talents. Miraculously that afternoon, without any formal training, she had become a fully qualified, card-carrying, structural engineer. She stalked about the house prodding and eying various parts of the building. Each grim find was accompanied by a shake of the head and a knowing sucking of air between the teeth.

'This looks rotten to me,' she said, poking an old wall beam.

'It's been there for over two hundred years like that, a few more won't make any difference.'

'Oh well,' she said with an air of resignation. 'If it was down to me, I wouldn't leave it a moment longer to do something about that – not a moment. I'm surprised the house is still standing.'

George ignored her and drank his tea.

'Well, I think it needs sorting out otherwise be it upon your head if the whole place falls down.'

George laid the list to one side. Yes indeed, if it did fall down it would be upon his head – literally. He slowly finished his tea and relaxed back to await the appointed hour of doom.

Also, unfortunately, while held captive in the chair, she took the opportunity to commence another round of interrogation.

'So what help do you think Kit might need?'

George hid behind his cup and shrugged. She could barely look at him as her chin wobbled.

'Do you think he's sick?' she asked, fearing the answer.

'I've never had a doctor pester me to get treatment.'

'Money then?'

'He's loaded.'

'Something personal he wouldn't talk about?'

'Then he wouldn't discuss it with this Felixstone character either, would he?'

'No, with us, silly,' she sniffed contemptuously. 'I worry about you.'

'You, worrying, blimey, I'll make a note in my diary.'

'Huh! It's just that I care . . .' The rest of the highly predicable outburst was lost amongst the lip quivering and ringing of hands. He didn't mind the verbal sparring while it concealed the much darker truth. If she knew that lives, and such like were on the line, then God help him.

'Well, I trust you're going to make yourself useful rather than lazing around all day. You said you'd call those other numbers from Kit's phone.'

He rolled his eyes knowing he would get even less peace until it was done. He wandered into the kitchen and looked at the handful of numbers he had jotted down in the service station. Diane hovered over his shoulder on the pretext of wiping the dishes. He hadn't been sat for more than a few seconds before the inevitable happened. She began to meddle.

'Did you get a number for that Janis, she might be able to come up with something more?'

'It didn't seem much point, I . . .' He was going to tell her it was all nonsense, but thought better of it, adding instead, 'I don't even know where they come from. The chances are its miles away.'

'Wouldn't hurt you to get in the car would it? It is our son we're talking about you know,' she snapped.

'Really!' thought George. 'I always wondered who that young chap was, the one who has been hanging around for the last twenty-five years.'

'I don't think we should read too much into messages from the spirit world,' George said pompously.

She shook her head.

'You remember Alice Hemeroyed. A medium once told her she was going to come into a lot of money.'

'She'd just got engaged to a property tycoon!'

'The medium was right then, wasn't she?'

Diane's powers of logic and reasoning weren't remotely in connected to the other six billion souls on the planet.

'But if we get to speak to someone who can give us good hard information, that has to be better, surely?' suggested George.

'Well then, your first call is to that Henry person who's offered to help.'

George cringed; he had been dreading that.

'Yeah, good thinking.' He looked up at her still hovering. 'Anyway, let me get on with it will you.'

'I just think...'

'Okay, okay, I'm phoning aren't I!'

It didn't take long. He got five answerphones. The moment the handset went down she was back.

'Well?'

'No good,' he replied. 'Answerphone.'

It wasn't strictly a lie, only insofar as he had actually made the call the day before.

'I'm going to have a sit down.' He rose stiffly from the table and made his way into the sitting room. Diane called out to him.

'Don't fall asleep just in case someone rings back. I know what you're like lately.'

George didn't give her the satisfaction of a reply as he slumped into the chair. He allowed the luxury of the soft leather enfolded him in an embrace that in recent years had been more welcoming than his wife ever extended. So welcoming in fact that, against Diane's stricture, he was transported effortlessly into the arms of Morpheus.

He was ejected into the confusion of sudden waking as the phone sounded loudly from the kitchen. Blearily, he glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece and was surprised to discover it was six o'clock. The phone continued to ring, but still being half asleep, he made no effort to answer it. Diane sat opposite on the sofa observed his reticence. She laid her book to one side and sniffed, 'I'll get it then, shall I?'

She went through to the kitchen. George braced himself expecting to be summoned. Yet nothing happened. He leant forward in the chair to hear what was going on. He just could make out Diane's muffled voice from the other room.

'Oh, hello I haven't heard from you in a long time, how are you...?'

It was for her. Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and stood with his back to the fireplace and hands clasped behind his back, bouncing on his toes like some Victorian patriarch. He needn't have rushed. Diane was talking for at least twenty minutes before she finished and returned to the room.

'That was Betty.'

George offered a faint nod of acknowledgement. Betty was a friend of Diane's for many years, but he daren't ask after her, as it would have only encouraged Diane to launch into a verbatim account of the whole conversation, if he wanted to hear it or not.

'She's just got back from the West Indies. Sounds marvellous, we . . .'

It seemed like he was to suffer all the same, but the phone rang again and cut short her extended debrief. Diane went to answer it.

'George, this is for you,' she said popping her head around the door and whispering excitedly. 'I think it's somebody about Kit.'

'Who?' he asked.

'Come on,' she said motioning urgently.

He walked into the kitchen and took the phone from her outstretched hand.

'Hello, this is George Bannister.'

There was a silence down the phone long enough for George to consider repeating himself, but finally the caller said, 'Hello, Mr Bannister – my name's – Henry – Felixstone.'

George was instantly struck dumb and unable to marshal a single sensible thing to say.

'We have much to discuss – regarding – your son – Mr Bannister.'

'Yes, we do,' George replied automatically, hypnotised by the cold metronomic voice.

'You must trust me – Mr Bannister – Kit has been – ill-advised – I can help.'

'In what w'ay?' George's voice cracked and rose by at least an octave at the end of the question, not in that annoying antipodean rising inflection way that makes everything sound like a question, but as if he had been goosed.

'Kit – has been drawn – into a web – of lies – and self-delusion.'

'I see. You know where he i-s?' George's voice cracked again.

Felixstone was silent for what seemed like an age then said, 'Things of this – importance – are best – not discussed – on the phone. We must meet – Mr Bannister.' He then added the chilling caution. 'But time – is short.'

After Felixstone had given him instructions for their rendezvous, George replaced the handset.

'What did he say?'

He swallowed hard. 'He wants to meet me.'

'Why?' She eyed him suspiciously. 'What's going on, George?'

George stared into the distance. It was no longer simply lives that needed saving, but deceptions, webs of lies and worse, and whatever was going on, there was little time left for. He smiled weakly, wondering how he was going to make this sound good.

'He's a business acquaintance apparently. He thinks Kit might be making some mistake with a venture and wants to see me to discuss it.'

'Business venture!' The cogs were whirring again. 'Why you? This doesn't sound right to me. Are you telling me everything, George?'

'Of course,' he replied, affecting a casual air.

She wrung her hands. 'I don't trust this man.'

'You don't know him. What's the worst that can happen if I meet him?'

'He could be a part of the underworld, a money lender, drug dealer, a terrorist, anything, you don't know.'

'Why would Kit be involved with anyone like that!' George retorted, as much to allay his own demonic impression of the man as hers.

'Where have you got to meet him?'

'Liverpool Street station, Tuesday. Half-ten.'

'Well at least it's in a public place,' she said then added gravely, 'And don't get in a car or anything or you might end up in the bottom of the Thames wearing concrete boots.'

George laughed nervously. 'You've been watching too many gangster films.' He then mentally thanked her for that graphic image.

'How will you recognise him?'

'I'm to rendezvous at a station café.'

In an unexpected burst of emotion, she launched herself across the room and nearly flattened him in a bear-hug-cum-rugby tackle, as she wailed, 'Please don't go! Call the police. I'll not be able to sleep until I know you're safe.'

'I'm sure they'll not be interested in your anxiety induced insomnia.'

'Just call them, please?' she pleaded.

'There's no need. Trust me. It'll be fine,' George declared with a confidence that had no basis whatever.
Diane looked puzzled then concerned. 'Why did you give him our number? It's X-directory?'

'If you phone a mobile, it records the number,' he explained dismissively, but her disapproval was in full stride.

'I'm not happy with that. You never know what crank calls we might get now. Especially if this Henry bloke is a part of the criminal underworld and he has our number, he might be able to get our address and then well – anything!'

'I'm sorry if you phone a mobile, that's what happens.'

'Not if you dial 141 first.'

'Ah . . .' George said. 'Yeh, anyway, I didn't think it was important.'

Her anxiety over nuisance calls aside, what really concerned George was that he hadn't rung Felixstone from the home phone. For that character to have obtained their number left only two possibilities. Somehow he had either bypassed the X-directory system, or Kit had given it to him.

If the Fire brigade was X-directory and your house was on fire, the operator still wouldn't give you their number. And why would Kit? Later that night he too, like Diane, tossed and turned the whole night through. They were like twin kebabs on a spit.

12

The following morning Matt was as good as his word. He popped into George's office first thing and dumped a tangle of black cable on his desk.

'Well done, I'll give it back tomorrow,' George said appreciatively.

Matt raised an eyebrow. 'Tomorrow? Wouldn't it have been easier to bring the phone with you?'

'Ah, you're right.' George threw up his hands. 'Brain's going.'

'Its not another dose of that old Alzheimer's again is it?' Matt said as he strode off.

'I'll give him Alzheimer's,' thought George 'If he's as sharp as me when he gets to my age then, er – what's-his-face will be doing well.'

George was aware that if he didn't coordinate the company's new project correctly, the whole firm could go under. In order to compensate for his goldfish-like attention during normal office hours, he put in an extra two hours over-time at night. In theory, ten hours worth of goldfish-brained activity should have been marginally more productive than eight.

He eventually arrived home at around eight-thirty, tired and hungry. The dinner that Diane had kept warming the oven for him since six, had set hard into a deeply unappetising concretion. Yet with twenty-five years of marriage to get accustomed to such fare, he acquired a sturdy knife and fork and chiselled it off the plate, bolting it down ravenously.

'Did you get it?' Diane asked eagerly.

'It's in the jacket pocket,' he said grimacing, as he painfully ground down another lump of food that had the consistency of a house brick.

She plugged it in and within moments the screen had lit up and the tiny charge bars danced back and forth as the power fed in.

'Give it half-an-hour,' he said plodding wearily into the sitting room.

Diane trailed behind and sat opposite on the sofa.

'George, now listen to me, this man, Henry Felixstone, you don't think he's anything to do with the police do you? I've just got this terrible feeling that Kit's in . . .' She could hardly utter the word. 'Trouble.'

First he's a gangster, then the police. Next she will have Felixstone as some Yoda-like spiritual guru.

Diane wiped her eyes. 'Are you going to check the phone?'

'It's only been on for a minute,' George said, but he dutifully went to the kitchen, if for no other reasons than to escape the angst.

He picked it from the table and pushed the operate key. As the phone came to life, he scrolled down the menu to Voice Messages.

'You have eight new messages and one saved message. First new message . . .'

It was almost an exact repeat of Felixstone's previous one, except the 'life saving' element wasn't featured. Although, as before the delivery was still pedantically slow, George detected a barely concealed menace that wasn't evident previously. If it were possible, his appetite for their liaison in the morning had hit lower than rock bottom.

He had always believed that the time and manner of his death would be decided upon by one and one alone. And as an atheist, it would have been a pathologist conducting his post mortem and not some psychotic villain from the Smoke. Diane's graphic image of him ending his days swimming with the fishes among an assortment of old bikes and shopping trollies didn't seem so outrageous after all. He mentally thanked her again.

George endured the other dull and unrelated messages, including one from Kit's manager, Stevens, which nearly sent him to sleep, but he still couldn't work out how to retrieve the previous saved message. George assumed it was the curtailed 'Save the life of . . .' message, he had listened to Saturday night, leaving him none the wiser as to whose neck was on the line.

He checked for any missed calls since Saturday. There had been one, on Sunday evening. George recognised it instantly. It was the last number Kit had called and the one he had left his garbled message on. George called it from their landline, but it immediately diverted to the voice mail. He left yet another message that was slightly more coherent.

'Hi, this is George Bannister, Kit's father. As I said before he's away at the moment but please do give me a call on this number, thanks.'

In a long overdue, forehead slapping moment, George realised that whoever was on the other end of the phone would only speak to Kit. George decided upon a ruse to flush them out. Using Kit's phone, he tapped in the number.

George held his breath as it connected. It continued to ring without diverting instantly to voice mail. He listened to the modulating tone for an age before it cut off. George assumed the call had been timed out, but curiously, it wasn't followed by the droning whine that came with disconnection. Nor had voice mail kicked in. George realised it had been answered.

'Hello,' he said quickly. Nothing. George tried again. 'Hello. Can you hear me?' he waited but then carried on regardless. 'My names George Bannister. I am––'

The call cut off in mid-sentence. George stabbed a finger at the redial button, but was immediately greeted by the engaged tone. He tried again with the same result then tossed Kit's phone across the kitchen table in frustration, muttering, 'There are some morons out there.'

Returning to the sitting room, he got no further than the hallway when the unmistakable sound of Bolero floated through the air. Either Diane was playing her Torville & Dean tape or it was the ring tone on Kit's phone. He grabbed it from the table. The number was calling back.

'Hello,' he answered hurriedly.

There was no reply.

'Yes, hello, my name's George Bannister,' he said sharply. 'Unfortunately Kit's not here at the moment, but seeing as you have taken the trouble to call, I would appreciate it if you would talk to me.'

Then without warning a voice, which was an unholy marriage of sand paper and a double bass, growled down the line.

'What happened d'day Kit was born?'

The man's Dublin brogue, which was a full register lower than an average speaking voice, added authority to what under normal circumstances would be a bizarre way to kick-off a conversation with a stranger.

'Day he was born? What do you mean, "What happened"?' queried George, but his appeal for clarification was met only by silence. 'I'm sorry, who you are?'

Silence.

George didn't have any idea what how he was expected to respond, but if only for Kit's sake he played along.

'Okay, Kit's date of birth is the 15th April 1989.' Adding facetiously, 'Four-thirty in the morning, if you really want to be precise.'

George waited, confident that he had passed the test. The silence that followed was more awkward than the first. He tried again, raising his voice should the Irishman, who sounded like he had smoked sixty-a-day since he was born, was a bit hard of hearing.

'Hello! I said it was the fourteenth of fifteenth of April 19 eighty-nine.'

Silence.

'Can you hear me?' Then George remembered. 'Ah, clever. Hillsborough! It was the day ninety-odd people got killed at the football match.'

George savoured the minor victory, but the Irishman was not yet ready to dish out the cigars.

'What's Kit lookin' fer?'

'Looking for?' George stammered in confusion. 'I – I'm – not – sure I understand.'

Nor did he know the rules of the game. If by stalling he thought the Irishman would in some way to enlighten him, he was mistaken.

'Look, who are you? What's this all about?'

'What's yer man lookin' fer?' insisted the Irishman.

'I'm not sure I understand.' George was struggling. 'But if you know anything that might help me find Kit, I'd appreciate it.'

'Tis the wrong answer, goodb––'

'No wait!' George said hurriedly. He then said the first thing that came into his head. 'Okay, if Kit is looking for anything, it's – a – a – treatment for his daughter.'

'You and I knows he's always looked for something much greater, den, dat.'

'Yes, maybe, look I don't know,' George said slowly. 'Are you a friend of Kit's? Do you know where he is?'

The pause that followed was longer than the others. So much so that for a moment George thought he had rung off. Then a rasping growl assaulted his ear.

'Have you read d'Bible, George? Have you read Genesis? Do you understand what dey were telling us?'

George slumped deflated at the Irishman's evangelical change of tack.

'I am just looking for my son. I'm not religious.'

The Irishman was undeterred by George's secular indifference.

'You must read it, study it, George. Learn what the Manichean had to say, the Bogomils. Have yeh heard of d' Cathars, George? Dey knew and you must know who yeh really are.'

George normally liked a bit of friendly banter, besting religious callers on his doorstep with a sound bit of logic. But he wasn't in the mood, especially with the meeting with Felixstone weighing so heavily upon him.

'Please, all I'm asking is do you know where Kit is?'

'Read what Kit has read and yer will understand.'

George's voice rose to another level.

'Look . . .' But before he had an opportunity to tell the God-botherer to clear off, the phone went dead.

Cheated of a retaliatory strike, George slung the phone back across the table.

Diane's voice chirruped from the sitting room.

'Are you all right, George?'

'Not exactly.'

In seconds she was at his side. 'What is it? What did he say about Kit?'

'It was a bloody Bible-basher.'

'I don't understand,' said Diane. 'He's never been religious.'

George shook his head.

'I know – we never took him to church or anything.'

Diane's bottom lip began to quiver.

'You don't think Kit has got involved in some sort of cult. You hear about things like that. And those people you met. I find that crop circle stuff, well, a bit weird if you ask me. I don't like it.'

George pushed up his glasses and massaged his eyes.

'It's certainly not normal, none of it.'

In the sitting room, George was still shaking his head in utter disbelief as he sat down. Surely Kit couldn't have become some sort of 'Born Again' Christian. If he had got into all that religious nonsense, then they would have to question, just where had they had gone wrong as parents?

Out of sheer perversity, George pulled a copy of the Bible from the shelf to see what they were up against. He began on the first chapter of the Book of Genesis. In several places the Creation story made him chuckle, as did Adam & Eve's fall from grace in the Garden of Eden. It seemed a little unfair that God should take such umbrage at their innocent misdemeanour. Perhaps He should have looked a little closer at himself for making them less than perfect in the first place; what was it they say about workmen and their tools?

After murder and flood George laid the book aside. There was a different slant on the meeting with Henry Felixstone in the morning. Maybe he wasn't the villain of the piece. Undoubtedly in less than twelve hours for better or worse, concrete boots or no, he would find out.

13

The trip to Liverpool Street had been pleasantly uneventful. The 9.23 train from Woodbridge, which according to the station announcer was running on time, pulled out at 9.35. Following the fifty-minute journey, it arrived ten minutes late, but, again presumably by their reckoning still on time, at the London terminus.

George stepped onto the platform and glanced at his watch. It was 10.27. He strode briskly down the platform to the ticket barrier and then made his way onto the vast open concourse.

His instructions were simple; to wait at a café within the station called 'The Eatery' until contacted. The café had an array of continental style bistro tables festooned with parasols, which although attractive, were quite unnecessary under the weatherproof span of the station roof.

A waiter took his order and came back with a cappuccino in hand. George paid for it there and then should he have to depart in a hurry.

George opened his newspaper and idly thumbed through pages. He was too preoccupied to do anything other than skim read, but if nothing else it stopped his hands shaking.

The instant he went to take a sip of his coffee, a shadow fell over the table. George looked up in surprise. Beside him stood a young man, straight-backed and with his arms clasped behind his back. Clean-shaven and well-cut but unfussy black hair, he was probably in his mid-thirties and had clearly kept himself in shape. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him; his sharp suit elegantly encasing what had to be fifteen stone of well-honed muscle.

The stranger thrust his chin in the air and said, 'Mr Bannister, my name's Ross. This way please. There's a car outside. I am to take you to Mr Felixstone.'

George noted the clipped tones of an ex-military man. He rose from his seat and followed without question. It was another record temperature for a September day, stiflingly hot, but he would have been first to admit that the huge arcs of sweat under his armpits weren't entirely heat related.

Within thirty yards of the exit Ross halted beside a top-of-the-range, black Mercedes. It had been left on a double yellow line with an impressive disregard for the strictly enforced parking regulations. Even if someone had had the nerve to clamp it, Ross looked tough enough to rip the chains off with his bare hands.

As George drew level, Ross snapped open the rear door. George climbed into the luxurious machine and eased onto the leather upholstery. Ross snapped the door shut again then smartly deposited himself in the driver's seat.

If George imagined he was to be chauffeured regally through the congested streets of the capital, that illusion was quickly shattered as the car took off like a startled rabbit, pressing him back into the deeply contoured seat.

With the skill of a profession racer or perhaps get-away driver, Ross wove in and out of the traffic, through gaps George would have thought twice about riding a bicycle down and narrow streets that pinned terrified pedestrians against walls.

Their route took them toward the West End via Fleet Street and the Strand, passed Trafalgar Square then finally into the heart of Leicester Square. There, Ross excelled himself by aiming, at speed, toward a narrow alley way. Unless he proposed to drive it up onto two wheels, George was pretty sure it was all going to end in tears. Yet as he cowered in the back, peeking between his fingers, the car miraculously shot down the Lilliputian thoroughfare with a thickness of a coat of paint to spare either side.

Half way along the passage widened sufficiently to accommodate the opening of a door and Ross drew the car to a halt. Once again with military style efficiency he was out of the car and holding the door open even before George had unclipped his seat belt.

It was as though they were at the bottom of a huge concrete chasm. The buildings were four or five stories high with a few small windows, but none lower than the third floor. The sole architectural feature at ground level was a door with discoloured and flaking paint. George suspected the sign that said: 'All ye who enter here abandon hope' had been temporarily removed for the benefit of his mental welfare.

Ross held the door open for George to go inside. George swallowed hard and ran a finger around his damp collar before stepping forward. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, half-heartedly illuminating a narrow uncarpeted flight of stairs. George peered into the gloom.

'I'm meeting Mr Felixstone, here?'

It was as though Ross had been turned to stone. He stood motionless, ramrod straight and with his eyes fixed, staring into the distance. George paused for a moment, then taking his silence as an affirmative, he climbed the steps.

On the first floor landing there was a single unmarked door and another bare light bulb caked in grime and dimmer than the first. He raised his hand to knock, but the door swinging inwards preceded him. If the timing were a fraction of a second out he would have punched the figure now standing before him on the nose.

'Ah, Mr Bannister. Thank you for coming – I am Henry Felixstone.'

The voice was not only instantly recognisable, but its chill menace wasn't just an electronic aberration. George recoiled. Perhaps the punch in the face was still an option. Yet Felixstone physical appearance bore no relation the monster George had built him up to be in his mind.

He was shorter and slimmer than George and his face was almost skeletal. Felixstone was either ill or mega-slimmer of the year, but his eyes bore no such affliction. They were scarily like ice-blue lasers.

'Take a seat, Mr Bannister.' Felixstone gestured toward the high backed dining chair that was positioned in front of a battered teak desk. George reluctantly sat down as Felixstone shuffled awkwardly around to the other side. His office, if that's what it really was, was a minimalist affair to the extreme. There was a sense of the post-modern ironic about it, with its plain white walls, linoleum floor, and was curiously devoid of any usual office equipment, including a phone. It reminded George of a cleared out storeroom into which a desk had been hastily hauled for the occasion.

'Would you like a drink, Mr Bannister? Coffee?' Felixstone's attempt at pleasantries only made him appear more sinister.

'No, not for me,' George croaked. Although him mouth was as dry as dust, he just wanted to get on with it.

Felixstone opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a manila file. He then deliberately placed it in the middle of the desk for George to see.

Christopher (Kit) Bannister was headed across the top.

If Felixstone was out to shock, it worked. In George's experience, friends and casual acquaintances didn't keep dossiers on each other.

George shuffled noisily on the rickety seat, which probably only remained a cohesive unit out of habit. Felixstone seeing the file had done its job dragged it back toward him and opened the cover.

'No doubt you're wondering – why – I've asked you – to come here?'

George wished he could be really cool and come up with something Bond-ishly witty, but the best he managed was a squeaky, 'Yes.'

'You – Mr Bannister – need our help. And if you help us . . .' A horrible gash of a smile split Felixstone's face. 'Perhaps we can avoid – Kit – going to – prison.'

'Prison! What I . . .?' George's agitation threatened to reduce the wobbly chair to its component parts.

Felixstone turned the lasers on full. 'That's what normally happens to people – who traffic – drugs – is it not?'

'Drugs!' If it were physically possible, George was sweating even more. 'No surely, it can't be.'

His eyes darted down to the file. 'Are you the police?'

Felixstone's chuckle was without humour. 'No, I am not the police.'

'A drug enforcement agency?'

'No.'

A trapdoor opened in George's stomach with the sudden realisation he was probably in the presence of a heavy-weight – in the criminal sense only – drugs baron. What on earth had Kit got himself involved in?

Felixstone turned over a sheet from the file a made out to read it. There was a passport size photograph of Kit pinned to the paper. The sight of the picture made the nightmare even more real.

'Why? Not for money, surely?'

'Thing are not always done for personal financial gain, Mr Bannister.'

Instantly the mist shrouding Kit's frightful situation cleared.

'Okay, how much does he owe you?' said George, reaching for his wallet. 'I'll pay it. Just don't ruin his life getting him to smuggle drugs for you.'

He hoped Felixstone took credit cards, as he only had ten quid in cash on him.

'There seems to have been a misunderstanding; mine is a legitimate pharmaceutical business. We don't deal in the misery of others.' Felixstone said as he closed the file. He struck a pose gazing at the ceiling as though seeking inspiration for his next choice of words.

'Let's say Kit has been – influenced – by a sect led by a certain – ex-priest – namely, James O'Connell.' Felixstone's face twisted into an unpleasant sneer. 'Although, to some he may be – the word they use is charismatic – unfortunately, he is also quite deranged.'

'An Irishman?'

Felixstone sprung forward as if shot from a cannon.

'You're aware of him?'

'I think we've spoken,' George said hesitantly.

'Interesting. And that was – when?'

'Last night.'

'Regards your son's whereabouts?'

George nodded. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know the answer to the next question, but he asked it all the same.

'This sect – is it more like a cult or something?'

Felixstone's eyes drilled further into his head.

'O'Connell is a very cunning and manipulative man, Mr Bannister. He does have a cult-like following.'

George cringed. 'So, is this cult funded by . . . drug money?'

Felixstone relaxed back into his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin.

'Drugs are the modern menace of our society – Mr Bannister, and as far as I'm aware – O'Connell is not out to profit from this endeavour. But it is at the priest's behest that Kit is risking his whole future – possibly to spend the best years of his life in – jail.'

'So, where is he?'

Felixstone smirked, taking delight in George's discomfort. Finally, he said, 'I believe – Peru.'

'Peru!'

Columbian drug cartels instantly came to mind, despite the obvious geographical contradiction.

Felixstone leant forward.

'He has been led to believe that he can obtain the very thing sought by Philosophers and Kings since time immemorial. I am sure that his intentions are honourable – after all who wouldn't want to save their own flesh and blood from such a – distressing end.'

'Save the life of . . .' Felixstone's voice mail instantly made sense.

'Lucy!'

Felixstone nodded slowly. 'Huntingdon's disease is a most terrifying affliction.'

George realised the file on the desk wasn't just for show.

'But it's a genetic disorder. Drugs can't change that.'

'Known drugs. What Kit seeks is no less than a cure for all ills, an Elixir of Life.

'What, Kit? Come on,' snorted George. 'He wouldn't be taken in by that stuff, even by this priest.'

'It appears he has.'

'He's far too smart.'

'Cults thrive on intelligent people, Mr Bannister. They are often the most zealous converts.'

'I'd had a terrible feeling that Kit had become some sort of 'Born Again' Christian, but not this – this is crazy.'

'Clearly, even the most rational can be misled.'

'And you, what . . .?' demanded George.

'I'm pleased to say we can help – with your assistance.'

'Who are you? I don't understand.'

'We have a mutual interest.'

'Surely, you can't believe in this, Elixir of Life stuff? There can't be just one drug to cure everything?'

'That is the legend. That's what he seeks.'

Felixstone piously clasped his hands together.

'My company, Mr Bannister has agents scouring the entire world to bring to the West as yet undiscovered pharmaceutically active organics in order to save lives and alleviate suffering.'

George had at no point got the impression that he was in the presence of Mother Teresa's natural heir.

'But not purely out of kindness?' hazarded George.

'Correct. Truly innovative medicines are extremely lucrative as you can imagine. A new drug to the market can make billions. So far the world has barely scratched the surface when it comes to discovering the medicinal properties of plants.'

George glanced around the office. Was this really the nerve centre for some multi-million-pound organisation? Not unless Felixstone had just started out and was awaiting his first pay cheque.

'Even so, surely no drug can be a cure-all.'

'Some South American tribes were rumoured to have had access to a substance with special curative properties for thousands of years, but representatives from my organisation haven't been able to persuade the indigenous people to share their secrets with us in the West.'

George imagined that if Ready-Mix had been available in the jungle, it might have loosened a few tongues.

'Why Kit?'

'It is thought – that some outsiders, a chosen few – are initiated into its secret.'

As all fathers do, George thought his son was the best thing since sliced bread, but how could Kit believe his daughter would be considered a special case when there was so much greater suffering in the world? Then again, Kit had always been a chancer.

'So why is it illegal what Kit's doing?

'Penalties for trafficking that type of material, which will undoubtedly be classified as an A-class drug, are particularly severe, especially in Peru – life imprisonment with no parole.'

George tried to swallow, but it felt as though a golf ball had lodged in his throat. 'Can you help him?'

'Ours is a legitimate company licensed to convey such a material. We help each other. He avoids arrest and we get our samples. Once in Britain, he gets his part of the consignment and does as he wishes.'

'But you don't actually know where he is in Peru?'

Felixstone hesitated.

'You are very close to your son. We believe he may contact you. But for us to help him, you must help us. We need his computer. I will have my man take you to his flat shortly.'

George nearly fell out of his chair, saving it the trouble of falling to pieces and doing it for him.

'I – I don't have the key.' George hid his growing anxiety behind what was a bald statement of fact. In the space of a few short minutes the once simple, orderly lives of the Bannister family had spiralled dangerously out of control.

'I'm sure my man can take care of that.'

'No chance!' He wasn't going to pay out another two hundred odd quid to get the door put back together again.

'I'll have to think about it.'

George didn't like Felixstone's twisted look of spite as he added, 'You really must think of your son's future, Mr Bannister. It would barely take––'

George stood up defiantly.

'I'll have to discuss it with my wife. It will contain a lot of personal information. I need time to think about all this.'

'I'm sure it is. But as far as the computer concerned, we're not interested in personal information – only of that which we have discussed. Think of your son spending the rest of his life in a stinking South American jail.'

George was deliberately not thinking about it.

'It is not something I can decide straight away – I'll need a few days.'

'There is not much time, George. Peruvian jails are particularly – unpleasant. A young attractive man, like Kit, would be – quite a prize – in such an environment.'

Then George was made to think about it and the mental image wasn't good. But what could he do? He wouldn't have trusted this Felixstone character to help his dead grandmother cross the road.

'As I said I need to discuss it with my wife.'

'I really hope there is the luxury of time to decide. But then the choice is yours to make.' Felixstone closed Kit's file. 'Very well, if that's your last word, I shall have Ross return you to the station.'

Felixstone shuffled over to the door and asked with an innocence that belied its clear import.

'Are you intending to speak with O'Connell again?'

'I hope to God, he will know where Kit is?'

'Correct. But take my advice, Mr Bannister, if you do speak again, treat this man with extreme caution.'

Felixstone offered up his bony hand. George hesitated, but then shook it. Yet he was unable to break away as Felixstone held his grasp.

'O'Connell's number. May I have it? It could be useful,' Felixstone asked with the lasers on full bore.

It would have been impolite and perhaps even considered hostile for George to wrestle his hand free. Seemingly inseparably joined, he now knew how a zebra felt with a lion's jaws clamped around its leg.

'I don't have it – it's on Kit's phone.'

Only reluctantly did Felixstone release his hold.

'Don't allow him to spend the rest of his life in jail, Mr Bannister. O'Connell's number . . . I will call.'

With that ominous warning hanging over him, George was whisked back to Liverpool Street. He sat nervously all the way expecting Ross to pull over and make a discrete purchase from a builder's merchants. Yet without deviation or hesitation, Ross retraced his reckless route through the heart of the capital and back to the station.

George boarded the train and took a seat by himself at the rear of the carriage. Obviously, the knowledge that Kit was not physically in danger was something to be grateful for, but that's where the good news ended. To put a positive spin on the rest of it was a tad tricky: Quasi-religious cults, illegal drugs, South American jails and shady entrepreneurs. After concocting a story innocuous enough to feed to Diane, the priority was to make contact with O'Connell once again. Without doubt, the priest was the key element in getting Kit home safely.

14

George faced the inevitable barrage of questions the moment he stepped through the front door. He foresaw a painful arm-lock if he didn't spill the beans that instant. He slowly recounted his carefully orchestrated version of events, which only had a tangential relationship with the truth.

In his rosy account Felixstone had become a public-spirited benefactor, who shared a common interest in bringing as yet undiscovered medicinal botanicals to the world and O'Connell was a guiding pastoral figure. He made them sound as though they were both nailed-on for sainthood, but the intense interrogation made it difficult to keep the story consistent.

'Do these people know when he'll be home?' she asked. George shook his head. 'But why didn't he tell us?' Diane persisted. 'Why was he so secretive, it's nothing to be ashamed of?' She pulled the long face on him. 'There's something not right – I'm so worried for him.'

George shrugged almost dismissively. 'I'm sure it'll be okay.'

Diane dabbed the tears from her eyes.

'How much are flights to Peru?'

There was a clunk as George's jaw hit the ground.

'You're not serious?'

'He is our son, George. If you cared . . .'

'That's ridiculous,' George said, adding with unnecessary sarcasm, 'Peru is quite a big place you know.'

Diane was in full meltdown.

'Listen. We know where he is now. It's an adventure for him.' Even as he spoke, the image in George's head of Kit's Peruvian Adventure was him in a stinking jail with a pack of sexually depraved human hyenas circling their prey. 'Felixstone says he wants to help.'

'If he's okay, then why does he need help?'

George blew out his cheeks feigning a guess.

'To iron out any wrinkles. There always are in these places.'

'A life behind bars was one hell of a wrinkle,' thought George as he made a discrete withdrawal.

Although it was nearly two in the afternoon, after a snack of tea and burnt toast, he stood up and announced that he was off to work.

'You can't, we need to talk about this,' she said trembling with indignation.

'Look, I can't take any more time off. I've got to go.'

George strode out of the kitchen into the hall and put on his jacket, expecting at any moment he would to have to drag her across the floor as she clung limpet-like to his ankle. He felt guilty, but he knew he would ultimately crack under the strain of the interrogation if he stayed. And if she was unhappy now, well – phew!

It set the pattern for the rest of the week. George threw himself into his work putting in extra hours to compensate for his absences, while Diane took time off from her part time job in a charity shop to concentrate on worrying herself to death in the comfort of her own home. Each evening on his arrival George would brace himself to face a fresh batch of anxieties that she had festered on during the day.

Contacting O'Connell had proved far more difficult than he assumed. His mobile number was now unobtainable. But George hadn't been entirely idle, as he had sent fresh emails to 'Old Pete', Jacob and the 'The Seeker' although none had taken the trouble to reply.

He had also given consideration to the idea of flying out to Peru and had even looked up the cost of flights. Yet in a country four times as big as the UK, half of which was either mountainous or Amazonian jungle, it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack – and worse, a haystack that didn't have the good grace to speak English.

He hadn't entirely ruled out Felixstone's request to access Kit's computer, but before he agreed to it, he had a little idea of his own. Once he had spoken to Matt, his IT Guru, who confirmed what George suspected, that even deleted files could be retrieved from the hard drive.

'And you could do that?' George asked him during a lunch break.

'It takes a while, but yeah. It could contain a lot of private stuff though, if you know what I mean? Various sites – yeh.' he said tapping the side of his nose. 'And why would he delete them if they were important to him? Seems strange to me.'

George ignored the speculation.

'If I get hold of the computer you can do it?'

'No problem.'

The plan was to go to Kit's flat on Sunday and return with the computer. For once he was only too pleased to have to drive to London. At least it gave him a much needed break from Diane and her paranoia. How one person could conjure from their imagination so many febrile scenarios beggared belief. That combined with the relentless sighing – she had even taken to sighing in her sleep – murder was committed for less. Ultimately, a day out to the Smoke might save her from an untimely death and George from a long stretch behind bars.

George pulled up outside Kit's flat shortly before noon. With an unexpected burst of energy, he bounded up the communal stairs to Kit's landing. Old habits died hard, as he knocked on door, yet in the same motion turned the key and went in.

George stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him. He swept up the mail from the mat deposited by a more conscientious postman than he had previously encountered and carried it through to the sitting room. He did a rapid recce of the flat should Kit have returned unannounced. Not that Kit would have been able to use his own front door key after the Fort Knox repair job on the new lock, unless he was a more adept burglar than his father.

Before disconnecting the cabling to remove the base unit, George shook the mouse to awaken the computer from standby checking for new emails, but the monitor remained lifeless. He didn't recall switching it off. He hit the ON button and the Windows tricolour appeared shuffling across the screen indicating there was no signal.

He didn't remember turning the base unit off either. George reached under the desk and groped toward the power button, but his hand flapped about in thin air. He ducked his head under the desk to see where it was, but there was just a dust-encircled space where the base unit once stood.

Throughout the journey home, he toyed with every conceivable scenario to lessen the impact of the theft on Diane. None sounded faintly credible, including the truth. He was a firm believer that no relationship could thrive without openness and honesty, but only when he considered it appropriate. So the mysterious affair of the stolen computer for the time being was destined to remain his little secret.

15

When George arrived back in Wornham, he didn't head straight home. He pulled into the pub car park instead. He wanted to avoid meeting anyone who knew him, especially his wife. How could he be hale and hearty in his frame of mind? He needed time out alone and space to think.

The open space of cricket ground was ideal. It was at the far end of the village, just where the paved footpath ran out and the countryside began in earnest.

He walked beneath the overarching trees and into car park. It was rammed. He had forgotten it was the last match of the season. The Wornham team were batting and they didn't appear to be covering themselves in glory.

There was a lot of whooping and hollering coming from the pavilion that doubled as the village hall. From his experience of having played in the team for a couple of seasons, the more noise the guys made from the boundary, the more they were on the end of a thumping. Normally he wouldn't have hesitated to join them, but he needed his own space to think things through. Lost in thought, he slowly wandered around the boundary until he found a park bench. It was obviously the place where the village youth congregated to guzzle their elicit booze going by the number of discarded beer and cider can that surrounded the bench. It had a bronze memorial plaque.

Edward Harrington 1926 – 2004

In life, he saw no problems

Only solution not yet found

George remembered him. He had always been a sanctimonious old fool. And anyway, where was he now when he needed him.

Then there was a raucous appeal from the fielding side. The umpire raised his finger and sent another hapless Wornham batsman back to the pavilion. Once the departing batsman had removed his helmet, George saw it was the club captain, Alan Pinkerton. He cut a dejected figure, as he sloped back toward the pavilion dragging the bat behind him, giving the ground an occasional angry scuff on the way.

George resumed his idle meander around the boundary watching with renewed interest as the new Wornham batsman came to the crease. George recognised him. Andy was a tall gangly youth, who had out grown his strength like a stringy plant deprived of light. The opposition bowler tall and fast roared in at the quivering batter, and three successive deliveries had Andy hopping about the crease, in terror. It was the first time George had really smiled that day. At the end of the over and with a lull in the entertainment, he found himself standing by the pavilion steps.

'How are you, old boy?' piped up Spencer Grayling, who was by far the oldest player in the team. Frayed around the edges and wearing a kit that dated from the fifties, he was known fondly to everyone as Worzel. Rumour had it that he augmented his pension with a little crow scaring duty for the local farmers.

'Fine and you?'

'Mustn't grumble,' Spencer jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the changing room, a mischievous grin broke out on his face.

'No, mustn't grumble eh, Skip,' chipped in Johnson one of the younger players who, together with the remainder of the team, were sat together on a bench below the changing room window. What had sounded like a small riot going on inside suddenly stopped and a head popped out of the window. In broad Scot's accent, Pinkerton growled.

'I'm changing the batting order. Johnson, you are now number eleven, yer bloody Sassenach!'

'Suits me, skip. Their bowler looks a bit sharp.' Johnson turned nudging the others to ensure he had their full attention. 'Eh, skip, didn't that same guy get you out first ball last year, as well?'

It was too much for them as they all dissolved into fits of laughter. Their good humour was infectious. George, like the others, waited for the fall-out. The ginger-haired Pinkerton reappeared at the window. The expected tirade went undelivered out of respect for a young family strolling past with a buggy.

Alan Pinkerton, a surveyor by profession, was a rare breed, a Scotsman who embraced the English passion for Cricket. Although that didn't cloud his judgement, as he had still managed to retain a healthy disdain for the indigenous people of this adopted land.

'How were you out, Alan?' George called into the changing room.

'Aye, L – B – bloody – W. Can you credit that?'

'That's Harry umpiring at that end, isn't it?' George said.

'Aye, and I'll be havin' a little word, when he gets off.'

'Don't you think you were 'Out' then?' George asked, knowing full well that no batsman in the long history of the game has ever thought it was entirely reasonable to be dismissed leg-before-wicket.

Pinkerton's head reappeared at the window.

'See here, I must have been pretty plumb, but that didn't mean he had to give it, did he. You're supposed to give the batsman the benefit of the doubt, aren't you? Especially your skipper?'

George turned and made his way up the three steps to enter the main room of the pavilion. There were two long tables neatly laid out with immaculately ironed linen tablecloths, china crockery and slide rule cutlery placement. It was for the traditional, if lavish, Tea that the players would undoubtedly gorge themselves silly on between Innings.

Taking up a corner of the room was a primitive kitchenette with an open serving hatch. Inside the small enclosure, which had barely enough room for two to work along side, there was only a basic gas burner, a sink and a small length of worktop. With those tiny confines was Alan's wife, Christine, who was beavering away to produce the culinary delight, which was renown on the Suffolk cricket circuit. Teams from the most distant parts of the County regularly retained their fixture year after year but no one was foolish enough to believe it was for the sporting contest.

'Christine.'

She looked up.

'Oh, hi George, how are you?' Beneath an untidy mop of black curly hair, Christine's moon-like face was beaming.

George had never considered her to be particularly big in an overweight sense, only well filled out, curvaceous, almost as though she was constructed from three different sized balls, like a snowman. And unlike another fuller-figured, fictional TV character, Christine was a real Church of England minister; the proud Vicar of Wornham.

She eyed him closely. 'Are you okay? You don't seem your normal self.'

He blew out his cheeks. Christine emerged from a side door, removing her apron.

'I could do with a pint. It seems to have been a long week,' he said quietly.

'Is it Kit?' she asked, squeezing his hand. 'Still heard nothing?'

'No, far from it, if anything, I've heard too much!'

'Oh dear, he's not in any bother is he?' Christine asked patting his hand reassuringly.

'Not as much as he will be when I get hold of him.'

She took his arm and led him to the privacy of a small anti-room at the rear. Once inside she sat him down.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

George took a deep breath.

'It's hard to know where to start.'

'Anywhere, I'm all ears.'

'Look, you know we've been trying to find out where he's gone.'

'Yes of course. And . . .'

'I'm told he's in – Peru. Looking for El Dorado, would you believe.'

Christine beamed. 'Oh, wow, I've always wanted to go there, must be quite an adventure.'

For George the words 'Peru' and 'Adventure' now conjured a rather less romantic vision.

'It's not as simple as that,' he said and then spent the next twenty minutes filling her in on what had gone before. Even if she minded, she was decent enough not to let it show, after all, helping people unburden their souls was the primary function of her calling.

'Oh, dear, I can see why it's not that simple,' she said finally hovering by the door. 'Look, if you want to carry on talking I'm happy to listen – but I really must get the tea ready. Is that okay?'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bore you with all this. '

'Nonsense. And Diane, how is she?'

George hesitated. 'She doesn't know.'

For a moment Christine's mouth hung open, speechless.

'But why?'

'I couldn't,' George said, knowing it was both the wrong thing to do, but also the right. 'She's in such a state already.'

'Oh, how frightening. So has Kit been in touch at all?'

'No.'

'I'll tell you what, I might just be able to get the bar open now. That might help.'

A few minutes later George was watching the match through the window, clutching a freshly pulled pint.

'I've left a fiver by the side of the till.'

'I'll give you your change when I open up, properly.'

George turned toward the serving hatch.

'Your old man's not happy is he?'

Christine's face reappeared at the hatch.

'I don't think God really intended Scotsmen to play cricket.' A broad smile crossed her face as she whispered, 'They're not very good at losing.'

George drained the glass with indecent haste and returned to the bar.

'I'll just have another.'

Christine's head popped up again.

'You carry on. It looks as though you needed that.'

George refilled the glass and leant by the serving hatch.

'Do you think being a Born Again Christian can send someone loopy?' He held up his hand. 'No disrespect of course.'

'None taken. There are many rooms in God's house,' said Christine adding with a wry smile, 'Even for you, George.'

'Well, if I do surprisingly find myself at the Pearly Gates I'll explain to St Peter that God hadn't given me enough conclusive proof to believe in him.'

'Anyway, being a Born Again Christian has nothing to do with seeking an Elixir of Life. Even the legend of the Holy Grail, the most famous Elixir of Life, has nothing to do with the Biblical scriptures per se. And if he has become a Christian, I'm sure Father O'Connell would have directed him toward the power of prayer, rather than sending him on a wild goose chase to Peru.'

'Apparently this guy is an ex-priest.'

'But he talked about the Book of Genesis and the Cathars?'

'Basically, that I had to understand the true meaning of what's written.'

Christine leant her head to one side. 'In what way?'

'Don't those 'Born Again' lot believe every word that is written in the Bible is true?'

'No, that's the Fundamentalists.'

'Well, who believes in the seven days and all that?'

'That's the Creationists. They don't believe in evolution.

'It's like a menagerie, Fundamentalist, Bogomils, Creationists and Cathars, how do you keep up?'

'There's only one true Faith.'

'But, God forbid, couldn't Kit be a 'Born Again Creationist?'

'Not if he's seeking an 'Elixir of Life'; that's closely associated with Alchemy – the Philosophers Stone and all that.'

George finished his second pint and dived toward the bar.

'I need another drink.'

'What about the police. Shouldn't you report the break-in?'

'There was no sign of one. So much for, "The place will be like Fort Knox." Yeah, like Fort Knox if they left the key in the door.'

'And nothing else was taken.'

'Nothing,' George said, making large inroads into his third pint. 'I tell you what, I've even considered flying out to Peru to look for him.'

'There you are.' Christine handed him a plate of sandwiches through the serving hatch. 'It's so sad, he such a nice lad. Big place though.'

George downed the pint and began wolfing them down.

'Cheers, these are great.'

He walked over to the bar and collected up the fiver and replaced it with a ten-pound note.

'Just one more,' he said with an alcohol-fuelled cheerfulness.

Finishing off the sandwiches he asked, 'What's a Bogomil then?'

Christine's face was hidden behind her untidy mop of hair as she iced a sponge cake. 'Oh, they and the Cathars are both revisionist sects of early Christianity. Their doctrine became known as 'The Great Heresy' by the Roman Church. The Cathars especially came to a rather grizzly end at the hands of Pope Innocent III who organised a Crusade to stamp it out.' She cast her eyes down as though she had personally witnessed the whole tragedy. 'Massacred, burned alive, man, woman and child because none would renounce their new faith and return to the strict edicts of the Church.'

'What have they got to do with the Creation story?'

'Don't know. Theirs was primarily a reinterpretation of Gnostic thought and their specific belief in the struggle between the powers of good and evil.'

'A difference well worth dying for then.'

She stroked her chin thoughtfully.

'Not quite. They believed Yahweh, the God of the Old Testament was a Demiurge. A lesser god called in Latin, Rex Mundi, who was lord creator over all things incarnate and of the material world.'

'And?'

'Well, they believed Rex Mundi was the devil himself. And the Christian sacraments of taking the flesh and blood of Christ, and the belief in our actual bodily resurrection on the Day of Judgement were Rites in the service of Satan.'

'Zo, they thought the Catholics worshipped the Devil. What was their thing then?'

'They were called Dualists believing in the duality of body and soul. In their doctrine there were two Gods both equally powerful, but distinct in their own realms. There was a God of Light, which was the emanation of all that was good and loving and manifest itself through the spirit, thought and our soul and a separate and distinct god of the base material world, the God of the Bible, Rex Mundi. And because of that, they shunned virtually everything associated with material existence: wealth, property, possessions anything; to the point of being reluctant even to feed on the flesh of other creatures, believing it would corrupt their soul. This is opposed to the Church at the time that was greedily accruing wealth, land and generally feathering its own nest. Inevitably the Church saw their doctrines of extreme priestly poverty as a threat.'

'But I suppose in these more enlightened times devil worship and the like is quite acceptable nowadays with your lot in the good ol' C of E,' George said, hastily refilling his glass once more and tipping half of it down his throat just as quickly.

'Not quite,' she said with hands on hips feigning affront. 'There are still some things we do draw the line at.'

'It's inzeresting stuff.' George wobbled as he stood up and sunk the remains of his pint. ''scuse me. Anyway thanks for lissenin'. I'd bess be off.'

She squeezed his hand affectionately. 'You know my doors open anytime. Look, you be careful going home.'

Home.

He shuddered. The word alone was as instantly sobering as a bucket of black coffee. Home was where Diane would be prowling like a caged tiger waiting to pounce – waiting to dissect and analyse every word that came out of his mouth. And what good news could he bring? None. For a brief moment he considered sleeping rough on a park bench or staying out with the lads in the team and getting completely smashed after the game. But he knew he had to face her some time. He drew himself to his full height. 'Wish me luck.'

16

George turned the key and pushed the door open, only to be confronted by Diane in the hall sporting the mother of all scowls.

'Had a drink, have we?'

'Juss one or two.' The beer had thankfully dulled any sense of guilt.

'Well, while you were out enjoying yourself, you had a phone call.'

'Who, not that bassard Felixzone.' George puffed out his chest. 'If I'd have been here, I tell you what . . .' He curtailed a full-scale rant aware there was some discrepancy between what he formulated in his brain and what emerged from his mouth.

'No!' Diane said sharply, cutting across his phoney machismo and looking at him curiously, perhaps wondering why the saintly Felixstone had so suddenly gone from hero to zero. 'It wasn't Felixstone, it was that James O'Connell.'

'O'Connell! Did he say where Kit was?'

'He wouldn't to speak to me. You've got to call him – quickly.' She threw her head back contemptuously. 'But, best wait until you've sobered-up.'

'It'll probably only be for another lecture on the Bible.'

'May be if you weren't so drunk you'd realise he might have news.'

'Look I'm not . . .' George didn't bother. He was wasting his breath when she was in one of her moods. 'I just need to have a sit down for a minute. I've been feeling a bit tired lately.'

'Tired! I'm surprised you can walk. Look at you wobbling about.'

'I just need a rest that's all.'

'You need to see a doctor with amount you drink.'

He tottered into the sitting room and collapsed into his leather armchair to escape into the oblivion of sleep. It didn't fail him.

It was over two hours before he awoke. He looked up to see Diane glowering over him.

'You know drinking in the afternoon doesn't agree with you. I don't know why you do it?'

'It was only a couple; I think it was the drive that knocked me out.'

'Hmm, right and I think it's the beer. You're drinking far too much lately, no wonder your feeling rough. If you carry on like that you'll do yourself damage.' There was a brief respite from her chiding as she returned to the kitchen. 'And you must call that man, O'Connell; he'll think I haven't given you the message. It could be urgent about Kit.'

George gagged on taste of stale beer in his mouth. He wasn't fully on his game to deal with O'Connell, but it might be his last chance to speak to him.

He stiffly made his way into the kitchen and sat at the table. He drew the phone towards him. The number Diane had scribbled down was different to the one that had been on Kit's phone.

'Are you sure this is the number?'

'It isn't me who is drunk,' Diane said while mercilessly battering a wasp to death on the windowpane with a rolled-up newspaper.

As he punched in the number, he wondered how she could be so cruel to one of her own kind. It rang for a second then connected, but with no acknowledgement. George knew the form.

'Hello, is that James O'Connell? This is George Bannister.'

There was a short pause before O'Connell spoke.

'Mr Bannister.' There was no warmth of recognition in his voice. 'Now I understand. We have much in common, more than you could imagine – we must meet.'

'Mr O'Connell, can you tell me where Kit is?

O'Connell wasn't listening, he had his own agenda.

'Monday evening. The services at South Mimms on the M25. Do you know it?'

'With respect, Mr O'Connell, I –'

'Do – you – know – it?'

'Yes, but I really think –'

'Eight-thirty.'

'But––?'

'I'll find you – be there,' rasped O'Connell with a non-negotiable finality as he hung up.

'What did he say?' Diane asked, hovering expectantly.

'He wants to meet.'

'That's brilliant. He must know something.'

'He seems to think we have a lot in common' George said shaking his head in despair.

'Well, once you find out where Kit is, perhaps then you can have a jolly good chat.'

George cringed. The rosy picture he had painted of O'Connell had rebounded on him. Although he kept in mind Felixstone's warnings about O'Connell being a manipulative Svengali, George was confident that he had enough gumption about him to avoid recruitment into his brainwashed army of disciples. Then again, if O'Connell promised him a little sip from a Fount of Eternal Youth, naturally, it would be churlish not to hear him out.

17

After leaving work, the journey to the appointed rendezvous went very much according to plan. George even factored in an extra hour for snarl-ups on the M25 and it fully lived-up to expectations. At just after eight, he pulled off the motorway and swung into the slip lane for the car park.

The service station was a lot bigger than he remembered it and busier – a sanctuary for those driven to the edge of insanity by the road to hell, commonly known as the London Orbital. He trickled along scouting for a suitable place to pull-in while keeping half an eye out for anyone who could be a potential candidate for O'Connell.

George had formed a clear mental image of the ex-priest as an ancient and gnarled, bruiser of a man, who, at any opportunity would be brandishing a cross and preaching hellfire and brimstone from his soapbox. But unless O'Connell combined his evangelical ministry with quietly selling membership to an automobile breakdown service from a stand outside the main entrance, there wasn't anyone actively reaching out to the masses.

He reversed into a parking bay near the main building and switched off the engine. O'Connell might have been just a little optimistic to believe that he was able to find George in such a huge car park. His car was just one of hundreds of Fords dotted about the place.

After sitting for a few minutes in the vague hope that O'Connell would simply appear, George climbed out of the car. He sat on the bonnet, nodding and smiling benignly to all and sundry that passed by like some amiable drunk, but for his trouble, all he got was some strange and occasionally hostile looks in return. It was crazy. There he was, an unremarkable, grey haired, middle-aged man, in an anonymous car and beyond a passing family resemblance to Kit, O'Connell stood no chance of finding him.

Bored and with night falling, George strolled into the service station. The brightly lit shops consisted of the usual fare for such places. He even came up with a new collective noun for all the eateries, a lard of fast food shops. Notably there was a cafeteria called 'The Highway Grubbery'. Presumably, it was intended to be a pun on Highway Robbery, which would have been more apt.

His aimless meanderings around the different stores smacked a little of Alzheimer's, but short of putting on a high-vis jacket with an arrow sign flashing above his head, what else could he do? In desperation, George even wandered into the toilet, although any approach in there was likely to have been of a more suspect nature.

George became resigned to the mission ending in failure. A waste of a perfectly good evening when he could have had his feet up, at home, albeit dodging Diane's increasingly awkward questions about Kit's computer and its inexplicable failure to yield any information.

At nine-fifteen, George made a decision. O'Connell had five more minutes to put in an appearance or he was off home. He trotted back to the car, but was uncomfortably short of breath by the time he was inside. A knot of discomfort in his chest hinted at the ominous return of the crippling heartburn that caught him unawares while visiting Kit's flat. He reluctantly accepted that with ageing he was systematically falling apart. He had his own hair and teeth, but the rest of him would need a complete refit if he were to live for much longer.

With the deadline past, including five-minutes additional grace, George started the engine and nosed the car out toward the exit. As he picked up speed along the slip road from a heavy stand of trees that lined the road a shadowy blur came out of nowhere. George hit the brakes hard, but a moment too late to prevent whatever the thing was from ending up sprawled over his bonnet.

George knew nothing of the local wildlife in these parts, but what was now languishing on the front of his car didn't appear to be your typical road-kill. It was too big and disturbingly too human-like for that, and remained worryingly motionless in a dead sort of way. George panicked, terrified he had taken out a mad J-walker until suddenly reanimated the form peeled off the bonnet and grabbed the passenger door, leaping inside the car.

'Drive!' the man growled. The voice was instantly recognisable as that of James O'Connell.

George unclipped his seat belt to check for damage, but O'Connell had other ideas.

'Drive, for feck sake!'

Dazed, confused and relived, George didn't question the order and drove off on autopilot. He snatched a glance at O'Connell, who he didn't seem any worse for his exploits, although if O'Connell had dented any metalwork, any insurance claim will make an interesting read.

'Take the A1. North,' growled O'Connell.

The fast dual carriageway was almost empty and soon they were travelling through the night at over eighty miles an hour. George finally summoned the courage to ask. 'Where are we going?'

'You just drive! I'll do d' t'inking!'

He had only been with O'Connell for five minutes and already George was already pretty hacked-off with the guy. Jumping out in front of him like that could have given him a heart attack, plus his overbearing attitude stank. All the additional stress wasn't helping his heartburn either. If it got any worse, he would have had to pull over whether O'Connell liked it or not.

In a lit section of the road, he managed to get a better look at his travelling companion. The real life O'Connell didn't fit George's mental image of him at all. He was the reverse of thickset and gnarled. O'Connell was tall and slim, delicate even, with a shock of shoulder length black hair that was swept back over his head. His nose was a particularly prominent feature, being proud and straight. Behind his round wire-frame glasses, his eyes were dark and had a frightening intensity. Yet to George's surprise, O'Connell appeared younger than him by some margin. Unless the priest had a medical condition, that anomalous voice should have taken many more years of abuse to reach such a gravelly timbre.

George was galvanised once more having seen road signs that said The North. 'Are we nearly there yet?'

George's not unreasonable inquiry was met with silence. He tried a matey approach. 'Are you hurt?'

Silence.

'You could have got killed.'

'Shut-up and keep driving,' O'Connell growled. 'I need to know we're not being followed.'

George shot him an anxious glance. 'Followed?'

It begged the question by whom, and although George would have rather stayed blissfully ignorant, it didn't stop his imagination coming up with a few ideas, which included Felixstone and or the forces of law and order. O'Connell's paranoia was infectious. George's almost exclusive occupation for the next five minutes was staring at the rear view mirror. That, combined with a speed of nearly a hundred miles an hour, wasn't the brightest thing to do if you were hoping to get a telegram from the Queen. A sharp rebuke from O'Connell snapped him out of it.

'Slow down, yer ejit. You'll have the feckin' police crawling all over us.' O'Connell looked back over his shoulder. 'Next junction.'

George reached for the indicators.

'Don't! Just go.'

George swerved onto the slip lane at the last second and had to brake hard as he hit the Give Way lines at the T-junction.

'Now where?'

'Left,' barked O'Connell.

Of the two options available, it certainly wouldn't have been George's first choice. To the right he saw a well-lit dual carriageway that headed toward a respectable built up area, while the other direction seemed to have little ambition to go anywhere other than the back of beyond. George pulled a face, but did as he was commanded.

The steep sided lane was dark and narrow and twisted endlessly through a dense over-arching avenue of trees. Even at a modest speed, it left little room for driver error. George cursed O'Connell. If his car ended up in a tree because of him, not only would he have something serious to say about it, but also it meant a bloody long walk home for both of them.

The car rounded another corner and with it, the landscape changed dramatically. The shroud of trees disappeared and the road widened. The banks of earth fell away to ground level and the inky night sky became visible once more. O'Connell checked over his shoulder.

'Pullover. Here. Now!'

George didn't hesitate to pull in at the side of the road.

'Turn the lights out. Engine off.'

It was a tense moment as they were plunged into total darkness. The night sky normally pin-pricked with stars, was a solid veil of darkness and so far imbedded into the countryside were they that there wasn't even the distant glow of civilisation on the horizon. George, fearing it was the start of the indoctrination process, challenged the tomb-like silence.

'Look––' he protested, but was cut short instantly.

'Listen,' said O'Connell, his thick Irish brogue stronger than ever. 'There are important t'ings you need to know. T'ings you won't accept but they are never-the-less true.'

'I'm only here to help Kit get out of this mess,' said George. 'All I want to know is can you help me do that?'

George's plea went unheard.

'Do you believe in a God, Mr Bannister?'

Normally, George would have sneered at such a suggestion, but in the charged atmosphere that didn't seem appropriate. His reply was measured.

'No . . . I don't think I do.'

O'Connell turned on him. 'YOU MUST!' O'Connell reared up menacingly in his seat. 'The God of the Bible truly exists. But it's not what the Church taught us to believe. And when I understood, I knew that what was written in the Bible as the Word of God, wasn't the deeds and actions of a righteous God, the God of all that was good, a God who watched over and cared for each and every one of us.'

George thought all this sounded familiar. That dualist, good God, bad God, nonsense.

'It was then I knew I could preach this lie from the pulpit no longer. There is no Heaven, Mr Bannister, no life beyond death. This is our Hell here on Earth. We can never achieve redemption for Original Sin. It is impossible. What is it we say to children at the end of a Fairy Story? "Everyone lived happily ever after"? No, not for us, not mere automatons – puppets dancing to their tune. In the beginning was the Word and the Word is the purpose and only purpose of Life on Earth.'

George's heartburn suddenly ramped up with vengeance. He hoped to guide the conversation away from the wildly metaphysical and toward Kit's precise whereabouts.

'I––'

'You must listen,' said O'Connell. 'These t'ings are crucial! We are all just pawns in their game, small pieces of an infinite jigsaw. Since the beginning we, who believe ourselves to be so important, were nothing.'

Emboldened by the rapidly increasing discomfort in his chest, George snapped back. 'Look, please, I don't care about all this religious stuff – I'm simply here to find my son.'

'So that's what you t'ink is it?' O'Connell cackled. 'No, you are here, because you, like me, had no choice.'

'My son,' George said through clenched teeth biting back the increasing pain. 'You sent him away. I need to know he's safe.'

'He's safe.'

'But for how long?'

'Do you know what a shaman is, Mr Bannister?'

'What? A witchdoctor?'

'To the narrow minds of the Western world. No, shamans are the spawn of the Watchers. Shamans are those who are preordained to be a link, a bridge, between the gods and mortal men, endowed with the power to teach and heal. They cannot be chosen or self-elected nor can their birthright be denied. It was they who were once exulted as Kings and the spiritual leaders of the common herd before the power and greed of base men prevailed.'

'And Kit has gone to Peru to find a shaman to get the medicine he thinks will cure his daughter.'

'Yer ejit! There are no drugs. Is that what Felixstone told you?'

'But I thought––'

George smelt the whiskey on O'Connell's breath as he leaned towards him.

'Oh, you thought did yer. I don't t'ink you thought at all Mr Bannister. Did you read Genesis, as I told you? Do you understand? You do not. Have you read about the Cathars? The Manicheans? No.'

'I did read through Genesis. I even discussed it with our local Vicar, but––'

'And what would a priest from the Church of England know – nothing. All Churches find the Truth an embarrassment in this so-called Scientific Age of Reason.'

'How did I miss this Truth, is it in code?'

George realised instantly the remark sounded provocatively sarcastic. O'Connell jabbed a finger in George's chest

'You think it is funny do yeh? No. The truth is there in plain sight, but people deny it, dey refuse to accept it.'

The cramping ache in George's chest was intensifying by the second, taking his breath away.

'If there are no drugs, why he has gone?'

'Do you not listen!' said O'Connell. 'You must understand!'

George was now in serious distress – he had to extract a rapid withdrawal.

'I don't think we can help each other any further.' He moved to start the engine.

'We all need help Mr Bannister, more help than you could ever imagine.' O'Connell's voice had lowered to the point where it was more of a vibration than a sound.

'It's all there, Mr Bannister. Genesis was telling us about our very nature, the reason, the real Truth.'

George turned a pained grimace into a derisive smirk. 'I'm sure.'

'You should be sure of nothing, Mr Bannister,' said O'Connell. 'When you understand what I understand, when you know what I know, then you can be sure.'

George heard a rustling sound as O'Connell tapped his arm. In the darkness, O'Connell felt for George's hand. He placed an envelope in his palm and carefully closed his fingers around it.

'You must follow the instructions inside, then you to will know the truth.'

'About what?' George gasped through the pain.

'In the West it's called – El Dorado.'

The interior light suddenly came on as the passenger door flung open. In a blur of motion, O'Connell was gone, swallowed up into the night.

They were miles from anywhere and O'Connell faced the prospect of a long and hazardous walk to get back to any semblance of civilisation, but George didn't give a fig. He had a rather pressing problem of his own to worry about. He thumped a fist into his chest with a vague idea of dislodging the root of his agony. It had the reverse effect. He gasped as a shockwave of pain radiated from his chest throughout his body.

'Thanks, Mister O'Connell, bringing me out here just for this!'

He glanced at the package – an unmarked A5 size manila envelope that weighed next to nothing. George felt the tiny contours of something soft and pliable inside. He slipped the envelope into his inside pocket of his jacket. It might contain some so-called 'Truth', but unfortunately, nothing that was likely to ease the almost unbearable pain in his chest.

He started the engine and turned on the headlights. George fully expected to see O'Connell sloping off into the night, but the road ahead was clear. George put the car into gear intending to turn round, but without warning, a dead hand clamped his heart and didn't let go. He wasn't truly aware of falling onto the steering wheel and sounding the horn. Nor was he aware that at some deep instinctive level he had jammed his foot onto the brake. He slipped into a dying abyss with a dissociated sensation of bathing in a pure white luminescence: Was it a tunnel of light guiding him to the afterlife or the headlights of another car on collision course? Either way, he should have braced himself, because it was coming his way fast.

18

He became aware of a nebulous luminosity as if looking toward the sky from the depths of an ocean. He fought against leaving that serenely enchanted place, but was forcefully propelled upward rising like a bubble of pure consciousness until he was ejected into a blaze of burning light that seared his eyes. George heard sounds of a multitude, a great clamour with people scurrying around him.

He heard a voice, calm and measured. 'I think we've got him back.'

Then he sunk once more into the welcoming pool of oblivion. It was quite pleasant there. If that was death, it wasn't so bad; it had just suffered bad press.

George's eyes reluctantly flickered open. The brightness bleached his vision white. In returning to the land of the living, he felt an unfathomable sense of loss, as if he had left something wonderful behind. The real world seemed heavy and almost monochrome after the place he had taken his first step along the road to eternity.

He was eventually driven to waking by a short sharp infernal noise like the metronomic hammering of a nail into his skull.

His eyes flicked around the room searching for its source. It was an ECG machine beside the bed, which loudly recorded every beat of his heart. In his delirium, he would have committed nothing short of murder to put an end to that accursed noise. Yet, on sober reflection, George had been a little hasty. Dipping his toe into the afterlife was one thing, but now he preferred that those reassuring bleeps didn't suddenly stop just yet awhile.

Glancing down, he. realised he was attached to a substantial array of modern medical equipment that included a drip in his arm, an impressive cluster of electrical wiring and most intrusively of all an oxygen mask that made him sound nearly as asthmatic as Darth Vader.

His immediate reaction was – accident, but he didn't feel too bad; a bit floaty, but otherwise everything seemed to be pointing in the right direction. By way of confirmation, he slid the oxygen mask down and tried to sit up. It was a mistake. He nearly blacked out. He recalled the fearful pain in his chest. Then the realisation dawned – his heart.

Although desperate for clarification, he didn't even have the strength to reach up and pull the assistance cord that dangled above the bed.

A short while later a nurse bustled into the room. She greeted him with a cheerfulness that even the most disenchanted within the caring profession exhibited toward those in their care.

'Hello, Mr Bannister. I see you're with us now. How are you feeling?'

George tried to speak, but no sound emerged. She briskly whisked off his mask and skewered a thermometer under his tongue. George's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he squealed in pain.

'Don't be such a baby,' she tutted. 'Just try to rest. You have been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours. You need to save your strength.' She then wagged a playful finger at him. 'And definitely no excitement.'

The nurse, who was about Diane's age, then pulled his arm roughly to the side and set about garrotting his upper arm in a blood pressure cuff. George realised the smiley face was just for show; the woman had some serious issues and was probably into S & M, the cruelty aspect her forte. He motioned with his eyes toward the medical paraphernalia in the room. She smiled in a smug, serve-yourself-right sort of way.

'You've had a heart attack, Mr Bannister. You were brought in last night.'

George groaned. Official confirmation that being rushed pell mell into hospital in the middle of the night––on board an ambulance with its blues and two's blaring––hadn't just been just a bit of a lark for the ambulance crew hit hard.

His eyes turned toward the small watch pinned to her tunic. Without further encouragement she said, 'It's nearly ten to five.'

He acknowledged her with a faint nod.

'You're on the mend now, Mr Bannister,' she said smiling. She then gave him another quick dig under the tongue with the thermometer just before withdrawing it. George could have excused that painful extra jab as just pure clumsiness, if it were not for the fact that she then deliberately dragged the brittle glass tubing across his teeth like chalk on a blackboard, setting them on edge.

'The doctor will be around shortly to describe the course of your future treatment,' she said gathering her equipment onto the trolley. 'Your wife's here, she's been her all night. Are you up to visitors?'

George wasn't quick enough to say no.

'Okay, I'll send her in.'

And with that Feldgate was gone, wheeling out the trolley with the same no nonsense efficiency as her arrival. A few moments later, the door opened and Diane, with clear trepidation entered the room. She relaxed as she saw that he was alive, if not exactly kicking. She took a seat beside the bed an instantly commenced a lecture on his manifold failings. Usually he had the fleetness of foot to evade such an ordeal, but under his present encumbered state, there was no escape.

'I haven't slept a wink all night worrying, you know. I told you to go to the Doctor's, didn't I? You know it was a heart attack.' She then added with grave authority, 'It was the drink. I warned you about that.'

George rolled his eyes as best he was able. Her argument might have had some validity if he was suffering from liver failure. Then again, she had also put down the twinge in his wrist to having the occasional one too many. She either understood the complex chemical reactions that took place between alcohol, bone and sinew or had cleverly deduced that his favourite whiskey glass was overly weighty.

'It was touch and go for a while . . .' she said squeezing his hand harder than was comfortable. 'I'm sorry, but it really upset me.'

She meted out a staggeringly long trumpet blast into a tissue. With a better ear for a tune, she could have sounded The Last Post.

'They asked me if you'd had any warning signs. I said no although you had been feeling very tired recently. I told them I thought it was just old age.'

George smiled glumly. She always knew how to make people feel good about themselves.

Finding his voice, he croaked, 'Where am I?'

'They moved you to Colchester.'

'When can I leave?'

'George!' Diane turned effortlessly from sympathetic partner to scolding matriarch. 'You've had a massive heart attack and need complete bed rest. Then they need to assess the extent of the damage and they won't know that for days. They are saying the next forty-eight hours are critical . . .' She hesitated, sniffing loudly. 'If you don't have another – episode, you might be okay.'

George pulled a face. If it were to happen, then he would have preferred it to come as a complete surprise. Preventative health care issues aside his irresponsible behaviour was next on the agenda.

'And what on earth were you thinking of, being out in the middle of nowhere at that time of night alone with that man? And he didn't stop to help you either, did he. Why didn't you just stay at the service station? It's lucky for you someone came along when they did. I dread to think what might have happened without him. He administered the first aid until the ambulance arrived. Don't you think I've got enough to worry about with Kit and now you?'

'Who?' George rasped.

'He's your son,' she sniffed contemptuously, adding, 'They said there might be brain damage.'

'No, who saved me?'

'We don't know. He drove off when the ambulance left. Who ever he was, I think you owe him a big thank you. Not like Kit's so-called friend.'

'He'd gone,' said George, unsure why he was defending O'Connell.

Diane's recriminations spent, she slumped forward exhausted.

'Anyway, now I've seen that you're okay, I'll have to go home to get some sleep. Not that I'll probably be able to with all this to worry about. You're not getting shooting pains in your arm are you? Shortness of breath? Chest cramps? How's your blood pressure? You're not feeling dizzy?'

He shook his head as much in despair, as in response to her quizzing. Who needs doctors when Professor Diane was around?

She crushed his hand again. 'I'll be back later.'

'No rush,' he said under his breath.

George wasn't alone long before his nurse and a pasty-faced young man in a white coat bustled into the room.

'Hello Mr Bannister, how are you?' He was tall and dark haired, but looked suspiciously youthful as though he might still be wearing his school blazer beneath his doctor's coat. George was concerned that he might be entrusting his long-term survival to someone with just a couple of 'A'-Levels and not someone as eminently qualified as his wife.

'I was hoping you would tell me?' George suggested playfully.

He beamed. 'I'm Dr Boyle and this is Nurse Jenny Feldgate.'

As the purveyor of bad news, he became respectfully solemn. 'I expect you want to know what happened to you.'

George didn't answer. He suspected the gory details wouldn't exactly incline him to a high five or offer a fist pump.

'Your condition, Mr Bannister has been caused by a myocardial infarction that led to cardiac arrest.' In response to George's puzzled look, the doctor added, 'More commonly known as a blocked artery. Stopped the blood getting through to your heart.' He smiled apologetically. 'Not good news, I'm afraid.'

He picked up the chart at the end of the bed. He ran his finger down the notes and spoke in a lilting tone as though he was reading the weather forecast.

'A serious episode like you've had would normally result in extensive damage to the muscular coronary tissue. We will be running tests over the next few days to establish to what extent. After that we'll have a better prognosis,' he said then smiled reassuringly, adding, 'Things seem to be settling down a bit. I'm sure we'll have you up and about in no time. But at the moment the most important thing, you must understand, is complete bed rest. The anti-coagulants are working, but the next forty-eight hours are critical to your long term recovery.'

'. . . or not', thought George, aware of what the doctor had diplomatically left unsaid.

The young doctor ended his visit with a flourish.

'Keep up the good work now and I'll see you in the morning.' With that he turned abruptly and left, with Feldgate snapping at his heals.

George closed his eyes reflecting on his sorry state. He was damaged goods, the wrong side of fifty-five with a weak heart and having to be 'careful' with his lifestyle. And with it, Diane will have gained the final victory. Undoubtedly, a substantial part of the medical advice will be to lay off the booze. It was with those gloomy thoughts swirling around his head that George drifted into a dreamless sleep.

19

George awoke in the morning unexpectedly refreshed. It said a lot for the power of a good night's sleep and presumably a cocktail of feel-good drugs. It was ridiculous to think it, but lying in that hospital bed only two days after a massive heart attack, it was the best he had felt in weeks, even decades. He should have had one years ago. It must have been something to do with giving the pipes a good clear out.

Looking at the sunlight streaming through the window, he guessed he had been asleep for quite some time. Diane had left last night at eight-thirty and before the doctors made their rounds, the TV had been on, but couldn't remember what he had watched. It was comforting to know that in sickness or health some things never change.

He felt stronger too. He exercised his arms up and down as if pushing imaginary weights on a bench press. After a brief workout, he felt great. Encouraged by his newly acquired vigour, he manoeuvred himself up into a sitting position. It was as though he had triggered an alarm. An agitated nurse Feldgate burst through the door.

'Mr Bannister, you shouldn't be doing that. Complete rest and no exertion didn't the doctor say.'

George's voice was stronger too. 'Moving from down there to up here wasn't exactly running a marathon.'

She smiled condescendingly, not appreciating George's sense of humour.

'No, but just a change of position causes changes in your blood pressure. And we don't want your body to experience any unnecessary stress, do we? We want to keep everything nice and steady, don't we?'

Before George could answer back, she pulled back his oxygen mask, and rifled the thermometer into his mouth preventing further debate on the matter. By way of additional punishment, she then let the mask ping back onto his face. Unwisely, George yelped as it smacked him on the bridge of his nose, bringing tears to his eyes. She just shook her head at his wimpiness and proceeded to squeeze the life out of his arm with the blood pressure cuff.

It reminded George of the old days when they docked dog's tails by tying tight elastic bands around the base. Eventually the waggley bit turned black and dropped off. George feared if Feldgate carried on for much longer, his arm was destined to go the same way. He would have made his feelings known if it wasn't for the instrument of torture that was inserted under his tongue to keep him quiet.

Finally, after any sensation had long gone out of his arm, she released the cuff and whipped out the thermometer.

'Everything seems to be settling down quite nicely,' she said stowing her equipment back onto the trolley. 'Oh,' she added hesitantly, 'there's someone outside to see you, we have strict rules about visiting hours – but I could make an exception, I suppose . . .'

George didn't know if he was expected to be just eternally grateful or whether some financial consideration was in order.

'Who is it?'

'A lady Vicar, Christine?'

'Yeah, please.'

'Well – just this once.'

Moments after the nurse left, a reassuring moon-like face appeared around the side of the door.

'Is it okay, George? I know it's early, but I've got calls to make in the parish, I thought . . .'

George slipped off his mask.

'No, come in, come in,' he said. Christine's good humour was infectious. 'You're a bit late,' he chuckled. 'I could have needed you last night.'

She stepped into the room in full clerical regalia, with black blouse and dog collar.

'Late?'

'For the 'Last Rites'. You'd best stick around though. They tell me the next forty-eight hours are critical.'

'Oh, George, don't say such things, this has been such a shock to us all.'

He pointed toward the seat.

'So how are you? We've all said a prayer for you.'

George pulled a face but was instantly embarrassed by his ingratitude, especially as she was kind enough to lobby on his behalf a busy deity like God.

'Thanks. It was a nice thought. But I tell you what,' he said breezily, 'I actually feel fine.'

'I heard it was a bad one.'

'They're doing tests.'

'If there's anything I can do to help?'

'The only help I need is to get out of here.'

She rocked back in surprise.

'What's the rush! Especially in these posh surroundings? You must have some clout to get a room of your own?'

'Medical insurance.'

'I'd make the most of it if I were you.'

'I can't stand just lying around, there's too much going on.'

'Don't be daft; you've got to take it easy.' She then lowered her voice and asked, 'Do you think it was the stress of it all that brought this on?'

'Probably. But hey, listen. O'Connell says it's not . . .' He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. 'You know, what we thought.'

'That Kit was a Born Again Fundamentalist Creationist.'

'No – drugs!'

'Oh good, that's great,' she beamed but saw George didn't share her delight. 'Isn't it?'

'Can you look inside my jacket? It's in the locker.'

The hinges, which had never seen a drop of grease in their life, creaked loudly as Christine opened the metal door. She felt inside the jacket and produced the manila envelope.

'This?'

She returned to his bedside.

'Yes,' George said. 'He told me to follow the instructions inside.'

Christine sat puzzled.

'Is that door properly shut?' George asked. 'I just hope O'Connell is savvy enough to know the difference between illegal drugs and what's in this envelope.'

Christine's hand flew to her face. 'You don't think . . .?'

'I hope not.' George took a deep breath. 'Can you open it?'

Christine looked a little unsure, but ran her finger along the seam. She hesitantly slid her fingers inside.

'What is it?' George asked urgently.

'I – I don't know.' She pulled out a small plastic pouch containing a reddish brown substance and peered at it inquisitively. 'It looks like . . . hair.'

'Hair!' George took the pouch from her. Even without his reading glasses, he saw it was a tuft about two inches long of red matted frizz. 'Hair? There must be something else.'

She pulled out a sheet of paper tucked inside and handed it to George.

'It's just a printout from a web site. A company specialising in Genealogies. Tracing the Y- Chromosome.'

'That's the Male bit, isn't it?' she asked squinting at the curious curly red contents.

'I believe so,' George said, as he turned the paper over looking for further instructions on the other side. It was either intentionally blank or it was written in invisible ink. 'I don't understand.'

'What did he say you're supposed to do with it?' asked Christine.

'He said follow the instructions.'

'Do you think these are his? Was Father O'Connell a Ginger?'

George chuckled, 'Not unless he dyed his hair.'

'But if his hair was dyed, how . . .?'

'They're short and curly, aren't they?'

Christine threw the plastic pouch at him as if it contained a terrible blight.

'That's horrible.'

'There are some strange people out there.'

'Did you find out anything more about Kit?'

'Nothing, only that he was safe, then he handed me this and went.'

'He wanted to see you, just for this?'

George shrugged. 'Perhaps, who knows?'

'Were you with him long?'

'About an hour.'

'What on earth were you talking about?'

'Oh, don't you worry about that – he had plenty to talk about – witchdoctors and the like, would you believe.'

'Oh, crikey! If there are no drugs, why the cloak and dagger stuff?'

'I've no idea,' George smirked. 'And in the car he thought we might be being followed. Paranoid or what?'

'So what is Kit doing in Peru?'

'Ah, right,' George said squirming with embarrassment on his son's behalf. 'It's this El Dorado business again.

'Oh dear, it's all a bit confusing.' She squeezed his hand. It was a more considerate affair than one of Diane's bone-crushers. 'I really must go. I'll pop in again tomorrow. What do you want done with this?' she asked waving the envelope.

'I'll have it,' he said. 'I'll keep O'Connell's little memento close to my heart. And the bumf will give me something to read.'

She handed him the envelope. He popped the plastic pouch back inside and slid it under his pillow.

20

During the rest of the day and much to the clear annoyance of Nurse Feldgate, he had several visitors arrive unannounced. How many grapes can one man eat? By seven o'clock he had worn himself out and quite frankly he was bored with recounting his tale of wow.

With the last well-wisher gone, having left him with the ambiguous and slightly unsettling comment that they hoped to see him tomorrow, George fell effortlessly asleep.

His eyes snapped open and he stared up into the darkness at the ceiling. Shielded by the heavy blinds, the yellow glow from a distant streetlight barely cast a shadow into the room.

Naturally, he was relieved still to be in the land of the living, but was puzzled as to why he had been ejected so abruptly from such a deep sleep. Admittedly, he didn't feel particularly tired, but something must have disturbed him. He listened carefully for any noise in the corridor or beyond, but all was quiet. George rested his head back on the pillow. Then he heard a sound. Not only did it emanate close by and from within the room, but worryingly he knew what the noise was. It was a creak from the old hinges on the locker door.

He sat up peering into the gloom.

'Nurse?' he inquired hoarsely. Not that he had carefully considered that initial presumption.

NHS pay was bad, but surely even Feldgate wouldn't stoop as low to stealing a sick man's clothes. The hazy yellow glow from the window was slowly obscured by a shape rising as if from a trap door at the end of his bed. It formed a disturbingly large, human outline. Being six feet tall and nearly as wide quickly put paid to the idea that the petty-pilferer was his psychotic nurse.

Against doctor's orders, George's heart began to race wildly. Being pretty certain that having an intruder in your room, at night and in the dark, rifling through your things, wasn't standard procedure in the NHS, George made a grab for the assistance cord that dangled over the bed. In his panic he knocked the toggle aside leaving it whirling around his head like a drunken pendulum. His efforts to capture the wayward toggle took on a new urgency as the shadowed figure advanced toward him.

It reached the side of his bed and hissed, 'Mr Bannister, you have something that belongs to Mr Felixstone.' And should there be any confusion over the timing of this items return, the huge mass growled. 'And he wants it back now!'

George instantly recognised the voice as being the clipped tones of Felixstone's man, Ross. He could barely stammer out a word of protest before Ross swooped, pinning him to the bed. George was in line of fire for the shotgun blast of spit that peppered his face as Ross growled, 'Where is it?'

Ross didn't have a hand on his throat, but it felt like it as George rasped, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Ross grabbed the lapels of his pyjamas drawing him effortlessly upward as if he was a rag doll.

'Where is it?' he growled again.

It in all likelihood would have been, in the most literal sense, a heart stopping moment and the finale to what, in George's opinion, was his all too brief cameo role in this world, but for the door suddenly opening flooding the room with light. Nurse Feldgate, with her usual no nonsense efficiency, marched into the room pushing the rattling medical trolley before her. Ross immediately released his hold and George flopped back onto the bed.

Ross guiltily followed her with his eyes as she crossed the room. The nurse scowled, staring hard at the visitor. No torture victim can have ever been so pleased to see the return of their tormentor. Never again would George bemoan her cruel sadomasochist tendencies. She could jab her thermometer wherever her heart desired.

'Nurse, he was just leaving,' George said quickly, seizing the moment.

'Too right he is,' she said glaring at Ross. 'You know the rules Mr Bannister, no visitors after nine o'clock. I would also ask you to observe the correct visiting hours in the future.' She motioned Ross toward the door with a flick of her hand as if she were shooing away a fly. 'Please, you must leave, now, go.'

Ross gave George a chilling look that said 'I'm not finished with you yet' then darted out of the room. Nurse Feldgate huffed and puffed and closed the door behind him.

'A friend of yours, hum?'

Although his heart was pounding at a rate that wasn't advisable for even someone in A1 condition and practically suicidal for one in his, a strange feeling of euphoria swept over him.

'No,' he said weakly, but smiling.

As the nurse began took his pulse, a look of alarm spread rapidly across her face.

'Mr Bannister, what on earth has been going on here?' She hurriedly took his blood pressure. Even the strangulation his arm received wasn't unwelcome. Once the reading was taken she reacted fast. 'We need to get the doctor.'

Without tidying her equipment, she flew out of the door.

George lay helpless in the bed, his breath was shallow and laboured as if his whole body was just one mass of erratically pulsating tissue. Feldgate raced back into the room with the duty doctor. In quick succession he barked out his orders and with a professional calm, he explained what he was doing.

'Now George, you'll just feel a momentary sting on your arm as we give you this. It's a sedative. It may make you feel a little drowsy. And shortly you'll to begin to feel better. Here we go.'

George nodded grimly as he felt the cool liquid injected into his arm. Within moments its effects were felt. He floated with a calm detachment as though cocooned in cotton wool. The voices in the room receded into distance. It was the agreeable side-effects of the medication or he was dying again. George didn't care which as either way it was all rather pleasant.

21

The next morning the doctor was on his rounds early to check on George's condition. Presumably relieved that he hadn't 'lost one' on his watch, he volunteered a series of medical clichés which included – "Touch and go" – "Time's a healer" – "No excitement" – and naturally – "He'd be up and about in no time". It couldn't be soon enough, with Felixstone's sidekick now gunning for him.

George daren't imagine what Ross might have done if it hadn't been for the nurse's timely intervention. Felixstone was a cad of the highest order; sending his psychotic lackey to menace a sick man. While enjoying a furious indignation, Christine appeared at the door.

'Hi, George,' she said breezily. His mood was written on his face. 'Is this a bad time?'

'No, no, I'm sorry. It wasn't a good night last night, that's all.'

'Oh.' She sat in the chair beside the bed. 'Do you want me to go? I can call back tomorrow if that's better?'

'No, no, stay. It's just that something happened last night.'

'Not another attack!'

'No.' He massaged the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. 'Not in that sense – worse.'

'Worse?' she asked. 'How?'

'Someone got into the room last night, while I was asleep.'

'A thief!' she gasped with her mouth forming a perfect 'O'.

George shook his head. 'No, he works for Felixstone.'

'My God, George, what happened, did he steal anything?'

'He wanted O'Connell's envelope. He threatened me, claiming it belongs to Felixstone.'

'Did you give it to him?'

'Not likely. Still here,' he said pointing to the pillow and sounding every bit the hero. But for Ms Feldgate's intervention, there was little doubt he would have given it over with little further persuasion.

'I don't know what to say, George?' she said. 'But surely, it's time to call the police?'

He smiled reassuringly. 'Once I explain to Felixstone that it's a misunderstanding and there are no drugs, it's bound to sort itself out.'

At that point Christine was meant to voice her agreement. The silence was telling. He didn't really believe it would be that easy either. She gently took his hand.

'But in the meantime all this extra stress isn't helping.'

'Well, it's a strange thing, but following my series of near death experiences, I feel great. How bizarre is that?'

'Do you think he might come back, presumably they've increased security on the room?'

Embarrassed, George cleared his throat. 'Ahem, well . . .'

She flicked her hair back to get a better look at the stubborn idiot before her.

'Oh, George what are you like? They can't have someone wandering about the hospital threatening people.'

'Anyway,' she said, 'it makes what I'd come to show you seem pretty tame after that.'

'I just need to get out of here. I feel like a proverbial sacrificial lamb being tied to this bed.'

'You could of course just give him what he wants.'

'But it's not what he wants; I'm sure he's expecting something entirely different to hair.'

'Look, I don't know if this will help, but I've found out quite a great deal about our Father James O'Connell. And I have to say it wasn't hard either. It might throw some light on what's going on.'

George propped himself up in the bed.

'So what's he been up to?'

She had the enigmatic smile of someone with a story to tell.

'Well, in his younger days, it seems that O'Connell was no run-of-the-mill parish priest. He had a certain celebrity, possibly notoriety some would say. Made it to the front page of the Daily Telegraph, no less.'

George's face twisted in disgust. 'Oh no, don't tell me, not – Children?'

Christine frowned primly, like a maiden aunt.

'Good God no. I don't think his peers would have been so forthcoming if that were the case.'

She paused, taking a deep breath for dramatic effect.

'No, I have it on good authority that he was considered something of a Miracle Healer.' George scrutinized her face waiting for the punch line, as she added, 'They say the sick came to him and he cured them.'

It wasn't the funniest gag he had ever heard, but it did make him smile. 'That's what doctors do all the time, isn't it?'

'No, the ones he cured were apparently the real basket cases, the lost causes.'

'It's suggestion, that's all,' George said dismissively.

Christine offered a wry smile at George's iron-clad scepticism.

'I can only tell you what they told me.'

'Who?'

'By two local priests.'

'Well they would say that wouldn't they!' George said mimicking an age-old retort.

'I know you're sceptical, but these two priests weren't exactly fighting his corner. The Catholic Church at the time was apparently deeply embarrassed by the furore he created.'

'Hardly surprising. They wouldn't want some charlatan promoting themselves as some new Messiah now, would they?'

'You say that, but these 'Miracles' seem to be well attested.'

George snorted. 'Take it from me, if you go to a place believing that miracles will happen; then in people's minds, they undoubtedly will. It's called the placebo effect. Isn't that why it's called Faith healing?'

Christine bit her lip not wishing to be drawn into a theological wrestling match. She stated simply, 'In some cases you may be right.'

'It's obvious,' George said, warming to his theme. He enjoyed putting people right on this nonsense. 'Hypnosis is a classic example. What people can be made to do under hypnosis is incredible, way beyond their normal every day capabilities and that's done purely by suggestion alone. And there are stories of mothers lifting buses off children with feats of strength impossible in their normal lives.'

'Miraculous?' Christine suggested wryly.

George retreated, realising he had painted himself into corner. 'No, not what you mean, not in the religious sense.'

Christine raised an eyebrow, but let her minor victory pass. She pulled a large white envelope from her bag.

'I'm not suggesting this will change your mind, but take a look at this. I had it copied at the library.'

She handed him a folded A3 sheet of paper. George opened it out and saw a copy of the front page of the broadsheet newspaper, The Daily Telegraph, dated fifteenth of June nineteen-seventy. The banner headline immediately grabbed his attention. He remembered it as if it were yesterday.

WORLD CUP - MEXICO

ENGLAND OUT OF THE WORLD CUP

England dramatically lose 2 – 3 to West Germany in extra time.

Beneath, highlighted with a marker pen, was an altogether different story. The article was headlined:

Miracle Priest defies Church authority

A controversy is raging within the usually conservative cloisters of the Catholic Church regarding the circumstances surrounding renegade priest Fr James O'Connell and the apparent 'Miraculous Happenings' that occur during his services.

The charismatic Father O'Connell, aged 48, known for his extensive missionary work in some of the poorest areas in the world including the Amazon Basin, is causing quite a stir, says a Vatican insider.

Since returning from South America, Father O'Connell's congregation has swollen to Biblical proportions. Each Mass, remarkable by its full attendance, with sometimes as many as twice that number gathered outside his church, coming in all weathers, in order to be part of this phenomena and in the hope of witnessing a miracle.

People have been drawn to his mass' from all over the world, the sick and needy, believing Fr O'Connell to be their one last chance where conventional medical science has failed them.

Saint or Sinner?

The some of the claims made for his 'Miracle Healing' have received surprise backing from the medical profession. One man with terminal, end stage, brain cancer, blind and confined to a wheel chair, having attended just a single inspiring mass is seemingly completely cured. Not only is he back playing football for his local team, but also he's very much alive and well, 9 months beyond his consultant's estimated life expectancy. Dr Henry is quoted as saying, 'It is astonishing. As confirmed by tests and X-Ray, we cannot detect any trace of the once extensive tumours.'

Perhaps even more remarkable with implications for the whole of medical science is the story of the young man John Boyd aged 20 who was blinded when only 4 years old. Both optical nerves were severed as a result of a serious car crash. Until now his condition was considered permanent and irreversible. After attending Fr O'Connell's church, experts have confirmed he now has full and unimpeded 20/20 vision in both eyes. 'The impossible has been seen to happen,' said a spokesman for the London Eye hospital.

'Maybe we will have to rethink our definition of impossible.'

O'Connell seems humbly unperturbed by the furore he has created. He takes no credit for the manifestations, nor does he ascribe the phenomena to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary or the Holy Spirit but to something he calls the 'Communion of the Human Spirit'. Naturally it is this aspect of his ministry, which brings him into direct conflict with the Church authorities. It has been said Fr O'Connell could face the ultimate sanction of excommunication should he not renounce his heretical and some say blasphemous views . . .

The article went on, but George laid the sheet aside to take a reality check. He had to remind himself he was reading an article written for one of the heavyweight papers not a cut and paste from a sensationalist red-top. And also it was something that had been editorially approved with the intention of being accepted as factually true article by possibly over a million readers. Then again, in his experience, you could never believe anything you read in the papers.

'Interesting, don't you think eh?' Christine said with big grin, pleased with her bit of detective work.

'Yeah, very good,' George said cautiously. Yet there was something about the small grainy black and white photograph accompanying the article that made him reach for the sheet again. At the centre of the shot was an unmistakable picture of O'Connell. His jet-black hair was swept back over his head in an identical style as George had witnessed two days previously, as though he had been in a fashion time-warp for nearly forty years. George looked closer still. He knew enough of Catholic rites to recognise the shot was taken during Communion, with O'Connell flanked by two Altar servers and what looked like a young deacon in attendance behind. Even from the poor quality images it wasn't hard to make out the adoration etched on the faces of his congregation waiting in line to receive his blessing.

'That's O'Connell in the picture?' Christine queried.

George presumed that that had been a question and not a statement.

'Yes, it is,' he said slowly, unsure why he should be so hesitant. He nodded as the answer came to him. 'Yes, it's exactly like him.'

'Right,' Christine said, confused by George's reply.

'No you don't understand. It is exactly like the person who jumped into my car the other night.' He held it up for her to see. 'How can that be? This photograph was taken nearly forty years ago. According to this newspaper that would make O'Connell now an old man, late eighties or ninety.'

'It's not a very clear picture.'

'Forget the picture,' George said. 'The sums don't add up. Even allowing for some typically inaccurate reporting, whichever way you look at it this O'Connell, even if he's still alive, is ancient, and cannot be the fit athletic man who jumped into my car.'

'But didn't you say it looked exactly like him.'

'Yes, looked,' George replied. 'It is either a truly remarkable coincidence or it was someone who doing a very good job at impersonating the James O'Connell you see in this picture.'

'What on earth for?'

George loved a good conspiracy theory, but only if it was of his own devising.

'It's obvious. This priest here, in the nineteen-seventies, had a huge following. He's simply taking advantage of his likeness to the original James O'Connell, for his own ends.'

'Which would be?'

George shrugged. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

Christine threw him another curveball.

'Posing as someone via the Internet is one thing, but why would he want to meet you face to face?'

'To give me that envelope.'

'But why go to the trouble? What had he to gain? Especially if he's taking the chance that he'd be exposed as a charlatan fraud?' Christine studied the photograph again. 'It definitely couldn't be the same man?'

'Of course it could,' George chuckled. 'If he hasn't aged a day in nearly forty years.'

George spent the rest of the day planning his escape. As each hour past he felt stronger and by late afternoon he was impatiently pacing around his room. His vigour may have been an illusion fuelled by his medication, but he hadn't had as much energy since he was thirty.

Ms Feldgate was thunderstruck when she saw him, and nearly had a seizure herself.

'Mr Bannister, what on earth are you doing?' she gasped as though she had stumbled upon him wandering around in his birthday suit.

George grudgingly climbed back under the covers, but encouraged by his unaccountable wellbeing, he asked, 'When will I be able to leave?'

From the look on her face it was as though he had asked to be freed from Broadmoor.

'Leave! Out of the question.'

It only provoked her to new heights of torture. It took a good ten minutes to get feeling back into his hand after she had taken his blood pressure and a good while longer to recover from the mauling he had suffered during the bed-bath. He tried once more when the consultant visited on his rounds.

'Mr Bannister, you need to give your body time to recover. There are tests to be done. I foresee if everything goes smoothly, you'll be out of here in around two weeks.'

George knew he would be lucky to survive the night, if Ross came back.

'Can't you just give me some pills – I feel fine?'

'Oh, if only it were that simple. With your condition, you are a very fortunate man. By rights, you should be dead. I've known many people who never even made it here alive.'

It was no surprise recalling the reckless speed at which the ambulance drove to get there.

Stout and florid of face the consultant, a likely candidate for a heart attack himself, added. 'Come, come, you wouldn't expect to walk the day after you fractured your leg?'

If the consultant hadn't taken that patronising smirk off his face, even if he had a broken his leg, George would have jumped out of bed and punched him on the nose just to prove a point.

'And if I decide to go of my own accord?' George said defiantly.

But it was too late. The consultant was already halfway out of the door, with Ms Feldgate following briskly on his heels. They hadn't reckoned on George's sheer bloody mindedness. He nimbly scrambled out of bed and chased after them into the corridor. George found them attending what appeared to be a wizened corpse. All bets were off on for how much longer the poor soul would benefit from medical expertise as opposed to an undertaker's. Feldgate saw him first and shrieked as if she had seen a ghost. It was little wonder with George hurtling wraith-like down the ward with his white bed-gown billowing all around him. The consultant shook his head in exasperation.

'Mr Bannister, just what do you think you're doing?'

'Back to bed!' growled Feldgate.

'I can't stay here.'

'You are.' Feldgate went to grad his arm, but George was too quick and side-stepped her lunge.

'Just do some tests. If it's still bad, I'll stay.'

The consultant ran his finger down the chart.

'Well, Mr Bannister, these test results are most encouraging, if not extremely surprising. Extraordinary. There appears to be no ischaemic injury. Cerebral function seems unaltered although a MIR scan will later confirm that. Your blood gases and glucose plasma readings are within normal limits, as is your blood pressure.'

'So I can go?' George said in the same instant as he leapt out of the bed and made for his locker.

'If I didn't know better,' the consultant said shaking his head, 'It would be hard to believe that you had a cardiac event only seventy-two hours ago – quite remarkable.'

George signed waiver paperwork that relieved the hospital of any legal responsibility should he subsequently drop dead, and armed with a mountain of advice and a similarly mountainous mass of medication, he was discharged. There had been one proviso, that he wore an alarm device around his neck. It had a big red button which, when pushed, alerted the nearest paramedic to race to his assistance. George didn't object. It would be useful if Ross got hold of him and he needed help being put back together again.

Although the battle with the hospital was over, the battle with Diane had only just begun.

'You get yourself back in that hospital,' she said snapping at his heals across the car park. 'How do you expect me to cope if you have another heart attack? Haven't I got enough on my plate already? You're so selfish. Hospital's the best place for you. I won't be able to relax for a minute.'

Years of practice had enabled George mentally to put his fingers in his ears. Undoubtedly she volunteered a great deal more sound advice, but he actually felt quite chipper and would rather she didn't spoil it. By the time they reached the car her storm of verbal protest had blown itself out to be replaced by something far more insidious. She vented her displeasure in the form of a personal vendetta against the car.

The gear stick took the brunt of the assault. It was somewhat to the credit of the manufacturer that at the end of the journey it was still attached to the gearbox. She red lined every gear change while between times she randomly stamped on the brakes as if the pedal was a dangerous insect to be crushed without mercy.

At least the journey home was peacefully silent, except for the squealing of tyres and plaintive sounds from various stressed mechanical parts of the car. During the hour-long terror ride not a single word passed between them, with both carefully avoiding eye-contact like two strangers thrown uncomfortably together on a train.

At home, Diane immediately set about administering his medication with a ruthless, if not fanatical dedication. Each prescription was meticulously meted out precisely, on time and without question. It went against the grain for George to be dosed up with so many pills, but he accepted his lot with good grace, and as the price to he had to pay for her marginal approval.

After a cup of tea, he ventured outside to check on his car on the drive. From several previous experiences, he had little faith in recovery companies being able to transport any vehicle without some painful issue arising. He walked around the car running a careful eye over the bodywork, seeking-out any dents and scratches. To his surprise, it had been so far so good until he reached the passenger side. There he found not so much a blemish, as a bloody great hole in the window.

'Diane!' he bellowed.

She popped her head around the front door to see what the noise was about.

'Look!' he fumed, waving at the rear quarter light on the back door.

She joined him and needlessly pointed out the obvious.

'Oh, it's been smashed.'

'Those bloody car people, look what they've done. I just don't believe it.'

George furiously paced around the car, but was drawn back to the hole, like a tongue seeks out an aching tooth.

'No, I don't think it was them,' she said and unwisely prodded the crazed glass causing more to fall inside the car. 'It definitely wasn't broken when I left to pick you up, earlier.'

Still seething, George aimed the remote key fob at the car and jabbed the button, but it was already unlocked. He ducked his head to look inside, but there was nothing obviously missing: the radio was untouched, as was a pile of CD's and other bits, nothing untoward except for the various tissues and assortments of rubbish from the glove compartment that had been tossed onto the floor.

'Is it okay?' she asked nervously. 'Perhaps they were disturbed.'

'Yeah, disturbed in the head,' George growled. 'I don't know what this place is coming to. Isn't that why we came to live here, to get away from all this sort of nonsense?'

'It can't have been someone in the village, surely?' said Diane. George brushed the glass broken off the rear seat and onto the driveway. Diane, still puzzling over the mystery, said, 'It's strange, it's almost as though they waited for me to go out.'

'Well they're not exactly going to give you a knock and tell you they're stealing the car, are they!'

With a look of horror, she gripped his arm, cutting off the circulation, as surely as if she were Nurse Feldgate's star pupil. 'You don't think someone's watching the house?'

George tried not to let his alarm show. Naturally, he had said nothing to Diane about his night prowler being the prime motivation to leave the hospital. His home and their peaceful village should have been an oasis from all the ugliness in the world including Felixstone and his henchmen. He prayed for the first time in his life that the damage to the car was simply a piece of mindless vandalism, perpetrated by some equally mindless idiot, but an ominous foreboding told him different.

22

George woke with a start. He was hot and clammy, as if he had escaped from the clutches of some instantly forgotten nightmare. In the still calm of the bedroom there was no obvious reason why his heart should have been pounding so hard. Occasionally, a big lorry rumbled past in the night, shaking the building and waking the household, but there was no distant road noise fading into the night, only the peaceful silence of the countryside. Even Diane's breathing was subdued and quietly rhythmical, without its usual throaty gurgle.

Beyond the illumination of any village streetlight, the darkness in the room was complete, except for a thin crack of light that framed the bedroom door. By necessity, if they weren't to break their necks going up and down the steep cottage steps in the small hours, a wall lamp on the stairwell was left to burn all night.

Yet, as George peered into the gloom, he was convinced he saw the light blink. In all probability it was just his eyes playing tricks or a sign that the bulb was about to blow, but he sat up in the bed for confirmation. The thin halo of light framing the door stayed constant. After a few moments he fell back onto the pillow and shut his eyes. He was getting spooked over nothing and had even convinced himself that the car thing earlier had been an extremely annoying coincidence. He then heard the faintest of sounds and froze. That sound only ever came from one place in the house and that whisper of creaking wood could seriously mark the demise of his coincidence theory.

Old houses creaked and groaned with the changing weather, wet and dry, hot and cold and theirs was no exception. Although he had quietened most of the worst offenders, there was one piece of ancient timber that defied his best efforts to hush. It was a board on the third tread below the landing and the noise it made meant only one thing – someone was climbing the stairs. He instantly knew with a certainty that was beyond reason that the creeping intruder was Felixstone's sidekick, Ross.

In a state of terrified inertia, George could neither think nor act. He snatched a quick glance at Diane. She was still asleep and blissfully unaware of the drama about to unfold around her. Terrified of what might be in store, George had now to concede that the decision to leave hospital might have been a rash one, especially if he was to face a painful bone-breaking ordeal at the hands of Ross.

If his brain had been as energetic in its function as his heart, it might have come up with a strategy to fend off his would be attacker, but keeping very still and hiding under the covers was less than inspired. Another sound, closer, just beyond the door, stirred a deeper, heroic instinct, dismissed the lacklustre proposal.

George wasn't a brawler. The last time he had ever had a fight was in the school playground and even then he had come off second best. And only then because there weren't more than two people involved in the scrap. So, as he slipped silently out of bed and urged on by something deep inside to protect life, limb and property, he didn't have a clue how to go about it.

With both Ross' age and physical condition it would have been madness to confront him head on. George had no intention of leaping into the fray hopelessly swinging away with his fists. Nor was the bedroom the best place to lay his hands upon an arsenal of tactically decisive weaponry. Although George had the element of surprise, without anything to press home that narrow advantage, he knew they were done for.

He crept around the bed toward the corner of the room and slid into the shadows, while carefully feeling around for anything of weight on the dressing table. It was hopeless. A hairbrush didn't represent the primary armament of choice, not unless Ross would take flight at the thought of having his parting rearranged.

There was a noise on the landing. George knew all that separated the two men, was the thickness of the bedroom door. He picked up an object on the dressing table and waited. His senses screamed on high alert, focusing on the telltale brightening that would indicate the door was opening.

He could barely contain a gasp of horror, or generally a whole series of involuntary movements that usually involved the need for incontinence wear when the crack of light slowly grew brighter. George brushed away the cascade of stinging sweat that had fallen in his eyes as he readjusted his grip on his weapon. As the door edged open, George held his breath should it betray him.

As the light fanned out, George saw the elongated shadow cast by a figure standing in the threshold. Then the monstrous form crept forward. Even in silhouette there was no mistaking the military bearing. It was Ross. The door swung silently open allowing more light to tumble into the room. If Ross saw half the bed unoccupied, George's only advantage was gone, but he daren't make his move until he was in range.

Ross crept forward hesitantly with his eyes sweeping the darkness. George pulled back as far as he could into the shadowy corner. Ross turned and stared directly at the space where George stood, but he made no move toward him. Unless it was part of a cruel game, Ross hadn't seen him.

George had been holding his breath for quite a while and to carry on doing so, didn't seem to be an option. He needed to take a breath soon, or he would discover to his chagrin that he would have taken his last. Adding to his difficulties was that having held it for so long, he doubted the next would be a modest affair either.

He never dreamt in twenty-five years of marriage Diane's loud snoring would have been the saving of him, but it was. She let out a deep hearty rattle in the same instant as George gasped for air. A second sonorous rasp, an even finer example than the first, caused Ross to swing around and level his arm toward the bed like a one-armed sleepwalker. It seemed an odd pose to strike when to George's horror, he realised Ross had a gun. Then against his better judgement, those instinctive heroics reared their head again.

'Nohhhhh!!!!' George yelled as he leapt from the shadows.

Ross spun around and nearly fell backwards as George let rip from point blank range with an antiperspirant aerosol full into his face. The room filled with a cloying sweet fragrance as George ruthlessly pressed home his slim advantage directing the spray hard into Ross' eyes.

The air became thick, causing both men to gag on the airborne fug. Ross aimed a wild swing at George. It knocked the can clean out of his hand and bounced off the wall with a hollow ping. George was now defenceless as he staggered back to await Ross' vengeance. George's valiant effort seemed to have been for nothing. Ross growled and advanced upon him with the gun aimed directly at his heart. It wasn't quite the urgent life threatening scenario the hospital had envisaged when they gave him the emergency gizmo, but surely his current predicament warranted hitting that big red button. George wouldn't have hesitated, except he wasn't wearing it around his neck as instructed – he had left it downstairs on the kitchen table. George surmised Ross wouldn't be in the frame of mind to allow him to rectify that faux pas.

With Ross no more than an arms length away, suddenly all hell let loose. Ross shuddered in an agonised wail, bucking and weaving like a fish on the end of a line. His arm sawed back and forth to scour his eyes of the burning chemicals. George watched in horror as his gun arm flailed wildly, randomly getting a bead on him or Diane.

Between the wailing, Ross bellowed, 'You're both dead. Dead, you hear me? Oh God! Arrrrrrr!!!'

Diane then dramatically sprung bolt upright in bed like a Jack-in-the-box. She instantly added to the caterwauling with a long piercing scream. Although his arm still sawed at his eyes, Ross had enough left about him to snap round and aim the pistol at the direction of the commotion. George reacted instantly and launched himself at Ross, knocking his gun hand up into the air. The room exploded into light with a deafening report as the pistol fired, discharging a bullet high into the ceiling. Ross tried to bludgeon George away, swinging blindly. George ducked under the series of haymakers, any one of which would have knocked him senseless if they had landed square.

George rocked back on his heels then launched at Ross, hitting him full in his midriff. Although Ross was a tall, heavy man the ferocity of the impact caught him unawares. The momentum of George's headlong assault took both men reeling in a tangled embrace through the bedroom door and tumbling onto the landing.
With his last reserves of energy fading fast, George frantically disentangled himself from the lethal melee. He rolled onto to his back exhausted, sucking in great lungful's of air. He had not an ounce of strength left to protect himself.

Ross on the other hand was suffering from no such limitations. He sprung to his feet and towered menacingly over George's prostrate form. George stared upward passively awaiting his fate. What he would have given for Ms Feldgate and her rattling trolley now.

Coup de grace was delayed while once again Ross bellowed and frantically clawed at his eyes that were almost impossibly reddened. In those few precious seconds a younger fitter man might have made their escape, but George was a spent force. Yet there was a chance. In the scuffle Ross had dropped the gun.

George spotted it first. The pistol hung precariously between the banister spindles and little more than a stretch away from the end of George's foot. He made a move to kick it over edge, but Ross was onto it and he too made a lunge for it. As he swooped down, George seized his opportunity and with one last effort, thrust his foot into Ross' face. It didn't make contact, but it did cause Ross to rear back. And it was that one short insignificant movement which brought about the Bannister's salvation.

Cowboy builders aren't just a modern phenomenon. Two hundred years ago a rather shoddy piece of construction left the front of the first floor in their cottage about an inch lower than the back. The thickness of a good paperback is not a great deal in the scheme of things, but it was enough to create a small almost insignificant step on the landing and enough to save them.

As Ross recoiled from George's lunge, his heals rammed back against the lip of the maverick step. With his weight moving against him it was like watching a great tree being hewn as Ross began a strangely pedestrian plunge down the stairwell.

Not that Ross was taking the situation lightly; his arms frantically windmilled in the air for anything to retard his decent. Ripping a framed Bannister family portrait off the wall and smashing it on the stairs may have been a striking illustration of what Ross would have liked done if he had got hold of them, but it did little to negate the effects of gravity.

Ross clattered heavily onto the half landing with a rather nauseating knuckle cracking sound and then tumbled spectacularly end over end to the ground, careering with a thunderous crash into a bookcase at the bottom. A weighty set of leather bound encyclopaedias then began to disgorge books all over him like the contents of a deranged vending machine. Ross suffered the final humiliation of having the last book plop spread open onto his head, like an improvised Chinese coolie hat.

As George hauled himself up onto the banister rail and stared at Ross's inert body, Diane appeared.

'George! – Oh my God! Oh my God!' Her hands flew to her mouth seeing the crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. 'You've killed him!'

George didn't reply. It immediately conjured visions of having to scurrying off into the dead of night with a spade and a shallow grave to be dug, but his greatest fear at that moment was that Ross was only stunned. Diane clawed his arm.

'What are you going to do? You've got to get the police.'

'Shhh,' George said urgently. 'I'm trying to listen.'

There was no sign of movement. He knew should act immediately before Ross came round, but the instinctive bravery that performed so admirably in the bedroom had deserted him.

Diane hopped up and down frantically. 'What are you going to do? The phone's down stairs?'

George was only too aware of that fact.

'I've got to get down there.'

'You can't! It's too dangerous. He might blow your brains out or break every bone in your body.'

It was a truly inspirational pep-talk as he prepared to re-enter the affray.

'We can't stay like this,' George hissed. After a pause for thought he suggested, 'Well perhaps you could . . . I'm sure he wouldn't hurt a woman.'

She fixed him with an icy glare. George swallowed hard. 'Okay, it's down to me then.'

George bundled her into the bedroom.

'Just stay there.'

He needed a weapon. The 'old aerosol in the eyes' ploy wouldn't work again. It had to be something weightier. The traditional burglar-repelling-poker being unavailable, he knew the next best thing. In Kit's old room was a set of golf clubs. He did a quick check to see if Ross was stirring before diving through the bedroom door and plunging into the wardrobe. He found a suitable short Iron with which he made a few fierce swishing strokes – a la Obi-Wan-Kenobi – to test its effectiveness in close combat, then scuttled back onto the landing.

Unless The Force was with him it was unlikely to prove decisive against Ross if he was up on his feet and fighting. Then again if George got his stance right, with the correct grip, a steady back swing and good follow through, he might be able to land a telling blow.

As George warily peered over the banister his mouth fell open in silent horror. The twisted mass of humanity at the foot of the stairs had gone. Ross unseen and in hiding was a thing of nightmares.

'What's going on?' Diane demanded from inside the bedroom.

'Just stay in the bedroom and lock the door.'

George slowly edged down the first two steps and craned his head to see back along the hallway. He felt a cool breeze on his face. The front door was wide open.

It was a reasonable assumption that Ross had fled, but George was taking no chances. He descended the stairs one cautious step after another, stopping to listen at each turn. As he stepped off the last step into the hall he dramatically swung the club aloft ready to strike. In the tense silence, the explosion of shattered glass was enough to wake the dead.

'What's happening!' Diane screeched from above. With one wayward back-swing George had turned a full-length mirror at the bottom of the stairs into a thousand dagger-like shards of glass. Although somewhat recklessly under the circumstances, as Ross could have still been lurking in the shadows, but also with no desire to be turned into a human pincushion, George leapt out of the way toward the safety of the open doorway. Even if Ross was outside preparing to launch a fresh attack, George gave him no chance. He crashed home the thick oak timbers and forced the three ancient wrought-iron bolts into place.

'George!' Diane screeched again. Her incarceration within four stout walls did little to gag her shrill voice that reverberated down the stairwell.

'He's gone,' he called up, now in the grip of a desperate tiredness.

But it took more than his simple assurance to satisfy her. She leant over the banister and said in a low whisper, 'Are you sure? What about under the stairs?'

If Ross had managed to hide in the cupboard under the stairs, which was full to bursting with junk, then he would have been deserving of a medal. Likewise, if he had secreted himself in the sideboard or any of kitchen units he would have been the world's greatest contortionist. More importantly, if Ross had still been there and in a fit state, the process of battering George to a pulp would have been nearing its conclusion. As George fell into a kitchen chair exhausted, Diane's voice echoed down from the landing.

'George, are you sure?'

He didn't have the energy to reply.

'George, are you okay?'

He tried to shout, but 'He's gone.' came out as no more than a low moan.

Within seconds she was at his side administering his medication.

'Here take these, they'll get your blood pressure down. You need to take one of these with water and two of these without and you will take one of these in an hour.'

'I just need some sleep, then I'll be fine.'

'Phone the police quickly, he might come back. Come on hurry up,' she said thrusting the phone at him. He didn't take it. 'What are you waiting for?'

'Erm, it's not that simple,' he said squirming guiltily.

'What are you talking about? He tried to kill us.'

George couldn't look at her. 'Look, I know who it was.'

'What do you mean, I don't understand?' Her eyes narrowed. 'George, what's going on?'

It was then he knew that there was no other option she would have to be told everything – well, more or less.

'I don't believe it, not my Kit?' she said, her eyes raw with tears.

'You're not listening. O'Connell says there aren't any.'

'So why would they go to so much trouble if it was only hair?'

'They've got it wrong, that's all.'

'That's all! I don't believe you George Bannister.' From the look of her she was to close to finishing off what Ross had started. 'We are nearly killed in our beds and you say it's just a – a, "Mistake"!'

It didn't sound too good when she put it that way, but George repeated his defence, 'It's just hair, I can show you.'

'You brought that filthy muck into my house?'

'What's that stuff on top of your head then?'

She crossed her arms huffily.

'My father always said you weren't the brightest of sparks. Anyway,' she announced, 'we can't stay here. If he didn't get what he came for he will probably be back.'

She was right of course, but George was too exhausted to flee. Yet within minutes she had organised clothes for him and an overnight bag and urged him to get dressed.

A quarter of an hour later they were ready. He slid back the bolts, turned the Yale and pulled the door open. With the golf club once again poised above his head ready for action, he warily stepped out into the cool night air. He crept around to the car and when he thought it was safe, he beckoned for Diane to follow. They clambered into her little hatchback and fled into the night.

'How do you think he broke in?' Diane asked.

George stared out of the window and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

'Erm, technically I'm not sure he actually needed to break-in, not in the strict sense of the word.'

23

Come daybreak George lay staring vacantly at the shadows cast around the room by the muted dawn light. The room was a typically bland affair, as found in typical budget roadside motels. It was simply furnished with a bed, sofa and dressing table-cum-desk and thankfully only twenty minutes from home.

It explained why their arrival at four-thirty that morning had been the cause of some confusion to the young night porter, an acned youth of no more than seventeen.

'I know Wornham, it's not far from here at all,' he said, as George filled in the registration card, making polite, if possibly indiscreet conversation that naively implied, 'Why don't you just go home?'

A porter with an older wiser head, having seen enough amorous 'Mr & Mrs Smiths' to fill a telephone directory, would have made no such observation. Admittedly, George and Diane looked a bit long in the tooth and certainly far too knackered for such goings on, but as a man of the world, an old hand would have kept his mouth shut all the same. They took their key in silence and went to their room.

George sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He ran a hand around his spiky grey stubble that merged effortlessly with the ghostly pallor of his skin. George was the spit of his grandfather the last time he had seen him, and that was when he was laid out in his coffin. And should there be any doubt, it was a shocking visual confirmation of just how rotten he felt inside.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope to examine the contents of the plastic pouch. It was hair. Course, reddy brown and possibly unsavoury, but it was just hair, and now their lives were seriously in danger because of it.

James O'Connell's was a menace. They were being shot at, while Kit was set to smuggle God knows what, all because of him. He had a lot to answer for and the least he could do was to organise one of his little miracles to get them out of this mess. George slipped the pouch back into the envelope and got dressed.

The American themed diner adjoining the motel provided a good range of traditional, if heavily calorie-laden fare, including the 'Mega-Waffle' a foot-high stack of waffles dressed in a cascade of maple syrup. As inviting as the picture on the menu was to anyone who erred on the serious side of gluttony, it didn't tickle George's epicurean taste buds, nor did eggs-over-easy or otherwise.

George and Diane sat on opposite sides of the table in silence avoiding each other's gaze. An hour went by and barely a word had passed between them. Finally, George, having finished his tea, broke the deadlock.

'I think we should get back home soon.'

Heralded by a quivering long face, a tidal wave of pent-up emotion came his way.

'How many times have I told you not to leave the windows open!'

'It's that damn AGA, it makes the kitchen so hot!'

'How stupid can you be?' she said building up a head of steam. 'And why didn't you tell me about what had happened, eh?'

'I didn't want to worry you,' George mumbled into his beard.

'Presumably you didn't report it to anyone at the hospital either?'

'I mentioned it to Christine,' he said casually.

'Oh, I see.' Her lip trembled. 'How long have we been married, George? I thought I knew you, but I'm not so sure now.'

'Look,' he said in a low voice, in a vain effort to spare the other diners from their marital tribulations. 'I told you, I thought it had to be some sort of mistake. There was nothing of any value in what O'Connell gave me.'

She held out her hand.

'Show it to me,' she demanded loudly, having few qualms about airing their domestic differences to the world.

George reached into his pocket and laid the envelope on the table.

'It's in there. It's sealed, but I can't believe it's anything other than it looks.'

Diane took the envelope and squeezed the sides to peer at the contents. She extracted the plastic pouch and held it up for inspection.

'It's hair.'

'That's what I told you, it's not . . .' He left the damning word unsaid.

'So why . . . ?'

'It's a mistake. They obviously think it's something else.'

'Didn't you tell him?'

George shook his head pityingly.

'He didn't exactly come with a view to having a chat about it. They think they know what it is.'

'You could have showed them.'

George did well not to laugh,

'They're not going to believe me, are they? If they are expecting one thing and I show them this, well . . .'

'So what are you going to do about it?' she asked sharply.

It was a question he had asked himself over and over and still had no answer for.

They returned to the room and packed their bag. As they were about to leave George's mobile rung. Christine's number flashed-up on the screen.

'Hello.'

'Are you okay?' It sounded as if she were talking in the open air.

He hesitated. 'Yes.'

'It's just that I'm outside your house and both of you aren't here and I thought maybe, well . . . but you're okay?'

He hesitated again.

'Yeah . . . fine.'

'Has something happened?'

'You could say that. Bit of a bad night. We were just coming home.'

'From hospital?'

'No. Look, it is best not to speak on the phone. I'll explain when we get back.' George, still groggy from the lack of sleep, was a little slow on the uptake, but he got there in the end. 'You're outside the house?'

'Yes, why?'

'Look, don't panic, but can you see if there's been a sign of a break-in and call me back.'

'Good God, you don't think . . . ?'

'The side gate's open. You can go around the back.' George was dreading what she might discover; the place trashed and all. Ross on the rampage didn't bear thinking about.

Within the hour Christine had joined them at the motel and all three were seated around a table in the Diner.

'You didn't have to do this,' said George.

Christine sipped at her coffee.

'I was thinking as I drove over here. I know nobody broke-in after you left last night and I don't want to frighten you, but perhaps it's not wise to go back there, not just yet.'

'I'd never be able to sleep sound in my bed, not now, not after this,' Diane declared melodramatically.

'No, that's what I was thinking,' Christine said with a jolly-hockey-sticks clap of her hands. 'I've checked with Alan and he's fine about it. Why don't you come and stay with us until it all blows over? We've got loads of room in that old house.'

George could barely keep his eyes open, but managed an appreciative smile. 'That's really kind of you, but––'

'But nothing,' Christine said. 'How are you expecting to recover with all this going on?'

'I can't go back there, I'll never feel safe again,' said Diane, then added brightly, 'We could stay at my sister's?'

George shot her a glance that was a mixture of wonder and horror. Apart from the fact she lived a hundred miles away in Birmingham, the thought of sharing a small house with a middle-age female that was even more neurotic than Diane and four uncontrollable delinquent children made the prospect of taking a bullet quite attractive.

'I think we need to tough it out here,' George said with uncharacteristic diplomacy.

'There's no point in putting yourself through it,' Christine said.

'Are you sure you don't mind?' asked Diane.

'Then that's settled then,' Christine said. She saw the blood stained paper napkin wrapped around George's finger. 'Did that happen last night?'

George held it up proudly.

'Oh, this, no,' he chuckled. 'Paper cut. On the bill for breakfast would you believe? Bled like crazy.'

'It's the drugs,' Diane declared. 'The anti-coagulants stop it clotting.'

'You should sue,' Christine said with a grin.

'You're right,' George replied. 'The tea here is bloody awful!'

He thought under the circumstances his merry quip warranted more than a withering scowl from Diane.

24

By noon, George and Diane were sitting in the family room at the vicarage having a decent cup of tea. It was the hub of the house set into a sprawling bayed window that over looked the rear garden.

The vicarage, with walled grounds, sat beside the nineteenth century church on the hill at the end of the village. It was a rambling Victorian villa of singularly austere design. It was by inspiration dour Puritan rather than liberal Anglican. The flat rendered grey facades and unornamented interior was a testament to the thrift of the Diocese that commissioned its build.

It was also a testament to its time. Set over three floors, it was designed to provide ample room for a Victorian pastor's entire household including the abundant fruits of his loins.

'Thanks for this. We'll just stay tonight if that's okay,' George said yawning.

Christine tutted loudly. 'As I said there's no rush. It's the weekend tomorrow; you should stay at least until Monday. It'll give you a chance to get some rest. You need it.'

'We can't thank you enough,' Diane said.

Christine cast her eyes upward at the tall ceiling.

'This house is far too big for just me and Alan. It's got rooms in the attic I haven't been in, in five years. It's a family house really. That's what it needs – but it is accepted that the vicar lives in the vicarage. She smiled. 'And it's free. I'll show you your room.'

That evening, with the women having gone to bed, George and Alan sat relaxing beside the dying remnants of a good fire. It had cooled down considerably over the last couple of days, which was no more evident than in that chilly abode. By comparison, George's draughty cottage, which he sometimes fondly referred to as The Igloo, was as snug as an old blanket.

The logs in the cast-iron hearth had rendered down to little more than white ash, yet they still radiated enough heat to drive the night's chill from the room.

Alan eyed the amber liquid swirling in the glass, like a predator stalking its prey, then with one motion snapped back his head and dispatched the measure in one hit.

'Aye, makes putting up with all life's crap worthwhile.'

George was more circumspect with his nightcap, stretching out its final disposal to over an hour.

'I'm pretty sure having this was banned by the doctor. But hey, what do they know, no one lives forever.'

Alan's eyes narrowed in mock severity.

'Aye, I'll warn you now and I've told Christine too. If you give it the big Hollywood heart attack, I'll not be the one to give you the kiss of life. No, not me,' he said shaking his head. 'If its God will, it's not for me to bring you back now is it laddie?'

George laughed. 'Why is it you sound more Scottish after a drink?'

'It's this stuff.' He leant over and refilled his glass half way. 'It's something they put in the bottle.'

'It doesn't make me want to put on a kilt.'

'God's nectar, it takes me back to my roots. No place in the world like it.'

'You should bugger off back there, then,' George said laughing, echoing a retort heard regularly at the cricket club, when they tried but inevitably failed to get Alan to buy the team a round of drinks.

'Yeah jokin', the money up there's shite.'

'What is it with all you Scots, you all hate the English, but you're happy to come down here and drink our coffers dry.'

'Aye, that's about the size of it,' said Alan, making short work of the second measure and stretching his legs out.

'So, have you checked this guy out at Companies House?'

'No. It didn't seem an issue before.'

'What's the company called?'

'Murder Incorporated?' George suggested with a shrug. 'I should have found out.'

'Address?'

George pulled a face.

'I know, I know,' he said, holding up his hands. 'I didn't think it was relevant at the time. Anyway, the place I was taken to couldn't have been his real office. All I had was a mobile number and now that's been disconnected.'

'And the other fella, O'Connell?'

'Not since the night of my heart attack.'

'Surely,' Alan said surprised, 'the priest's got to be your next move? He's got you into all this.'

George didn't need reminding. He finished his drink and put the glass down.

'Canna' get you another?'

George leant forward with his hands on his knees as if to rise, but hesitated.

'Look, I can't tell you enough how much we appreciate this, putting us up, but I expect you realise that Felixstone and Ross will know we're here and . . .'

Alan nodded his head slowly.

'We're not daft, we knew that.' He winked. 'You're got yer golf club now and I . . .' Alan jumped effortlessly out of his seat for a big man and motioned for George to follow. 'Come and take a look at this.'

'Where are we going?'

'The cellar. It's where I keep the gun cabinet. Did Christine mention I had a new toy?'

'Not the Purdy you've always promised yourself?'

'Aye – and it's a beauty. If he shows up here . . . it'll blow his head off at fifty yards.'

'I just hope he cooperates and waits patiently while you pace it out.'

25

The beginning of the weekend saw the weather change with a vengeance. Not only was there a distinct autumnal feel in the air, but the rain driven on the back of a fierce westerly wind, rattled the Vicarage's multitude of loose window panes. They sounded like a chorus of chattering teeth. Unless you lived in a sieve, a less draughty building would have been impossible to find.

Since Ross' surprise visit to the hospital, it had been a rare moment when their predicament hadn't been foremost in George's mind. Yet for once, as he stared out the window catching the odd spot of rain that made it through the gaps in the lead-work, his thoughts were elsewhere.

Alan had taken Diane to the supermarket in nearby Woodbridge. She had flounced off in a huff because of George's refusal to go to the hospital to be checked-out after their escapade. It would have meant sitting around for hours in A&E to be told what he already knew. George had lost count of the times he had told her he was fine. She wasn't slow to remind him that he said he was "Okay" before his heart attack.

But, he genuinely hadn't just said it for her benefit, he really felt well. Exceptionally well after all he had been through. Better than he had felt in years, so much so as to be inspired, in a moment of madness, to check out once again the entry requirements for the next London Marathon. It was that astonishing feeling of vitality that preoccupied him that morning.

He heard Christine bustling around in the hallway and strolled out of the room to meet her. She was slipping on her coat to go out when George approached. For a second or two he hovered awkwardly and said nothing.

'Look, I must go. No rest for the wicked.' Christine eyed him with concern. 'Are you going to be alright on your own?'

'No, no, I'll be fine. It's just that I've been thinking about O'Connell and what happened at his church,' George said casually.

She glanced at her watch and continued to fasten the buttons on her mackintosh. 'I've got a couple of minutes. I'm listening.'

'I can't believe I'm even going to say this.' George shook his head. 'My recovery from this heart attack, well, seems pretty remarkable.'

'But you're a strong person – it was only to be expected.'

'It's not just that.' He held out his arm. 'My wrist has been playing me up for a while. Arthritis they say. I can feel it all the time to a greater or lesser extent.' To prove his point he flapped it back and forth bending it into acute angles that wouldn't have been advisable even for a bendy doll. 'Well it seems to be okay.'

'So – could that not be the pills you're on?'

'But I'm not on any painkillers. And I feel great, perhaps too good for someone in my condition.' For a moment it crossed his mind to prove the point by dropping to the floor and giving her ten, but it would have been embarrassing if that astonishing sense of vitality didn't translate into physical reality.

'That's brilliant, isn't it?'

'Of course,' George laughed. 'I can't believe I'm saying this, but you know someone was on the scene to give me first aid – they've never traced them. I've been wondering if it was O'Connell who came back and he did something.'

Christine stopped buttoning her coat, intrigued. 'They were in a car, weren't they?

'He could've had it parked up further down the road.'

'Interesting,' she said slowly, glancing at her watch again. 'Look, I really must get going, but we'll talk later.'

'I think you're right, the drugs are addling my brain.'

Christine smiled. 'You never know we might make a convert out of you yet?'

George grimaced playfully. 'I hadn't realised Hell was in danger of freezing over.'

While drinking tea in the kitchen and watching the rain lash against the windows, an image of his damaged car flashed into his head. With the hole in the window the leather interior would get ruined in that weather. He hastily made a call to a local autoglass company. George was put through the manager, who showed little appreciation of the urgency the situation required.

'Do that tomorrow for you.'

'Have you seen the rain out there?'

'Oh, raining is it, sir. Perhaps you should put a plastic bag over it in the mean time.'

'Can you not do anything sooner?'

'Wornham, let me think,' the manager said, as he rattled a pen between his teeth. 'It's a bit off the beaten track, you see.'

'We do have tarmac roads now, you know.'

'Yes, but it's a Saturday,' the manager said wistfully. George hadn't realised that Saturdays were regarded by the folk in the autoglass industry as a sacred day of rest.

George scratched his head. 'Your advert says you're open seven days a week.'

'But, Saturdays . . .' There was a bit more pen rattling before the autoglass man said reluctantly, 'But I suppose I can get someone there in about an hour?'

'If it's not too much trouble that is?' George said, successfully directing his sarcastic gratitude below the manager's radar.

'You realise one of them will be forced to miss their tea-break,' he sighed.

'Great,' George said quickly, before he had an opportunity to change his mind. 'I'll see him in an hour.'

After the effort to get them to come out, George didn't intend to miss them when they turned up. Door-to-door from the vicarage to his house was no more than half a mile, and two minutes by car, but he left nothing to chance. He headed off a quarter of an hour early.

He pulled onto the drive and kept the engine running and doors locked. Although it was in broad, if heavily overcast daylight, he wasn't taking any chances. Not alone.

George had to wait no more than a couple of minutes before a white box van, plastered with eye popping fluorescent logos, swept off the main road and pulled onto the drive. It slewed to a halt in a spray of gravel.

The blue overalled fitter leapt smartly out of the van, unaware that George sat in the car ahead. With his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and oblivious to the wind and rain, he sauntered up to the door and rang the bell. George opened the car door and hoisted himself out.

The young lad barely out of his teens said with a big toothy grin, 'Didn't see yer there. Mr Bannister?'

George nodded and walked around to his car, pointing to the offending window. 'It's here.'

The youngster was quickly at his side. 'They're buggers, aren't they. Anyway no worries, won't take a jiffy.'

George turned-up his collar against the weather.

'You don't need me do you? I'll be inside,' George said, taking advantage of safety in numbers to check out the cottage.

'If you're makin' a cup of tea . . .?' The lad gave full throttle to his winsome smile exposing a truly monumental row of pearly white teeth guiltily reminding George that he should attend his parent's grave more often.

He opened the door and cautiously entered the cottage deliberately leaving it ajar. Not only did the spectre of what happened hang over the place, as the very real possibility that Ross was in wait ready to pounce. So far, Felixstone seemed to have anticipated their every move and this might yet be another.

It was eerily quiet as he crept through the cottage. The only sound were his own footfalls. The place was almost too quiet. George took a moment to listen out before climbing the stairs.

When he got to the bedroom, he glanced up at the tennis ball-size blast hole in the ceiling and for the first time he realised how lucky escape they'd had. If Ross had fired just a moment earlier things might have been so different.

As he looked at the bed, George was taken back to the moment when Diane had lain asleep, blissfully unaware of the deadly peril she faced. A mere fraction of a second was the difference between the shot passing out of harm's way and . . . well! It didn't bear thinking about. The bullet had only missed the water tank in the loft by inches. A flood in such an old building would have been a disaster.

Back down stairs, he put on the kettle, swept up the glass and restacked the encyclopaedias. The family portrait had taken quite a hammering. George ironed the photo out with the palm of his hand as best he could, but it retained a fist-wide crease courtesy of Ross' clumsy attempt to defy gravity.

Diane and Kit had faired better in the ordeal than he had. No longer did George look the dashing forty-something. With the crumpled ridge slanting across his face, he looked more like a victim of some ghastly road accident. No amount of smoothing did anything to restore his once rakish good looks.

While waiting for the water to boil, he checked the computer. Amongst the ten or so new emails the only one that stood out from the relentless Spam was another heavy dose of depression from 'The Seeker'.

v

Thought of the Day

What drove Man since he first raised a stone as a tool to abandon so easily the blissful simplicity of Arcadia for the false god of technological advancement? Are we any better for that progress and so called civilisation? When will that striving for the perfect existence come to an end and who shall be its judge? The Seeker

George shook his head and deleted the file. Presently he had more pressing matters to attend to than the Meaning of Life.

With the repair on the car done, he returned to the vicarage. He spent the rest of the afternoon reading with only occasional wind-blown droplets of rain for company.

An hour or so later Diane and Alan returned heavily laden from their shopping expedition. Clutching an armful of provisions, Alan quickly scuttled off to some remote upper part of the building, muttering something about surveys to write up.

Diane studiously avoided George, except for the occasional passing scowl. She kept herself occupied with an intensive regime of washing and ironing in lieu of their keep. She was like a laundry Womble on speed, pouncing on any item of clothing that was left lying around and unclaimed for more than a few seconds. Alan's jumper he had been wearing only moments before was swept up as were George's socks, even though he was wearing them. He should have wiggled his toes to indicate they were still in use.

In the middle of the afternoon, Christine returned in a whirlwind of activity. It had the effect of galvanising the house. To most, corpulence equated to lethargy, but Christine for one, disproved the rule. George had heard her careering around the house well before she popped her head into the living room.

'God, that weathers awful. Not stopped all day.' Even the rain couldn't dampen her smile. 'Everything okay?'

He patted the book. 'I've been reading War of the Worlds. The little guy pitted against a ruthless aggressor. I'm getting a few tips.'

'The Common Cold did for them in the end, didn't it?'

'I suspect, unless Felixstone is of a somewhat delicate nature, it will take more than that to stop him.'

She glanced over her shoulder. 'What about your wrist?'

'Oh, yes.' He flapped it about for good measure, and then laughed. 'I think that was the product of an over-wrought imagination.'

She took hold of his arm just below the wrist. 'I assume that it's no longer painful, at all?'

'No, but . . .'

'It is odd though isn't it?'

'As you said, it must be the medicine,' he said, gently trying to extract his hand. She was having none of it as she pulled it up for a closer inspection.

'You cut your finger yesterday day. Quite deep wasn't it? Show me which one?'

'The first finger, here.' George pushed up his glasses and peered at the tip. 'I'm sure it was that one, but . . .'

'Well, I can't see it.'

'They're hard to see sometimes.' Yet despite a sustained effort in stretching and plying the skin around the injured area, they were unable to detect the slightest trace of a cut.

'It must have sorted itself out,' he said unconvincingly.

'Hmm, everything seems to be healing well lately, doesn't it? Have you given any more thought to getting the hair checked out, it may throw up some answers?' she said thoughtfully.

'I don't see what.'

'O'Connell obviously thought it was important.'

'Yeah, but he thinks all that Bible-bashing stuff is important.' George held up his hand. 'No offence of course.'

'But there has to be a reason. He must have felt there was a considerable risk to meet and give you that.'

'And he was right – to me!'

'That company, BioMedical Research does genetic profiling. Perhaps he thinks you might be related to whoever it is?'

'Pah,' George snorted. 'A Ginger?'

'Why not get it done and see what happens?'

'It'll cost me two hundred and fifty pounds to be told what we already know – that there's no match.'

'It's difficult, but all the same . . . it might turn up something.'

'I know scientists are clever but DNA doesn't come with the owners name stamped on it.'

'Maybe that's it, maybe it'll be a match to someone already held on file.'

'Just my luck, it'll be the police's criminal data base – some convicted drug dealer.' George massaged the bridge of his nose. 'And with patient confidentiality, I'm sure they wouldn't tell me anything anyway.'

'What about Father O'Connell?' Christine asked.

'Yeah, I've called couple of times, but he's gone to ground.'

'What does Diane say?'

'She's like a broken record about going to the police. Or failing that, going to Peru.'

'She might be right. And you could do worse than take a holiday.'

'It would hardly be a holiday. Anyway, I'm not allowed to fly in my condition.' Adding with a chuckle, 'But, I'll have to check with the doctor to see if it's okay to be shot at.'

'I'm sure his advice will be, "As long as you duck".'

'The way I feel at the moment I reckon I could just stick out my chest and the bullets would bounce off.'

Christine smiled kindly, as if he was the silly child that she had never had. 'You know that's not the way it works. They would go clean through you. Granted, at the moment, any bullet holes would probably have healed-up by the morning!'

Following a short discussion over dinner that evening in which George's dissenting voice was ignored, it was agreed that the hair should be sent for analysis. He wanted to keep as a bargaining chip with Felixstone. The others pointed out, rather unkindly, that his 'Bargaining Chip' was worthless. So, for want of an alternative strategy and two large glasses of whiskey breaking his resistance, he caved in.

He may have been a reluctant participant, but that had not made him idle. He had called BioMedical Research earlier in the day to check out the procedure. As best as he had tried to explain to the adviser that there was only one sample to be tested, he was informed in rather snottily that what the company did was DNA paternity testing, parent and child, ergo a minimum of two samples were required.

'So where do I get the other sample?' George asked confused.

'Do you believe you are the father?' the exasperated representative asked.

'Of course not.'

'Well, send your sample and the other individual's and BMR will clear up any misunderstandings once and for all.'

'There is no misunderstanding.'

'Good to hear it. Is there anything else I can help you with today?'

'I'm not sure you have helped,' George grumbled. 'Anyway, how long does it take?'

'Five to seven working days.'

'And do I get the sample back?'

'Back!' Even the experienced representative was momentarily lost for words. She can't have had many people who requested to have their semen or saliva returned to them.

'You don't use it all surely?' George persisted.

The representative took a breath and regained her professional composure. 'It is company policy that all samples are destroyed after testing.'

George ended the call none-the-wiser, but resigned to having two hundred and fifty quid set to go down the drain.

'So they want you to provide a sample?' Diane asked, who was once again talking to him, but only in a reluctant a snappy way, after her third glass of wine.

'Did they say what would be best?' Christine asked.

Alan who was nursing a large scotch winked at him.

'Which finger would you like me to cut off for yer? I know a few people in Glasgow who'd do it just for looking at them.'

George smiled. 'I'm glad you find it so amusing, Mr Pinkerton. They said anything that's made of me really, hair, skin, toenail clippings.'

'George!' Diane cried. 'How can you think of sending a toenail clipping. You're so gross.'

'It was just an example.'

'So where's the envelope Father O'Connell gave you?' asked Christine intervening before another domestic broke out.

'In here,' George said, tapping the breast pocket of his jacket. 'I've not let it out of my sight since the other night.'

'I'll get the scissors,' Christine said, as she walked out of the living room. 'We'll do some of your hair, that's easiest.'

She returned moments later and proceeded to cut a sizeable cheese-shaped wedge of hair from his fringe, paying little regard to the resultant aesthetic disaster.

'There you go, done.' She proudly held up the lock of George's silver-grey hair as if she had bagged a brace.

'Hang on a minute. You've put your fingers all over it,' said George. She cocked her head to one side quizzically. 'It'll be contaminated with your DNA. I'll have to do it.'

He took the scissors and lopped off another tuft leaving a noticeably serrated fringe. It was the cheapest, but worst haircut he had ever had.

Within minutes George's hair was securely rapped in Clingfilm, and together with O'Connell's sample, they were deposited into a Jiffy bag, with the completed questionnaire, plus a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds.

'We'll have to wait for Monday now, to send it,' Christine said. 'But that'll give you time to speak to Father O'Connell again.'

'You must,' Diane said, wading in icily. 'And keeping trying to get in touch with Felixstone and let him know that it's all been a misunderstanding. You've got to.' She struck a woe-is-me pose with her hand to her forehead and declared dramatically, 'We can't go on like this.'

George would have normally found it comical, if he wasn't so desperately consumed by the whole affair.

'I'm not sure Felixstone will listen,' George said, then nodded toward the padded envelope as though he was parting with an old friend. 'Time will tell if we're doing the right thing.'

'I think in six months time we'll all be laughing about this,' said Christine. She held out her wine glass in a toast. 'To the future.'

A muted chorus echoed her sentiment.

'Aye, the future.'

'To Kit coming home safely,' Diane mumbled.

George stared glumly into the distance. 'A future? Let's just hope so.'

26

Having taken two morning services, Christine returned to the vicarage just before lunchtime. She bounced into the lounge where George and Diane sat reading the Sunday papers.

'Everyone okay?' she asked with a broad grin and her eyes twinkling mischievously.

'No, we're good,' George replied slowly, intrigued by her exceptionally good mood. 'What's making you so happy? Just had one of your sinners repent on their death bed?'

'No,' she said hurriedly. 'Listen, I must tell you. It could be important.' She pulled several faces, as if wrestling with some inner conflict. 'It might be nothing, I don't want to build up your hopes, but it's too much of a coincidence. No, it has to be. Listen, I was in the 'Spar' and I heard Edith Waugh talking to David from the shop.'

'The Mrs Waugh from The Grange?' said Diane.

'Yes, and she was telling him about the accident early Friday morning. Another car had crashed into her wall. She was complaining it was the third one this year, alone.'

'That's such a dangerous corner,' said Diane.

'Her beef was with the council and the inadequate signs. But anyway, that's not the point, what she was saying to David though, was that the accident brought out loads of police. She said she couldn't understand why there were so many, it was only a garden wall.' Christine pulled a newspaper from one of the carriers. 'Just take a look at this story on the front page of the local rag.'

George took the paper from her.

Accident Sparks Police Operation

Police were called to a notorious accident black spot in the early hours of Thursday morning. There are reports that the driver, who was uninjured in the accident that demolished a garden wall, was in possession of a loaded firearm. It prompted a full-scale operation by the Tactical Firearms Unit based in Ipswich. The road remained closed for some hours while forensic teams combed the area. Early indications suggest that the handgun had been discharged no more than 2 – 3 hours prior to the incident. Police are appealing to the public for information on any suspicious activity or unreported burglaries. The man, who has not been named, is being held in police custody charged with firearm offences. Application for bail was refused.

'What do you think?' asked Christine excitedly. 'It has to be Ross. Probably still half blinded as he drove away.'

George re-read it, not once, but twice, looking for any discrepancy in the report that might have scuppered her infectious optimism. The chances of there being two gunmen in their sleepy old village, on the same night, were surely millions to one. George, who made St Thomas appear positively gullible, didn't intend to get carried away too soon.

'Do you think there's anyway we can check, to be absolutely sure?'

Christine sucked in air between her teeth. 'I suppose I could ask Peter. I know he's only the local Bobby, but he may have heard something.'

Then as the realisation hit him that their ordeal might be over, against his better judgement, George was swept away by a wave of euphoria.

'I can't believe it. All this time we were thinking, worrying. Yahoo!!!'

'And no bail,' Christine added gleefully. 'He'll get a few years for that.'

While George and Christine metaphorically slapped each other on the back, Diane festered, like a harbinger of doom intent on spoiling the party.

'But what if Felixstone gets him off?' she said darkly.

'These things take months to sort out. It'll have all blown over by then,' said George.

Diane gloomily espoused more bad tidings. 'Felixstone will just get someone else to do his dirty work for him. We can never be safe.'

Christine clapped her hands heartily. 'Even so . . .'

But she could offer nothing to justify her optimism. Unfortunately, Diane's sense of foreboding had the ominous ring of truth. George looked at her resentfully. Why couldn't she right about some of the better things in life and not just the crap?

27

News of Ross' arrest warranted the restoration of some normality in their lives. So, on Monday afternoon, in the gung-ho spirit that built the empire, George unilaterally decided that they should return home. If he was expecting an All for one and one for all reaction, he was to be disappointed.

'If you go, you go on your own,' said Diane.

'Be reasonable,' George said, keeping his voice low. 'We can't impose on them forever. We have to face this on our own sometime.'

'I can never feel safe there, not now, not ever.'

'Stop being bloody so melodramatic,' snapped George, who wasn't nearly so sure of himself as he made out. 'With Ross out of the way, there's probably nothing to worry about.'

'Well I'm not taking that chance. It was me he nearly killed, not you!'

'And don't forget,' George said resentfully, 'it was me who risked his life to save you.'

'Huh! If you want to go, you go,' she said with finality.

With Christine's sudden appearance in the doorway, they fell into an awkward silence.

'Oh, hello, sorry,' said Christine.

George hung his head. 'It's okay – we were talking about going back to the cottage.'

It didn't need to be said, Christine must have heard it all.

'You're more than welcome to stay, you know that don't you?'

'You're very kind, but I think its time,' said George.

Diane turned her back on him and stared moodily out of the window.

'Look,' Christine said, 'I've been talking to Alan. We've had an idea. I hope you don't think we're interfering, but how about this. Perhaps for the next few days, maybe to the end of the week, Alan could stay over with you, George at the cottage,' Christine then nodded encouragingly at Diane. 'And you could stay on here.'

George and Diane exchanged glances.

'Well . . .' started George.

'It really makes sense,' Christine said. 'Alan said he wouldn't mind in the least. What do you think?'

'I . . . think,' George said with a lump in his throat. 'We couldn't ask you to . . .'

'Nonsense. Alan's from Glasgow. There's nothing they like better than a bit of a scrap.'

With Alan working and Diane refusing to join him, except for the occasional phone call to see if he was still alive, the next few days past in an anxious state of limbo. George had read that for soldiers, war consisted of long periods of utter boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror, and having had several unannounced visitors pull-up on his drive, he knew this to be true.

Nighttimes were worse. The darkness magnified any sound, inside or out. The intruder lights that George had installed front and back offered a measure of security. Yet their sudden activation in the dead of night, by perhaps nothing more predatory than a fox or cat prowling in the garden wasn't the recipe for a good night's sleep.

Alan faired marginally better than he did, ably assisted by a vat of scotch before bedtime. George took some comfort from the fact that they were better prepared and not without some considerable firepower of their own. Alan had brought his new shotgun with him. The women would have been horrified if they knew. Yet he and Alan discussed it and agreed, it was not only illegal, irresponsible, ill-advised and ill-thought-out, but it certainly helped them rest a lot easier.

Naturally, they slept in separate bedrooms, with Alan keeping the loaded gun by his side. Yet George was confident that if the chips were down, Alan would leap to his assistance in a trice. Although, if the deep slumberous noises that emanated from his room were evidence of Alan's readiness for battle, George had best not retire his aerosol and golf club just yet awhile.

As the weekend arrived and they weren't dead or wishing they were, George allowed himself to consider the possibility that their ordeal really was at an end. Either Felixstone wasn't the big shot he had made himself out to be, or the situation had radically changed following Ross' arrest.

Diane still point-blank refused to return home and was talking of putting it on the market for sale.

'Over my dead body!' George said, instantly regretting the metaphor. 'And anyway,' he added, not helping the situation. 'He's bound to know where we move to.'

George's silver-tongued arguments having failed to persuade her, once again he found himself alone in the cottage on Monday afternoon.

Just before three-o'clock, the phone rang. George froze. It had become a natural reaction. As it rang again, he laid his book to one side to listen. He treated all incoming calls as largely an unwanted intrusion – it had been his policy for years, but now even more so. Allowing the answering machine to field the call, an unfamiliar voice drifted along from the kitchen.

'Hello, my name's Dr Ernest Mackenzie.' The voice was confident and bright with a faint antipodean twang. 'I'm calling from BioMedical Research, I––'

George had forgotten he could move so quickly. In a flash he was in the kitchen with the phone in hand.

'Yes,' he said in breathless expectation. He was sure why, but he sensed the call was going to be a turning point in their fortunes.

'Oh, yes, hello.' Mackenzie's voice quickly lost its starchy veneer. 'Is that Mr Bannister?'

'Yes, yes, go on.'

'Yes, good. Well, as I said, I'm from BioMedical research. I am Dr Ernest Mackenzie Senior Research Director. I must state from the outset that it is not our company's usual procedure to contact you directly in this manner, but I was hoping, if I may, we could discuss the samples you provided for analysis.'

George slid into a chair by the table – the palms of his hands were clammy making it hard to grip the phone. It had been a regular occurrence lately, so much so that he had taken to giving them a quick squirt of antiperspirant first thing in the morning. 'Yes, go on.'

'As I said Mr Bannister, this is not normal company procedure to discuss test results via the phone . . .' McKenzie hesitated. 'But I have taken this upon myself, as I believe these are quite exceptional circumstances.'

Warning bells rung. George screwed his eyes shut and asked, 'And they are?'

'Oh, yes, let me say straight away from our preliminary testing neither sample contains any genetic disorders, should you have had any fears in that regard. No,' continued Mackenzie, '. . . well, we do tell people because it can be a major concern.'

'I see,' said George.

'I hope you understand that we offer . . .' Mackenzie coughed self-consciously. 'A counselling service, which is available to all our clients via our Freephone number.' The doctor measured his words. 'As you can appreciate sometimes the results aren't always those which are expected or indeed desired.' He took a deep breath. 'Can I ask what exactly were you hoping to establish from this test – presumably suspected issues of paternity?'

George hadn't expected to be cross-examined so directly. He could answer truthfully, but he decided evasion was the best policy until McKenzie showed his hand.

'It was put to us that it was necessary to have it done, for our own peace of mind.'

George imagined Mackenzie cringing at the other end of the phone.

'Mr Bannister, can I now be frank with you?'

'Please,' George said.

'I sincerely hope this is what you are expecting to hear.' Mackenzie hesitated. 'There is no direct genetic match between yourself and the other sample you provided. We can quite confidently state that you and the other individual are not directly related by a factor of a thousand million to one. There are some very interesting genetic correlations, but none that indicate a close family tie.'

George imagined Mackenzie ducking under his desk to avoid the emotional fallout, good or bad. When none came, it appeared to take him by surprise.

'I assume from your reaction Mr Bannister, this information is not something totally unexpected.'

George was still holding back. 'Not entirely.'

'Can I ask,' Mackenzie said. 'I assume you are closely acquainted with this individual?'

George detected a different tone in the professor's voice, one of almost childlike eagerness.

'It is possible,' George answered cagily. Then he took the initiative. 'I believed using your company ensured complete privacy.'

'Oh, yes very much so,' Mackenzie stammered. 'It's just that these are quite exceptional circumstances.'

'So you said,' said George.

'Please, Mr Bannister, bear with me.' Mackenzie began to talk quickly, as his previous self-assurance faded away. 'I understand your reaction, but I can assure you I am speaking to you solely from the spirit of scientific enquiry. It is no concern of mine or my company the relationship between you and this other individual, yet I have very strong reasons to believe that this person might prove to be someone quite unique – someone modern scientists had never expected to see. It's quite remarkable. Can I ask candidly – are you still in contact with this individual?'

'No,' George said firmly, as at last he could be truthfully blunt.

'Oh, I see,' said Mackenzie, with his voice trailing away in disappointment. He then asked hesitantly, 'But obviously you know who it is?'

There was a moment's hesitation before George replied, perhaps long enough for the McKenzie to detect his uncertainty. George sidestepped the question and picked up on an earlier comment.

'You say unique. Why – tell me?'

'Oh yes, to explain that, perhaps I need to give a brief explanation on the importance of something called Mitochondrial Drift.' Mackenzie chuckled nervously. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bannister, I'm sure there's no reason why you should have come across such a term, but I hope, I can explain what that process is as simply as I can.'

'Okay, carry on,' George said slowly.

'The Mitochondria are constructed from elements of an individuals DNA, which as you know are found within every cell of the body, but importantly the Mitochondria are located outside the cell's Nucleus. Their significance,' continued Mackenzie, 'in this instance, relates to sexual reproduction, which is the joining or fusing of two gametes. These are the sex cells, one each from the male and female parent. Each of these cells contains exactly half the chromosomes of the parent that fuse together to produce the new offspring.

'Right,' George said slowly, not particularly interested in the dry biology lesson.

'So, by necessity, you can see in a population the randomising nature of the process within gene pool will create a state of constant flux with each new generation of DNA.'

'And these Mitochondria?'

'Ah, yes, this is the clever part. Mitochondrial DNA being outside the nucleus is unaffected by Mitosis, that is the splitting of the DNA and is passed on in its full and essentially unaltered state via the mothers sex cell to the new offspring.' Mackenzie drew breath. 'Does that make sense?'

'I think I get your drift – if you'll excuse the pun,' said George, who then remembered why he had hated biology at school. It was with some disappointment he recalled that the one and only sex education lesson the class had had featured a black & white cartoon with two rabbits going at it.

'Good, okay, because this Mitochondrial DNA is passed down the female line in its unaltered state it can be used as a valuable tool in tracing population movements and differentiations caused by random mutations over long periods of time.'

'It does change, but I thought you said . . .'

'No, that's right. Please bear with me. DNA is an extremely durable and reliable replicating structure, but it is not infallible. Errors can occur during replication as in the case of some cancers and other genetic illnesses, which are obviously harmful and reduce the genetic pool, while other genetic mutations are benign, and have little effect on the health of the population as a whole. These random mutations are then passed-on through the female line. The rates of mutation as shown in the mitochondria are very slow, but have been proven to be highly predictable over thousands of years. That is what is described as 'Mitochondrial Drift'.'

'Okay and . . . ?' George said, desperately hoping the lecture would culminate in a vaguely relevant point.

'Ah, yes, good. Well, from any two sets of DNA we can judge by gene markers the rate of random mutations that have occurred between them, therefore by how many generations one sample may have separated from a common ancestor.'

'So . . .?'

'Let's see.' The rustling of Mackenzie's papers was clearly audible down the line, 'Ah, here we are.' His voice quivered with excitement. George imagined Mackenzie ramming his fist in his mouth to stop the squeals of delight. 'The last common ancestor that would represent a close match to that particular individual is estimated to have been between an absolute minimum of ninety to one hundred –'

'From the early twentieth century, eh.'

'Oh, no,' said Mackenzie. 'At least ninety to one hundred thousand years old. This DNA profile is one that we would expect to be found in the earliest Homo-sapiens, the first true human beings that walked on this earth.'

'A hundred-thousand-years – what . . . ?' George repeated, unsure if he had heard correctly.

'Oh, I'm sorry this sounds so technical,' Mackenzie chuckled wheezily. 'But because Mitochondrial Drift, until now, has been shown to be evident in all human populations, it was assumed it was an inevitable consequence of our evolution as a species, but the sample you provided puts that theory seriously into dispute. The DNA of this individual's family and his distant ancestors seemed to have undergone little perceptible change over a vast epoch of time. It is this totally unexpected discovery, and one which is so exciting.'

'I see,' said George. The information took a few moments to sink-in before he asked, 'So finding this person will be bit of a scientific coup?'

'Can I ask you,' Mackenzie said hoarsely, having forgotten to breathe in the excitement of it all, 'I assume you have met this individual, at some point?'

'I . . .' George finally ditched his policy of evasion. 'No. I'm sorry . . . I haven't.'

'Oh that's a pity, such a pity, oh dear.' Mackenzie sounded distraught, as though he had just received news of a close family bereavement. He recovered quickly. 'Well, have you any knowledge of how the sample was obtained?'

'I was given it by a stranger.'

Mackenzie voiced his incredulity. 'But surely you must have had some idea what you were dealing with, or why would you have sent to us?'

That was always going to be the toughest question to answer truthfully.

'I was advised it could be of importance,' George said unconvincingly.

'It certainly is. Anthropologists around the world would give their right arm for such a find, especially if this individual is alive today.' Mackenzie immediately recommenced his line of questioning. 'Were you given any indication from which part of the world this was obtained?'

If George was a betting man he would have put money on Peru, but he had no intention of telling Mackenzie that. 'No.'

'Again, a great pity. Oh, such a pity.'

'So, would this person be vastly different in appearance to us, like a Neanderthal?' George asked.

Mackenzie recovered quickly from the disappointment.

'Good Lord, no. The DNA is definitely human. Neanderthals are only our very distant cousins. No, this individual and his family might look perhaps slightly out of place walking down the street, but they'd be recognisable as humans.' Mackenzie then added confidently, 'This DNA profile is at variance to our own by approximately point five percent.'

'Point – five!'

'Yes, of a percent, quite a large and distinct difference genetically, but not sufficient to dramatically alter their appearance.'

'Large!' George couldn't get his head around these frames of reference.

'Oh, yes. What most people don't appreciate is that the within the whole of the human population today, the genetic variations in our DNA is only nought point one percent.' Mackenzie evidently took some pride in that particular nugget of information. 'Yes, that tenth of one percent accounts for all the differences in the human races from skin colour, to sex, to eyes to height to weight, shapes of noses, the lot.'

'I assumed . . .'

'Oh, yes, most people do, most people do. The structure of DNA is quite remarkable. We share sixty percent of our genes with fruit flies and over ninety percent with mice. Every creature effectively shares and can happily interchange the same building blocks of Life.'

George was ashamed to say he was impressed, but he wasn't completely swept up by the professor's zeal.

'So, genetically it is human.'

'Yes, quite right, quite right. The gene markers found interspersed between the long strands of what is known as the 'Junk' DNA, clearly show it is definitely human.'

'Junk DNA?'

'Oh yes, some ninety-seven percent of what comprises our DNA has no known function in creating us as individuals. A mystery really.'

Although intrigued, George was in mystery overload himself at present. He would leave that one for the real eggheads to sort out.

'So, is it possible from the information you have gathered to know anything about this person, how old he was, etc.?'

'Yes, we can work out quite a great deal. Our best estimates are, gathered from the cell and DNA degeneration, that the hair was obtained around some thirty-plus years ago.'

'Right.' George did a quick mental calculation. That was a timescale that fitted neatly with O'Connell period in South America.

Mackenzie continued, 'But on the individual's age, we are slightly perplexed. The normal signs of degenerative geriatric DNA were absent. This tends to indicate a very young individual certainly less than ten years of age. After that time the effects of programmed cell death would have become apparent . . .'

'Sorry, programmed . . .?' George cut in, once more displaying his wealth of ignorance.

'Oh yes, we are all programmed to die. Its Nature's way to ensure life on Earth doesn't stagnate and the Gene pool remains mixed and healthy. It wasn't always that way though. Prior to what's called the Cambrian Explosion when the first vertebrate creatures suddenly emerged from the Primordial Soup, the majority of creatures, the bacteria and algae, reproduced A-sexually. They just made fresh copies of themselves by simple cell division, fission budding, a process that went on for millions if not billions of years. Before creatures evolved into sexual beings, it is said that there was only 'Life'. Those early creatures were effectively immortal.' Mackenzie then added darkly, 'It can be said that Evolution, for all the glorious creatures it produced by way of complex animals, also brought Death to the world.'

'About this individual?'

'Oh, yes, the hair, we are pretty sure was from the upper body, which we wouldn't expect to be present, in such abundance, in one so young.'

'So, it's conceivable this person could be alive today?'

'Yes!' Mackenzie exclaimed, but quickly moderated his tone. 'Um – that is the crucial element to this discovery. And in a genuine spirit of scientific inquiry, I ask you again – is there anything at all you could give me as regard to the provenance of this sample?'

George backed off. 'I don't know.'

'It would be treated in complete confidence of course.'

'I . . .'

'I really would ask you to reconsider. I'm not sure you're aware the importance that would be placed upon a discovery such as this. It would add immensely to the sum of scientific knowledge of Mankind's origins, to everything we know about ourselves. Think of it, Mr Bannister.'

George was unmoved by Mackenzie fervour.

'I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything.'

Mackenzie let out a distraught sigh. 'Well, Mr Bannister that is your choice. There are other options we have available, but should you change your mind, I implore you to let me know.' Adding wistfully, 'I realise this must have all come as a surprise?'

'A surprise?' George said, sliding easily into the role of the hard-bitten cynic. 'Six weeks ago this would have been quite a surprise, but not anymore.'

George had only just put the phone down, when it rang again. Still in a whirl from previous the extraordinary conversation, without thinking, he picked it up before the answer machine fielded the call.

'Hello.'

'Hello – Mr – Bannister.'

George gasped as if he'd had ice poured down his back. If he had been thinking straight, George should have hung up immediately, but he was held captive assuredly as a fly in a web.

'What do you want?' George rasped.

'Come, come, Mr Bannister,' said Felixstone. His voice had lost none of his slow deliberate menace. He then added sharply, 'Do not play games.'

'I can't help you,' cried George.

'You have something which is mine.'

'It – it – it's not what you think,' said George.

'Oh, it is, Mr Bannister, it is and I will not stop until I get it.'

George sensed a cruel smile drawn tightly over Felixstone's face relishing his victim's anguish. He was demanding something that was impossible. The hair was gone forever.

'It was only hair!' George pleaded.

'Oh, no, that's where you are very wrong. It is the absolute and final proof . . .'

'Of what?'

'El Dorado.' The line then went dead.

George stood numb and shaking with one dark all pervading thought, 'It's not over – it's never going to be over'.

Agreeing to part with that hair was the single most stupid thing he had done in his life, although downing a whole bottle of hot pepper sauce in a drunken teenage bet ran it a close second.

28

'I think it's incredible,' said Christine firing up her car.

Any excitement George had over Mackenzie's discovery would have perhaps been as heady as hers, if it hadn't been for the nightmare call from Felixstone that followed. Although George had now accepted that the hair was important from a scientific point of view, surely even Felixstone didn't really have believed there was an ancient city of fabulous wonder out there, just waiting to be rediscovered.

'Is it me,' he asked, 'or is everyone going bonkers with all this El Dorado nonsense?'

'Hmm, it is a bit strange. The Conquistadors thought it was real.'

'It was the lure of gold.'

'Fascinating – a lost civilisation.'

'Even so, what possible interest would something like that be to Felixstone?'

'I don't know,' Christine said. Then after a moment's consideration, and having noisily ground a reluctant reverse gear into place largely without the assistance of the clutch, she suggested, 'Business opportunity, a tourist attraction, like Jurassic Park, a human freak show.'

'Why would you go all the way to Peru? You only have to stay at home and tune in to Big Brother to see something like that?'

The rest of the journey past largely in silence as George pondered the meeting ahead. It was something else he had agreed to, over one or two drinks too many.

After Felixstone's call, George swallowed his pride whole and he had scuttled back to the vicarage suitably abashed.

Alan was shocked, Christine remained calm, but Diane was ready to beat him verbally to a pulp for still refusing to involve the authorities.

'You are the most pig-headed, obstinate, weak and indecisive person I know.'

George was always embarrassed when his wife was so gushing towards him in front of friends, but he met the outburst in silence.

Alan relaxed after dinner as only he could. With his feet out-stretched and hands behind his head, as though he were taking in a few rays on the deck of a luxury liner, he asked, 'I'm sure you have your reasons, but I don't see why you shouldn't call the police, now you know drugs aren't involved?'

'They'll ask too many question, like, why didn't we go to them earlier, the break-in, etc.?' George replied, swilling his drink in the glass.

Alan downed another half tumbler of scotch.

'Aye, well, we now know this character really means business,' he said with a wistful shake of his head, the meaning of which was all too clear – Then you'll just have to take what's coming to you.

Even his plucky Scottish terrier had abandoned him to his fate.

'If I could get hold of O'Connell, I'm sure we can straighten it out,' George mumbled without conviction.

Christine intervened to inject some positivity. 'There is someone who claims to know a lot about Father O'Connell and says he's keen to meet you. It might be worthwhile to speak to him.'

'Who?' asked George mechanically, while contemplating how many people might turn up to his funeral; assuming of course, they ever found enough of him worth putting in a box.

'Well,' continued Christine, 'it's another priest, Father Thomas, who is apparently doing research into the reality of miracles in the modern Catholic Church, and has chosen James O'Connell as his subject of special interest.'

'You ought to go, George, it might help get you out of this mess,' Diane interjected waspishly.

'It's nice to know we're all in this thing together.' George turned to Christine. 'Anyway, how come you're so chummy with the opposition?'

'We do speak to each other, you know.'

'And what's with the miracles business. I thought the Church had disowned him.'

'Aye, knowing the Catholics,' said Alan, as he downed another not so wee dram, 'they'll probably make him a saint once he's safely dead and buried.'

'I am sure in his dotage,' George said, 'O'Connell will take great comfort from that.'

'And there's something else . . .' Christine paused for effect.

'Go on,' George said wearily. 'Is he mad, as well?'

'No, his church, St. Agnes in Ipswich, was O'Connell's church – the place where it all happened.'

'Ipswich!' George said sitting bolt upright in mock disbelief. 'You would have thought he'd have chosen somewhere a bit more exotic than that, like Lourdes or Fatima, even risk it in Basildon, but not Ipswich.' His fake indignation spent, he slumped back down and added morosely 'Anyway, what's the point. It won't help with any of this. So, absolutely not. Never. No way.'

Another good measure of scotch later and with his resolve in tatters, he had agreed to go.

The church, St. Agnes', was located on the outskirts of Ipswich in the Kesgrave area just off the busy A12 bypass. Just before seven-fifteen they pulled into the gravel car park situated between the church and its social club.

It was a grand old traditional red brick church, like many thousands across the country. Looking at the outside, there was nothing marking it out as being a place where extraordinary events once took place. It didn't even have a commemorative blue plaque or a sign with a five-cross platinum rating from the Good Church Guide. The Church hierarchy were seemingly very keen to bury its past.

They were early for the meeting and the evening Mass was still in progress. They stood in the isle at the rear. Christine nudged George and nodded toward the altar.

'That's him, Father Thomas,' she whispered.

George pushed his glasses back up his nose to get a better look. It was a sure sign middle age was truly upon him as he noted figure preaching at the altar didn't look old enough to be out on his own after dark. He assumed Father Thomas was some crusty old theologian, who had spent a lifetime with his nose buried in books accumulating the wisdom of ages, not some fresh-faced youngster straight out of seminary.

As they slipped out of the church and waited patiently in the car park for the Mass to finish, George observed wryly.

'I bet you wish you could get half as many people in your church on a Sunday, as he does on a week night. What have the Catholics got that you haven't?'

She didn't need to say anything as the answer came within seconds. Father Thomas' flock, having had their faith reinvigorated sufficiently to justify imbibing generous quantities of intoxicating liquors, filed out of the church and made directly towards the social club, the bar of which was about to open.

'I think that's probably part of the explanation,' Christine said wryly.

As Father Thomas bid the last few stragglers on their way, he headed towards them.

'Hi, you must be Christine. And Mr Bannister?' The priest beamed, thrusting out his hand. 'I'm Father Thomas Townsend. I am so pleased to meet you. Have a good journey, great.' The young priest motioned them toward the presbytery. 'Can I suggest we go somewhere a little more comfortable?'

They crossed the car park and climbed the steps to the front door. The building was old, perhaps as old as Christine's vicarage, but it had clearly had far more care and attention lavished upon it throughout that time. There was evidence of newly installed double-glazing; flawless exterior paintwork and unblemished brass fittings on a mirror finish, pillar-box red door.

A typical parish priest is not a wealthy man, but, as evidenced by the ongoing and expensive works, there had been no lack of God-fearing tradesmen who had sought to curry favour in the hereafter by generous donation of their labours.

Tom opened the door and ushered them into a vestry off the main hallway.

'Please take a seat.'

Father Thomas showed them to two chairs by a stout mahogany desk that commanded the centre of the room. Surrounding them on three sides were bookshelves that ran fully floor to ceiling on each wall. The fourth wall escaped bibliographic render only as a concession to the natural function of a window.

Beyond the immediate visual impression of such an array of books, which could easily held its own against many smaller municipal libraries, albeit with a stock-list over a hundred years out of date, was the smell. A heady mixture of musty leather bound manuscripts and ancient timbers that dominated the senses and lent the room an air of timeless learning.

'Can I get you some tea?' asked the priest.

They politely waved away the offer as Father Thomas took a seat at the desk.

'Well, thanks for coming,' Father Thomas said enthusiastically. 'I believe we have a mutual interest.'

George's reply was measured, if not a little evasive. 'It seems so, father.'

Tom threw up his hands in mock horror. 'No, Tom, please.'

'Okay, Tom,' acknowledged George.

'Christine has given me a brief outline.' Father Thomas flashed a glorious grin at Christine, which lit up his strong dark features. George was curious as to what would have driven a clearly intelligent and exceptionally good-looking young man to abandon the normal path of love, marriage and the likelihood of a divorce or two, to join the celibate and cloistered world of the priesthood. Undoubtedly, he would claim it was a profound inner calling. Personally, if George were in God's shoes, he would have made a point of directing His powerful 'Calling' towards the more undesirable elements in society; to straighten them out, and not waste His energy on the decent people who had already bought hook, line and sinker into the whole thing.

Tom clapped his hands and jolted George from his musings. 'So, James O'Connell, I have to admit I have more than a passing interest in this man. And yourself?'

'I wouldn't say interest,' said George.

'But I understand you have actually recently met this most elusive individual.'

There was a pause before George answered, one long enough for Tom to shoot Christine a puzzled glance.

'Well,' George said finally and choosing his words carefully, 'I have met and spoken to someone who claims to be James O'Connell.'

'Right, okay,' Tom said slowly. 'And why wouldn't he be who he says he is?'

'I assume we are talking about the same Father James O'Connell that this newspaper article refers to?' George pulled the photocopied cutting from his jacket pocket. He opened it out and slid it across the desk.

Father Thomas leant forward. 'Amazing, where did you get this?'

'Christine got it copied from the library.'

'I have read many contemporary pieces on James O'Connell, but not this one, wow.'

'So you were asking me if I had met that Father O'Connell . . .'

'Just, Mr O'Connell, please,' Tom said with embarrassment. 'The Church has decreed he is no longer deemed fit to hold that title. Although, I feel that particular judgement is misguided.'

George acknowledged the point with a faint nod, finding the machinations of the Church quite bizarre.

'James O'Connell then,' George conceded. 'Anyway, what I can't understand is how the young athletic person who I met could possibly be the same individual whose activities are described in that article. Don't forget, those events took place nearly forty years ago. And how old was O'Connell then forty-five, fifty years old? What would that make him today eighty-five, ninety? There is no way he could be the same person.'

Tom's reaction was curious. His puzzled expression replaced by a taut superior grin. It was a countenance that George found, not only hard to fathom, but also deeply aggravating.

'I have it on good authority from a Father Brian Murphy, who knew him personally from way back and saw him a only couple of years ago, that James appears as youthful as ever,' Tom smiled. 'As I said, James O'Connell is an interesting man.'

'Is it not possible that the person I met was possibly an impostor or even his son?' George suggested, before realising the embarrassing implication of that statement.

Tom shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. 'The Catholic Church does very occasionally have such – issues – but in this instance I am sure this is not the case.' His broad smile returned. 'No, the answer I believe, between us, is that O'Connell wasn't anywhere near as old as he was reported to be in the papers. At the time his illness had taken a great toll on him.'

'Oh. I see – what illness?'

'Liver cancer. They said it was terminal.' Tom smiled. 'But we should thank God's grace that it clearly was not.'

Tom struck a pose of pious concern. 'And Christine here tells me you yourself were seriously ill recently. But thankfully you are on the road to recovery, once again, thanks to God's good grace.'

'And medical science,' George teased. The doctors would have been miffed not to be given a name check when the champagne corks were popping.

'Yes, quite,' Tom said. His angelic, if infuriating smile, was implacable. 'So, tell me what did you make of James?'

'O'Connell? As you said, interesting character.'

Tom leant back with hands clasped behind his head.

'And where was it you said you met him?' he asked casually.

There was something in the priest's manner that made the answer to that seemingly innocuous question more significant than he would have had George believe. George wondered whether James O'Connell was aware that his popularity in some quarters was once more reaching an all-time high. George sidestepped the question.

'There is something I'd like to know.'

The priest barely disguised his disappointment, but gestured for him to continue.

'From the time he spent in Peru. Were there any suggestions that he'd discovered something that accounted for what happened?'

Tom pulled open a drawer in the desk and pulled out a buff file. George eyed it with some concern. The last time he had met a stranger who had produced a folder like that – they were still trying to kill him.

Tom flicked through the sheets and slid one across the desk toward George.

'Are you aware of the stories reported about him in the nineteen-seventies?'

'The healing?' George ran his eye down the page. 'In your church, here? Yes I am.'

'You will see that is one of the more detailed accounts verified by two senior consultants.' Tom stared wistfully into the distance. 'What followed was one of the Church's more ignominious episodes.'

'So, you are saying that you believe he really did heal the sick?'

Tom leant forward and said in a low, almost conspiratorial whisper, as though he ought not to be speaking of such things. 'I am personally in no doubt that something extraordinary happened. And substantially the reports are correct and sustained long term healing was a fact.'

'Then why ignom . . . igmomin . . . so what's the problem?'

'He was treated badly and with a profound lack of compassion, certainly after what he endured. The result, as you probably know, was that he was excommunicated.'

'If that was his only crime it seems a bit harsh, considering he was only emulating the great man himself,' George suggested mischievously.

'He was considered an embarrassment and a problem to the Church with his unorthodox teachings. The Bishop would have been happy if he'd attributed the miracles to the work of the Virgin Mary, the Holy Spirit or the Grace of God . . .' With a pained expression the priest added, 'But sadly, for all concerned, he refused.'

'So how did he explain it then?'

Tom's irritating smile returned once more. 'He described it as the power of the Communion of the Human spirit.'

Christine had sat quietly listening before she asked, 'So, why was he sent to South America before the healing begun?'

'Was he too much of a firebrand with his Fundamentalist preaching?' George asked.

'I think you will find it on record that it was James O'Connell's choice . . ' Tom cleared his throat to hide his discomfort. 'After his inappropriate involvement with a married woman.'

'Oh, I see,' George said nodding. O'Connell had risen markedly in his estimation.

'But unfortunately, although he was a good priest, the Bishop agreed that the best chance of redemption was to be found beyond these shores in a new and challenging environment.'

Yeah, right. George glanced at Christine, who could barely hide a wry grin herself.

'It is believed he contracted cancer shortly after arriving and elected to remain there not to be a burden to friends and family.'

'Strange thing to do, having people back here?'

Tom shrugged. 'Absolutely. I am sure love and commitment to a cause can lead people to make curious and impassioned choices.'

'So, when did the healing start?' asked Christine.

'Almost immediate on his return,' said Tom. 'His fame spread as quickly as did the concern over his unconventional teaching.'

Suddenly animated, Christine said, 'It was after returning from Peru that Father O'Connell began preaching the heresy of the Dualist doctrine. That's what got him in trouble with the Church, not the healing,' Christine said.

George saw the irony in the situation, and although he wasn't sure the humour would be appreciated, he said it anyway. 'So, he returns from South America with a sort of a BOGGOF deal.'

Tom looked at him quizzically. With impeccable timing George delivered the tag line. 'Buy into one God, get one free.'

Tom peered down his nose, unimpressed by George's wit.

'James O'Connell's time in South America had undoubtedly changed him in more ways than one.'

'Surely,' Christine said, 'if he was genuinely helping all those people, did it matter?'

'If he'd attributed the miracles to that condoned by the Church then they would have viewed it differently, but . . .'

'So that's it?' George declared, finding the theological point scoring laughable. 'It came down to each side vying for their chosen supreme being to be given the credit.'

'Not quite. The Church does not accept miraculous events without good evidence.'

Out of respect for Christine, George refrained from braying like a donkey. There were a few things recorded around two thousand years ago, and accepted as literally Gospel, that would fail this modern evidential test. George may not have vocalised his cynicism, but the crooked smile on his face hadn't gone unnoticed.

'I can assure you that it was fully investigated by the Bishop to establish if there was a rational scientific, albeit still remarkable explanation for what happened. The Church is more circumspect nowadays,' Tom said, adding, 'The Holy water, which featured heavily during these services, was tested and as much as it pains me to say, it was just that, water. It was conclusively found to contain nothing more-nor-less than you would expect to come out of a household tap. It seems James O'Connell achieved these feats by nothing more than the laying on of hands.'

'A good old bit of faith healing,' George joked.

'The Church teaches that all miracles emanate from God alone.'

'O'Connell must have had Hot-Line.'

George came under Tom's intensely powerful gaze.

'I believe he returned from the Amazon with an understanding, dare I say revelation, perhaps touched by the very hand of God himself.'

The exchange had become far too metaphysical for George's simple taste.

'Anyway,' he said steering the conversation back down to earth, 'Did the investigators take the trouble to interview the people in the picture? I can't believe there wasn't someone there he hadn't confided in? What about his family?'

'From the accounts I've read, it appears not. He seems to have kept the source of his gift very much to himself.'

George stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Are any of his family still alive?'

'We believe his mother was the last and she died twenty-five years ago.'

'Pity,' said George. 'Presumably after O'Connell left, all the healing stopped.'

'True. Although his enduring legacy is that this church still attracts a misguided flood of the sick and the desperately needy, as you witnessed tonight.'

Yeah – desperately needy for a drink, thought George.

'So, do you think you will ever know what really went on?' asked Christine.

Tom's angelic smile, which seemed to be a more or less a permanent feature, instantly evaporated and replaced by a burning desire in his eyes.

'I will discover the truth. I have to; I have made it the single most important goal of my life.'

George raised his eyebrows. She had hit something of a raw nerve. George discretely changed the subject.

'So, what happened to O'Connell after he left the Church, Tom?'

Tom held up his hand by way of apology. 'Sorry, perhaps you can tell these things are a passion of mine.' The irritating smile returned as he thumbed through the paperwork in the file. 'People reported having seen him, but to our knowledge, no more than half a dozen times in the last twenty years. He is a very difficult man to track down. So you see you are quite a privileged fellow, Mr Bannister.'

'Hmm, perhaps. So why has he gone to ground?'

Tom grinned. 'Perhaps, he believed he would be hounded by the press, by the sick. I don't know maybe you'll ask him the next time you see him.' He pointed to the paper on the desk. 'Is it okay if I keep this? It's useful for my studies.'

'Um, I . . .' George was reluctant to part with it. He had made that mistake with the hair and was still paying for it. 'Perhaps you can take a copy?'

'Oh, sorry,' Tom said, unleashing those hurt puppy-dog eyes. 'I thought you'd brought it for me.'

'My wife hasn't seen it yet,' George said, lying badly.

Tom got up and mumbled vaguely about a photocopier in the next room. Once she heard the door close, Christine swiftly turned to George and whispered, 'It might be a good time to ask him if there's some connection with Father O'Connell and El Dorado.'

George puffed out his cheeks. 'He'll think I'm insane like the rest of them.'

The priest trotted briskly back into the room. They both fell quiet, oddly guilty.

'There we are Mr Bannister.' Tom handed him the crumpled original while carefully placing the new copy in his file.

George took a deep breath. He had nothing to lose beyond making himself look an idiot.

'Before we go, er,' George asked. Tom's look of smug superiority made him feel more uncomfortable than ever, but he pressed on. 'Do you know why the legend of El Dorado seems to surround O'Connell's time in Peru?' George immediately threw up his hands to indicate that it was totally ridiculous even to mention it.

'El Dorado? Of course you are aware that the fabled El Dorado refers to a man and not a place.'

'I thought it was the lost city of gold?'

Tom shook his head in a most patronising manner.

'No, no, no, the Spanish translation of El Dorado is 'The Golden One' or 'The Shining One'. It's a common misconception you can thank the gold hungry Spanish Conquistadors for. The original legend as handed down from the native peoples is quite clear. The Inca king was adorned in gold, which was then ceremonially cleansed from his body in the waters of Lake Titicaca.

It is believed that it was a rite of transformation to emulate their gods, elevating their king, if only briefly, to the status of the "Golden One".'

George imagined after the band had packed up and the bunting was put away, under the cover of darkness, there would have been some serious gold prospecting in that lake by the more entrepreneurial among his followers.

Tom stood up. 'It's easy to dismiss these ancient people's rituals as just simple superstition.' He turned to Christine. 'Are we any more enlightened in that we depict our Saints with shining halos of light? Have you given any thought as to why kings and queens of old wore a golden crown as confirmation of their right to rule?'

'Exactly,' George thought. It proved it was all just nonsense, even if it meant agreeing with a smug twit like Tom.

The young priest made a point of looking at his watch.

'I really appreciate you coming, but I have a meeting shortly.' He walked over and held the door open. 'If you are lucky enough to see James O'Connell again, be sure to let him know that it is my passionate desire to seek the truth of these matters. And I won't stop until I do.'

Back in the car, it wasn't the dark unlit roads or the heavy rain that made the return journey treacherous, so much as Christine's wayward driving.

Lights flashed and dazzled from all directions largely due to the erratic course she steered, which was more in keeping with a sailboat tacking against the wind than a vehicle on a straight road. It crossed George's mind to inquire whether she actually had a licence, but sat with his eyes closed leaving his destiny in the lap of the gods, or at least a female appointed earthly representative. It gave him a chance to digest the events of the evening.

Was the revelation about El Dorado somehow a clue to all this? A Golden Man. Could it be true that someone as sensible as Kit had gone in search of this mythical demi-god? Next they will be trying to convince him that there really are fairies at bottom of the garden.

And smug Tom, the priest was something of an enigma. Outwardly, he represented the orthodox and happy-clappy face of Catholicism, yet beneath that façade he appeared driven to the point of fanaticism.

'Is Father Tom a Jesuit?' asked George. 'He comes across as a nice guy, but is very uptight about the "O'Connell" thing.'

She was slow to respond as though every neuron in her brain was absorbed in the process of keeping the car on the road. 'Erm . . . I really don't know . . . I've only met him once before.'

George could hold his tongue no longer. 'Is there something wrong with your car?'

'Am I wandering a bit?'

'No worse than your average Slalom skier.'

'I forgot my glasses. I'll be alright when there are street lights.'

As Christine weaved down the road, George stared out of the window lost in his own thoughts, hypnotised by the roadside advancing and receding like waves breaking on the shore. For some reason the photograph in the newspaper was bothering him. He pulled the scrunched-up paper from his jacket pocket and flicked on the courtesy light. Christine shot him a horrified glare as her blurry view of the outside world was further diminished.

'I'm sorry, I need it just for two seconds,' George said quickly, as she accelerated and swung across onto the opposite carriageway in an extravagant manoeuvre normally associated with overtaking a slower vehicle – except there wasn't one.

He held it up to the light. Despite Tom's claim to the contrary, O'Connell's picture was identical to the man who George had met. He looked closely at the three youngsters standing behind him and then he had the answer – his jaw fell open.

'Surely not!' he said, having found his voice. 'Christine.' In his excitement, George hadn't realised the danger in asking her to divert vital mental resources from its currently assigned task. 'The photograph – the boy standing next to O'Connell.'

'One of the Altar servers,' she said snatching a quick look, but not quick enough to prevent her drifting perilously close to a well-lit and one would have thought impossible not to see central traffic island. George was too absorbed in his discovery to notice their potential Titanic moment.

'I know who he is.'

His statement coincided with the road widening and the advent of generous street lighting. Christine relaxed as a bright new world of twenty-twentyish vision opened up before her.

'The photograph, sorry George, what . . .?'

'You know who he is, don't you?' George said excitedly.

'No, who . . .?'

'It's 'Old Pete', from the Crop-Circle group.'

'Blimey, are you sure! It's an old photo.'

George was buzzing. 'I don't know why I hadn't seen it before? It's the full head of hair that threw me,' he said, observing the possible original inspiration for Ronald Macdonald's exuberant thatch. George couldn't take his eyes off the picture.

'But it makes perfect sense. He's the missing link between Kit and O'Connell.' George held it closer. If possible, Old Pete looked more gormless, as a youth, than he did today. With his round-shouldered, vacant expression and an awkward simian gate, perhaps the expression 'Missing Link' was appropriate in more ways than one.

29

On Friday morning, George found himself alone in he vicarage. In better times, the chance for a couple of hours of peace and quiet on his own was something to relish. It was on those occasions he had the freedom to do as he wished without a certain party offering a range of unsolicited lectures on subjects as diverse as: the right posture when sitting in an armchair (irreversible spinal damage), the correct way to load a dishwasher (as if he cared) and the unhealthy length of time he spent on the toilet (it should have told her something). Not having the thoughts of Chairman Diane constantly buzzing in his ear was all-well-and-good, and not that he admitted it, but he was a little nervous to be alone.

He and Diane had yet another furious row conducted at nothing above a whisper out of respect for their hosts. Once again the spark for their fall-out was his refusal to go to the police. It had meandered off into other familiar territory, i.e. who cared most for Kit, etc. – etc. The upshot was that Diane stormed out grabbing a lift from Christine to return to her job at a charity shop in Woodbridge. It was her first time back at work since his heart attack.

Yet, there he was, alone in that big old house with nothing to do except fear the worst. He had given a lot of thought over what that worst might be. Beaten-up or shot or both. After his experience in hospital, he had come to terms with his own mortality, but contemplating the final curtain always brought to mind Woody Allen's wry observation, "He didn't mind dying, but he just didn't want to be there when it happened".

Yet the idea of torture was the thing that weighed heavily upon him. He wasn't good with organised pain. Even going to the dentist for a filling was something of an ordeal.

Since the meeting with Father Tom, he had been out of the house only once and it had been to visit the GP. The doctor told him what he already knew, that he was making remarkable progress, but take it easy blah, blah. The remainder of the time he had been incarcerated as if he was under house arrest, and he was going stir crazy.

He gazed longingly out of the window and made a snap decision. Within minutes, having donned his coat and shoes, he had begun strolling purposefully along the High Street. With his newfound freedom he appreciated, as if for the first time, how quintessentially English and pretty the village was, with its array of pastel shaded facades and crooked rooflines.

He walked on with a positive spring in his step, buoyed-up at having struck a blow for liberty. Just for a moment, he abandoned his cares and was inevitably drawn to one particular shop window display. It was one, which proved simply impossible to pass, without him gawping at it wide-eyed, like he was twelve years old again.

It was anybodies guess what a business that primarily sold radio controlled models was doing in such a tiny retail backwater, but there it was and it appeared to be thriving.

The window was filled with a wonder of toys and gismo's that would have made Marconi proud. He squashed his nose against the glass to feast on the miniaturised automotive heaven, but, as he did so, a large black shape ghosted by behind him, casting an ominous creeping shadow in the window. Instinctively he glanced over his shoulder. What curiosity did to the cat, nearly did for George too. He shied away, turning his head from the monstrous sight oozing down the road.

Unless Felixstone had recently sold his personalised number plate, FEL 1X, to someone with an identical big black Merc, he was in the village. Wornham was on the quaint-must-see tourist map, but Felixstone hadn't struck George as the day-tripper type. He watched in terror as the limousine passed around a crook in the road and out of sight. He immediately turned-tail and fled back towards the house.

Running as fast as his legs could carry him, exhausted, he sucked in great lungful's air as he staggered up the vicarage driveway. Shaking from fatigue and adrenalin, he fumbled with the door key unable to slot it home. For an eternity, that lasted a few seconds, the key danced and stabbed at the woodwork, until George steadied it with two hands and it slid home with a firm clunk.

After bolting the front door and back doors, he rushed around locking all the windows. As an afterthought and not without some paranoia, he even battened-down the cat-flap. He then sat on the corner of the armchair in the living room, catching his breath and keeping guard at the window staring down the driveway. He composed himself to the point where his heart simply pumped in a usefully brisk manner and not at a rate that was practically suicidal, and sought to rationalise the situation.

Was it definitely Felixstone's car? Yes.

Had he been seen? He thought not.

Felixstone was heading through the village toward the cottage. Would he know they were staying at the vicarage? George credited Felixstone with knowing everything. Surely even Felixstone wouldn't have the audacity to try something on in broad daylight? George wasn't convinced the answer to that was no. If he did try something, George wanted to be ready for him and raced off to get Alan's gun.

He returned and took sentry at the window feeling the cold metallic comfort of the firearm in his hands.

As an introduction to country living he had been out on shoots and knew how to handle a gun, but even if his life was truly on the line, how could he compare shooting a bird to killing a man?

Even as he batted the argument back and forth in his head not for a single moment did he take his eyes off the driveway. Then with a sudden stiffening of his resolve, he snapped the breech shut and declared to the four walls around him, 'Sod it, he gets what's coming to him!'

Although a thick six-foot privet in the front garden hid the world from view, George still caught momentary glimpses of the traffic passing along the road. If that bit of what he happened to see was black, and moved in a particularly smooth limousine-like manner, his trigger finger twitched with a nervy independence.

How long he stood poised for ready action, he wasn't sure. The clock in the hallway had sounded on the quarter hour, but each melodic bong and hour chime past unnoticed as he steadfastly remained at his post.

At some point a tiresome bluebottle began buzzing around his head. It clearly had aspirations to be as fleet as a mosquito, but it hadn't taken the hint that it was too fat and slow as George swatted it away on several occasions. The fly was not only a hopeless mosquito, but also it had failed to grasp the fragile nature of its existence. It settled momentarily within arm's reach and it took but a fraction of a second for George to lay to rest the culmination of 500 million years of evolutionary ambition. With one swift blow, George turned the fly into a two-dimensional Venn-style diagram on the wallpaper. While admiring his handiwork a car rocketed onto the drive in an explosion of gravel. In one swift movement George's head snapped round and he was staring down the sights.

To his horror, and not inconsiderable embarrassment, the black car that had pulled onto the drive was Christine's. He immediately broke the gun and ejected the cartridges. Shooting the local vicar wouldn't have played out well in the media.

He heard Christine wrestle with her key in the door. George set the gun aside and rushed out into the hall to slide back the bolts. He stepped aside and allowed her struggle into the hallway with a car full of plump shopping bags.

'George, give us a hand,' she sang out.

It wasn't that he didn't wanted to help, although the bags looked decidedly heavy, but how could he have acted in a normal manner when his highly irresponsible behaviour in taking the gun would so soon be exposed. He sloped back into the living room. A few moments later, he heard the last of the bags being deposited into the kitchen and she popped her head round the door.

'Phew, I'm glad that's done.' She seemed not to have taken umbrage at his lack of gallantry and asked cocking her head to one side, 'Are you okay?'

He had made no effort to conceal the gun. He could have smuggled it behind the chair or put it under the sofa cushions and sat on it with painful consequences, but he left it propped up against the coffee table. It stood like an everyday ornament, next to the Times colour supplement and a vase of flowers. It obviously didn't looked that out of place as it took an age for her to notice. He was about to clear his throat and point it out, but she beat him to it.

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she gasped, 'Oh my God, that's not the way!'

George adopted a dismissive air with a lop-sided grin, but it didn't conceal his shame over the transgression.

'It's not the answer,' she said firmly, easing herself toward the gun. She eyed him cautiously as though he had just escaped from a lunatic asylum.

'It's not loaded, its okay,' he said breezily, showing her the cartridges in his hand.

'Think of Diane,' Christine said softly, carefully pulling the gun out of his reach. He did and immediately regretted not keeping hold of it for when she got back. His head then snapped up realising she had completely misread the situation completely.

'No, you don't understand,' he said, waving his hands furiously.

'I know things are tough at the moment but . . .' she said, carefully laying the gun aside.

'No, it's Felixstone . . .'

'Yes,' she said, relieving him of the cartridges. 'But in six months time you'll be laughing about all this.'

'I'll make a note in my diary. But more importantly, I saw Felixstone's car, here, in the village.'

She froze instantly as if playing in a game of musical statues. It took a moment for her to recover.

'Oh, my God, the barefaced cheek of the man – in broad daylight.'

George threw up his hands. 'I know, I shouldn't have taken the gun . . .'

'Rubbish!' said Christine. 'I'd have done the same and blown the bastards head off if he'd had the cheek to come anywhere near here.'

George had never seen her so scary and was in half a mind to repossess the gun for her own protection.

'I'd have expected that some homely Christian counselling was in order.'

'Not for people like that. I despise bullies. They need to get their just desserts in this world as well as the next.'

Whether or not she had put on a front to make him feel better, but beneath that clerical attire lurked is someone you wouldn't want to consider trifling with.

George laid his knife and fork together on the empty plate.

'Thanks, that was great.' He meant it. Although Diane had still insisted on doing all the housework, and more, to justify their keep, for once she had been persuaded to stay out of the kitchen and let Christine prepare the evening meal. It showed. It didn't require a dentist to be on standby and it was still discernibly organic in composition when it had arrived on the plate.

Alan rubbed his full belly and belched his appreciation. Christine moved around the dining table collecting the empty plates and took them out to the kitchen.

'Anyone for tea, coffee?' she called from the other room.

The others three of them made themselves more comfortable in the living room. Christine returned minutes later with tray laden with slabs of dark brown fruitcake and a pot of fresh coffee.

'What's this geezer up to,' Alan said, as he added a generous slug of scotch to his cup. 'Tryin'a put the frighteners on?'

'How would he have known George was out and about in the village?' Christine asked, launching into a piece of cake.

'He knows everything we do,' Diane said, shrouded in her own pall of doom.

'That was bad timing. I'm sure he was headed toward the cottage,' George said.

'But I think yer okay, laddie,' Alan replied. 'Like I told you, there were no signs of a break-in when I checked it over earlier.'

George didn't dare catch Christine's eye, she having been party to one of his little secrets. He had never been quite straight with Diane about the theft of the computer from Kit's flat. As far as she was concerned, Matt was still on the case.

'No luck with O'Connell or this Old Pete chap then?' asked Christine.

'Nothing.'

Alan, who had abandoned any pretension to a genteel desert course, poured out another hefty scotch and asked, 'So why is Felixstone so keen to get this hair?'

'He says it is absolute proof of this so called El Dorado.'

Alan chuckled. 'Aye, they say there's more out than in.'

'Am I being a bit dim, but what exactly would it prove?' asked Christine.

'Aye, you'd be surprised what they can do. They tell so much from DNA nowadays.'

Diane suddenly shot bolt upright as she remembered something. 'There was a programme about a young boy who was found murdered. All the police knew was that he was of African origin. The killers had cut off his head, arms and legs to stop anyone identifying him.'

'I remember that now,' said Christine said. 'They traced him to Nigeria from traces of specific minerals contained within his hair and bones. And with a DNA profile they managed to identify the exact village in which he was born.'

'It was incredible,' Diane said.

'Aye, amazin',' echoed Alan at his laconic best.

'But what's the fuss about the hair, when presumably O'Connell has met these people and knows where they are,' George said shaking his head, wishing he had pointed out that salient fact to Felixstone during their last conversation. Some might have said that he was stabbing O'Connell in the back, but if you play with fire you must expect to get a burn or two.

'Perhaps the hair's enough on its own,' Diane suggested casually.

'They don't hand out awards or more importantly wads of cash for bits of hair,' George snorted dismissively.

'Oh, I dunno',' Alan said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before despatching down his throat to hammer another nail into his liver. 'I reckon that old Prof Mackenzie knows a thing or two and he's onto it. Did you call 'im?'

'I couldn't get past the switch board,' George said, massaging the bridge of his nose, 'Couldn't get the hair back either. I should have read the disclaimer apparently and have been aware that all test samples are destroyed after use. And I was confidently advised by some snotty receptionist that under no circumstances were results discussed over the phone – hmm!'

'So, it's all down to this fella, O'Connell then, without him you've got a big problem,' said Alan, stretching out and relaxing into deckchair mode, succinctly summing up their dire predicament. Not that he had been invited to, or it was indeed welcome. It wasn't the time for straight talking; a bit of wild, groundless optimism was what was called for and Christine didn't let him down.

'Look, if Father O'Connell knows how serious this is, he's bound to help and so is Old Peter.'

'I emailed saying I'd need to get hold of O'Connell urgently.'

Alan shook his head slowly, squinting at him with one eye. 'I just hope you laid it on thick.'

George blew out his cheeks. It wasn't a case of despondency creeping in. It had marched in with banners unfurled making itself very much at home.

'I think Tony and Old Pete wisely want to keep out of it, but if the message gets to O'Connell then . . .' George shrugged.

'And if it doesn't?' Diane demanded icily.

George blew out his cheeks again and looked to Christine. She couldn't meet his gaze. Even her habitually buoyant nature had suffered a major puncture. He stared at the coffee dregs in the bottom of his cup. They were as black as he saw his future.

That living to a ripe old age thing was over-rated in his opinion. Go out in your prime, with all your faculties in tact. Let your untimely demise be accompanied by genuine expressions of grief, by people who weren't only there to ensure they were beneficiaries in your Will.

Alan shook his head slowly. 'I know that's what I'd do in your position. Aye, get the police to sort this character out.'

'I've made up my mind,' Diane said decisively. 'If it's not sorted by tomorrow, I'm going to stay at my sisters.'

'I've got a very good feeling about tomorrow,' George said with a smile.

Then again, he always was a lousy judge of these things.

30

George couldn't take his eyes off the screen.

Mr Bannister,

I am sorry I can't help.

Fr. James O'Connell is dead.

Old Pete.

One word leapt off the screen and held him transfixed in total devastation – Dead. His mouth made involuntary movements to express what was going through his head. Having received nothing sensible to say, it gave up and left his jaw hanging limply to await further instructions. And when it got some, it wasn't memorably edifying. 'Bloody! Hell!'

He read it again to ensure there was no ambiguity or any subtle nuance he had missed – Dead - Nope, that was pretty clear.

Then an avalanche of mostly illogical thoughts rushed through his head. At once he began typing a rebuttal based on the irrefutable grounds that he had seen O'Connell alive and positively bouncing with health, both figuratively and in the most literal sense off the bonnet of his car, only a couple of weeks before. Then in the very next line demanded to know how and when he had died. He realised the contradiction and hit the delete button.

Desperate to share the crushing burden of the news he paced the floor furiously chewing his fingers and muttering, 'It's not the end of the world. It is just a setback, that's all. It's just a set-back.'

It was a setback that conjured images of white flags, unconditional surrender and calamitous ruination visited upon the vanquished. Christine had said she couldn't be contacted on her mobile until after eleven. It was only ten-thirty, but he called anyway.

'Christine,' he said slowly, trying not to sound too panic-stricken, although speaking as though someone had got a tight hold of his balls was a clear indication of his emotional state.

'Oh, hi . . . George, are you okay?'

'It's O'Connell . . .' He took a deep breath. 'He's dead.'

'What!'

'Old Pete emailed me.'

'Oh my God . . . how?'

'By computer like everybody else.'

'No, I meant how did Father O'Connell die?'

'Oh!' George screwed his eyes shut. 'He didn't say. We've had it.'

Her pragmatism quickly kicked in.

'No, listen, this meeting's finishing soon and I'll come straight back. Stay there and don't do anything.'

He hesitated in replacing the handset as though it meant releasing a hold on his only lifeline. Drastic action was required. Joining the Foreign Legion might be the only option.

Just before one-o'clock a minor commotion at the front door announced Christine's arrival. She exploded into the hallway and summarily deposited her bags beside the stairs. George met her halfway.

'George, if you don't mind me saying, you look awful.'

That was good. He would have hated to feel as bad as he did without it being physically evident. He led her straight into the dining room as though it were important that she should witness the evidence at first hand. She sucked air between her teeth as she read the message.

'That certainly changes things.'

'You could say that.'

'Look,' Christine said decisively. 'Forget O'Connell, he can't help us now, but Old Pete can. He must know something. We need to get back to him straight away.' Before George could protest, she was in the swivel chair pulling the keyboard toward her. 'He needs to know exactly what's going on.'

'He'll run for the hills if you go in all guns blazing.'

She patted his arm.

'I'll use my way with words and feminine allure to beguile him.' She caught his sideways glance. 'Don't worry we haven't got a web-cam. Okay, here we go.'

Old Pete.

I'm sorry that Father O'Connell has passed away.

I offer my sincerest condolences as I believe you knew him well. This leaves me in a very difficult position, with which I truly believe you can help.

I ask as a matter of greatest urgency to contact me and arrange a meeting at a place of your choosing.

Regards,

George Bannister.

George leant forward to read her purple prose.

'It's not Booker Prize . . .'

'Oh well, can't see any point mincing words at this stage,' she said, turning to him for approval. 'Go for it?'

He nodded and she hit the send button.

'Okay, now I'm afraid we have to wait,' she smiled confidently and patted him on the arm again. 'We'll get this sorted out.'

George still reckoned the only thing that was likely to get sorted out, was him, by Felixstone. She sprung out of the chair looking pleased with herself and announced briskly.

'Right, now that's done, I've got another meeting to go to unfortunately. Must dash.'

George followed her out into the hall. She collected her bags hesitating by the door.

'Do we have any idea where this Old Pete lives?'

'Lives?' he repeated, not imagining Old Pete could function anything like a normal human being in the real world, without the assistance of around-the-clock carers. 'Not a clue. On another planet probably and I might need to join him.'

Even in his darkest hour, George chuckled heartily at his own quip. Perhaps excessively so – a sure sign that madness was settling upon him.

Once she had gone, George restlessly paced the floor hoping for a minor miracle. In what form was unclear: Perhaps Old Pete being able to produce a collection of bona-fide El Dorado hair clippings or Mackenzie seeing fit to do the decent thing and return his property? Although both were possibilities, it would be truly miraculous if either occurred. And of course there was Kit. It was time he showed his face. Would his return herald a turning point in their fortunes or simply add yet another layer to their troubles? Either way, that boy's got a bloody lot of explaining to do.

31

George hardly dared to believe his eyes. He walked away from the computer and punched himself solidly in the stomach to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Winded and in a little pain, he staggered back to the screen and read it again. It was true. Old Pete had agreed to meet. And better still it seemed that Old Pete was local to the area. George had visions of trekking halfway across the country to track him down, but that wouldn't be necessary at all. The proposed rendezvous was barely half an hour's drive away.

Old Pete must have once lived in the parish to be an altar boy in O'Connell's church, but clearly, since that time, he'd had neither the wit, wisdom nor where-with-all to move on. He grabbed the phone and called Christine, not that she couldn't get a word in edgeways.

'It worked,' he said gabbling as though commentating on the closing stages of a horse race. 'He's emailed. He wants to meet this afternoon. This could be our lucky break. I don't believe it. And it's only a few miles up the road, your plan worked, it might be okay . . .'

'Whoa,' Christine said struggling to keep up. 'This afternoon, what, where?

'He still lives near here.'

'You're meeting at his house?'

'No, in a pub. The Three Horseshoes. It's just outside Bishops Waltham on the old road.'

'What time?'

'At four this afternoon.'

'What, today?' Christine asked. 'Look, I know this is important but I can't get away. I can't go. I'm stuck in meetings all afternoon. Can't you email him back to see if we can go later, tonight, maybe?'

George was buzzing nearly as much as when he once drilled into a live cable.

'No, I've already emailed him back saying I'll be there. I'll go on my own.'

'By car? Are you sure? I thought the doctor . . .'

'Pah,' George snorted. He had no intention of being diverted by the trifling matter of being medically unfit to drive. 'It's only a few miles.'

'Okay, but keep your mobile with you. And – you take care, now.'

George gently trickled the car into the expanse of shingled car park and reverse up against the white railing fence, opposite the main door to the pub.

After putting the phone down to Christine, it had all been bit of a rush to get ready, but quite unnecessarily so, as it turned out. Even cruising at a leisurely pace, as a nod to his condition, he arrived at the Three Horseshoes with ample time to spare.

The pub had been built on rising ground surrounded on all sides by gently rolling farmland that sloped away endlessly toward the horizon. The road, which once enjoyed the prestige of being the main artery between London and the region of East Anglia that was depicted on ancient maps as Here Be Dragons, had been relegated to lowly status of a 'B' road following the construction of a new bypass. If ever a thoroughfare should be described as a 'has-been', that was it.

The building stood oddly redundant and a little sad, with its retro mock-Tudor guise, fake beams, wagon-wheel and all. A monument to a different era; a time, George fondly remembered, when throngs of people would have happily stumbled from such wayside premises, having imbibed sufficient quantities of ale to knock-out a horse and then, without a moment's hesitation, hop in their cars and weave their way merrily down the road.

It suffered from no such social irresponsibility now, as there were only four cars in the football-pitch sized car park, including his. Of the other three, one had had all its wheels removed and sat forlornly on bricks, perhaps like the pub itself, desperately awaiting the wheel of fortune to turn again.

He turned off the engine and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after three-thirty. He pulled the mobile phone from inside his jacket to check for messages. 'Network Search' flashed onto the screen. He opened the window and held it aloft to try to get a better signal. Nothing.

Abandoning the car, he walked back toward the road, variously positioning the phone, high, low and to the four points of the compass, but still couldn't get a sniff of electromagnetic interaction. George was amazed that in the twenty-first century there were still dead zones in remoter parts of the country.

Back in the car, he relaxed into the seat to prepare mentally for the meeting ahead. He sincerely hoping that Old Pete had the good sense to bring an interpreter to do the 'Communicating with another human being' bit for him. It was a reasonable assumption that he wouldn't come on his own as George couldn't imagine Old Pete having a driving licence. There was an old bike propped up against the pub wall, which could have been his, but for someone who permanently looked down at their feet a mirror arrangement on the pedals would have had to be necessary for him to see ahead.

Yet as the minutes ticked by, unless there was another entrance out of sight on the other side, George had observed no one coming or going. At little before four, George hopped out of the car.

George pushed through the pub's outer doors into the small lobby and glanced at the faded notices pinned to the wall. They were flyers for events long since past, which any aspiring crooner-cum-BBQ loving, pub-quiz fan would have rued the missing of. Should George subsequently need the men's toilet, their location needed no sign on the door. He wrinkled his nose against the astringent smell and stepped into the main bar.

It was a huge space with thirty or forty tables, of which only two were occupied. The interior was neither quaintly old, nor modern and trendy. It was stuck in a nineteen-sixty's time-warp, including what had to have been a collector's piece, a Double Diamond dartboard. If the aim was shabby-chic, they had got it fifty-percent right.

He glanced at the two occupied tables. At one was an elderly couple nursing two halves of stout; lifelong companionship having made conversation blissfully unnecessary, and at the other was someone hidden behind a broadsheet newspaper. George stared at the table for a moment too long for it to be taken as a casual glance.

'Looking for someone?' a voice chirruped behind him.

George swung round. He was quite unprepared for the landlord's formidable toothless grin.

'No . . . not really,' George replied, taken aback by the huge gargoylean black hole of a mouth and the wondrous ski slope of a nose.

George swore he felt the breeze as the landlord's head metronomically swung back and forth ever watchful for elusive custom; a habit surely born out of the pub's halcyon days long since past.

'What can I get you?' he asked, exposing the vast empty cavern of his mouth in a gargantuan smile, as though the sight of a new face was the highlight of his day.

George would have loved a beer, but he had to be sensible.

'Could I have an orange & lemonade, please?'

'Certainly sir!' the landlord said with an enthusiasm the paltry order didn't warranted.

George wondered if he had been misheard and a bottle of his finest Dom Perignon Grand Vintage was winging its way up from the cellar.
'Just a half please. No ice,' George said quickly, by way of clarification.

With his bonhomie undented by George's modest contribution to the takings, the landlord said, 'I've not seen you in here before.'

George smiled politely. 'Just passing.'

The landlord nodded his head then resumed his vigil scanning up and down the bar.

'Don't get much of that nowadays, passing trade – not like it used to be. Five deep at the bar. Car park used to be full. Had to turn 'em away.' He towelled a glass dry and said wistfully, 'Those were the days.'

The man of the elderly pair shuffled towards the bar carrying both glasses, in all probably just to return them, but the landlord was off in hot pursuit of repeat custom anyway. George took the opportunity to slip away from the bar. He took a corner seat by the window.

For the next few minutes, George periodically glanced across the room toward the table with the ardent newspaper reader, but he had failed to see a single page turned. It was either a very long and interesting article or a very conspicuous way to remain incognito.

For a brief moment, George thought it might have been Old Pete sitting there and that he should alert him to his presence. It was inconceivable that even someone as dozy as him could have missed George's arrival.

George checked the time and then hoovered scarcely a few molecules of liquid from his drink to eke it out long as possible. To kill time, he fiddled with a beer mat. He got a few moments pleasure from twirling it, baton twirling-like, through his fingers until it spun wildly out of control and landed on another table. That distraction done with, he then tried to flip another mat on top of his drink from the edge of the table. The fifth attempt saw it sitting square on the rim of the glass. He left it there strategically atop the glass to prevent any unhelpful evaporation, but perhaps giving the impression he had some odd beverage related dyslexia.

He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It had gone quarter past four. He stared out of the window willing Old Pete to turn up. He had counted a mere six cars in as many minutes travelling along the main road. He willed each one in turn to slow down and pull into the pub car park. But as each passed by, George's anxiety grew.

Now with an empty glass in front of him, George came under the gaze of the expectant landlord, but he carefully avoided eye contact. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable sitting nursing an empty glass, he made a decision – he set a deadline – four-thirty, after that he would wait in the car. He refused to admit defeat. Old Pete was his only chance to get answers. He would stakeout the place all night if necessary.

A sudden stir from the far corner caused George to spin round. The individual hidden behind the paper suddenly revealed himself. It wasn't Old Pete. It was nothing like him and he didn't seem the type to bury his nose in a heavy-weight broadsheet either.

The seams of his well-cut suit bulged from the internal pressure of his bull-like physique. Beneath the thick jutting brow-ridge was a face like a chewed toffee, which sported a smeared boxer's nose and brutish scowl.

The character sprung out of his chair, and with a distinct lack of patience or dexterity, attempted to fold the newspaper into its crease. After having several failed efforts at a basic piece of origami, he scrunched it into a ball and tossed it aside.

He lumbered across the bar, with little regard for tables and chairs which he roughly brushed aside. The old duffers sat untroubled, seemingly unaware of the commotion. George glanced at the landlord. He was too absorbed in wiping away phantom spills on the bar lost in fond remembrance of a ghostly legion of customers from days long gone. He too seemed unperturbed by the oaf's unruly departure.

Following that brief flurry of excitement, silence descended once more as the pub reasserted its tomb-like status. A phone then rang in a distant room and the landlord disappeared to answer it. George checked his mobile again. It still had no service. He slipped the phone back into his pocket as the landlord returned. The landlord squinted at a scrap of paper that he struggled to read at arms-length.

'Is there a Mr Bannister, George Bannister, here?' His gaze descended momentarily upon the old couple then to George and that's where it remained.

'George Bannister?' he said and mimed a phone to his ear.

George found himself nodding. He rose from his seat and wove self-consciously through the tables toward the bar.

'George?' confirmed the smiling landlord. He didn't wait for a reply. 'There's a message. Peter says he's sorry –– '

'For God's sake!' George slammed his fist on the bar. He wasn't usually prone to public outbursts of emotion and now he knew why. His knuckles were on fire.

The landlord held up his arms in apology. 'Hey, don't shoot the messenger.'

'Did he leave a number?' George growled.

The landlord backed away shaking his head.

George yanked his car keys from his pocket and stormed toward the exit. It was clearly a pub that lent itself to highly charged departures, which probably explained the landlord's lack of teeth.

George crashed through the set of doors into the lobby only to run headlong into the newspaper-reading goon who had just emerged, from the toilet. They collided full on, chest-to-chest, like two rutting bull seals. George bounced off what was more like a brick wall back and would have ended flat on his back, but for the brute's prompt intervention. He grabbed George's jacket lapels to prevent his fall.

George offered no words of gratitude toward his saviour as the sixteen stone of ugly beef set him back down on his feet. He then politely stepped aside to allow George to continue his explosive exit from the pub.

George dived inside the car and mercilessly gunned the engine into life. He slammed it into gear and had his foot poised to drop the clutch on a full six-thousand angry revs when he noticed piece of paper fluttering under the wiper blade.

'Oh for God's sake, I don't believe it. Middle of bloody, nowhere and someone's sticking bloody leaflets on your bloody car!'

He leapt out and grabbed the offending paper from the screen. It wasn't a leaflet, it was a hand written note.

'Sorry, Pub's not suitable.

Meet at next Lay-by ½ mile on left toward Ipswich.

Peter.

George stared incredulously at the spidery writing, his mind in a whirl.

'The guy is stark raving bonkers,' he said shaking his head and grinning from ear to ear. He would have done a little jig if he weren't in such hurry. Sliding back into his seat and clutching onto the paper as though it was a winning lottery ticket, he eased the car onto the main road.

'That old son of a gun,' George chuckled.

Was this the turning point? Was the end of the whole, gruesome affair in sight? Was his life going to return to normal?

'Yes, yes, yes!' he cried out, but he should have listened to the smaller but wiser voice in the back of his head.

32

He had barely managed to go through the gears before sign for the lay-by appeared on his left. He snapped down the indicator and turned in.

The car was instantly thrown around by the deeply rutted surface. It had undoubtedly been smoothly tarmaced when first constructed, but with fifty years of zero maintenance, the lay-by had become the ideal place to put a prototype tank through its paces. Following a drop into one particularly abyss-like pothole, which bounced him clean out of the chair and slammed his head against the roof lining like a human battering ram, he quickly brought the car to a halt

The place was deserted with a forgotten about abandoned feel. Maybe in the heyday of motoring this might have represented a jolly place to pull in for a picnic, but now, judging from the piles of discarded rubbish strewn around, its isolation made it a magnet for fly-tippers. Featureless tilled clay farmland stretched as far as the eye could see, while shielding the layby from the road a dense hedgerow ran its full length.

Although it was no longer necessary to give modern cars a rest like the old jalopies, or only too frequently as he remembered from family outings, to affect a running repair, there was evidence that the lay-by hadn't fallen completely out of use. Nailed to a tree was a board advertising the menu of an absent Burger Van and lying unashamedly discarded on the floor was the rubberised evidence of more nocturnal pursuits.

Keen to keep the others abreast of developments, he reached inside his jacket pocket and felt for his phone. It normally fell nicely to hand, but not this time. He patted his pockets with some concern. The phone wasn't there.

'Damn!' George cursed. He must have left it behind in the pub. Should he go back and get it, or hang on and wait for Old Pete and go back later? George had fallen foul of Sod's Law too many times. In the few minutes it would take to go back and find it, Old Pete might have come and gone. He daren't risk it.

The privacy the thick hedgerow offered from the main road was clearly the reason for its popularity amongst courting couples, but it also meant George wouldn't see Old Pete arriving until he turned into the layby. Yet, as George stared into his rear view mirror waiting for his appearance, something niggled him. Surely Old Pete had had a head start, so where was he?

George stepped out of the car. On the western horizon heavy black clouds were crowding-in, darkening the sky by the second. An ominous distant rumble of thunder confirmed the storm's approach.

George strolled briskly back toward the main road to get a sight of any cars approaching. He stood on the verge with his hands on his hips scanning up and down the road. He checked his watch. He had been stood there ten minutes and there was still no sign of him.

'This is ridiculous!' he muttered heading back to his car. Then behind him, he heard the distinctive change of engine note to indicate a car slowing. George spun round and saw an old, silver Ford Escort slew off the main road. It hurtled past him barely reducing its speed at all as it set about the pot-holed surface with an abandon normally reserved for a Rally stage.

George never got the impression that Old Pete might fancy himself as a racing driver, although forgetting which one was the brake pedal was always possibility. The Ford finally screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust two car lengths ahead of his own.

George turned with a spring in his step. He fully expected to see Old Pete, comedy hair and all, climbing out of the car, but curiously, the occupants seemed in no rush to decamp. Rather than rush in and make an embarrassing gaff should the new arrival be a unrelated coincidence, George casually ambled towards the car as though there was no finer place in the world to take the air than a beaten-up lay-by in the middle of nowhere.

He wandered towards the tall hedgerow with his hands clasped behind his back. He peered forward as if scrutinising every root, leaf and branch, as if they were fascinating. George, having established his credentials as a simple nature lover, swung around to get a better look at who was in the Ford.

With the glare of sunlight from the glass, it was hard to tell, but as far as he could see there was just a single occupant, the driver. He took a tentative step forward to get a better look, but turned sharply as he suddenly heard the sound of another car pulling into the layby. Perhaps that was Old Pete? But he froze in horror.

FEL 1X trickled smoothly into the lay-by, caressing every bump and hollow before it came to a halt strategically behind George's car.

Initially the sight of the Merc conjured the absurd notion that Old Pete and Felixstone were in cahoots, but then, in a forehead slapping moment, George realised he had been set up; Old Pete's email and the note on the car were a trick.

If he thought things couldn't get worse, they did, as the battered silver Ford, in a cloud of grit and dust, reversed at speed to box in George's car. The door of the wreck flung open and out-stepped the newspaper-reading goon from the pub. He lurched toward the Merc, with his knuckles all but dragging on the floor while eying George somewhat unnervingly like a predator would its next meal.

He opened the back door of the limousine and helped Felixstone onto his feet. George looked on helplessly, imagining in all too graphic detail the ordeal he was to face, but Felixstone was certainly in no hurry to bring to any unpleasant proceedings a conclusion.

Without acknowledging George's presence, Felixstone took an age brushing away invisible flecks from the expensively cut suit that hung limply about his body. Satisfied that his attire was immaculate, Felixstone finally offered George a smile that was pure reptilian. He then casually strolled over, stroking his chin in a parody of deliberation. Ross's brutish replacement followed him at heel like a vicious guard dog.

George's eyes darted left and right.

'Oh, come, come, Mr Bannister,' Felixstone smirked. 'How far do you think you would get – in your condition? Or perhaps you are now well? Perhaps too well for a man of your age and what has befallen them?'

George cowered as if before a deadly snake. Ross's replacement lunged forward with fists clenched. Felixstone pulled him back.

'That wont be necessary, Smith. I'm sure Mr Bannister here will cooperate.'

'What do you want?' George asked trembling.

'You disappoint me, Mr Bannister. I really haven't got time for this,' Felixstone said wearily.

'It's not what you think.'

Felixstone's face hardened. 'Oh, it is, Mr Bannister, it is.'

George's eyes darted wildly in panic.

'But, I haven't got it. It's gone. You know that.'

'Do I?' said Felixstone. His voice was colder than ice. 'Oh dear, then you do have a problem.'

'It was only some damn hair for God sake!' George spat in a burst of anger.

'You are not that naïve, Mr Bannister.' Felixstone's laser eyes were on full bore. 'Have you not questioned how you made such a remarkable recovery from such a serious heart condition?'

'What do you mean?'

'You're playing games. O'Connell instructed you on its power,' Felixstone said with a grotesque sneer.

'No,' George said firmly. 'You can't possibly mean . . . !'

'Yes, Mr Bannister. And to think if a small sample of this creature's hair can do, think of the unimaginable potential of a complete specimen.'

'The hair was over thirty years old. He's probably dead.'

'He? So it is considered human – very interesting. Thank you. What an extraordinary and most valuable discovery O'Connell has made. So, the hair, where is it now!'

Overhead the weather had closed in, with threatening peels of thunder rolling all around the sky. It was as if the forces of nature were colluding with Felixstone to rack-up George's torment. George thrust out his chin in defiance. He had always had large streak of bloody-mindedness to stand up against bullyboys like Felixstone.

Where is it?' Felixstone demanded again.

Smith menacingly took half a step forward with his cannonball fists twitching, just aching for human meat to tenderise.

'Mr Smith here,' Felixstone said, placing a restraining hand on the brute's shoulder, 'Is not what you would call a kind or in deed a very likeable man, Mr Bannister, but he does enjoy mixing business with pleasure. He has an all-consuming passion – inflicting pain.'

George swallowed hard. He will put off being a hero for a while.

'BioMedical Research,' George said quickly.

'Who are you dealing with?' Felixstone asked casually.

George snatched a wary glance at Smith, who was straining on an invisible leash to get at him.

'Mackenzie. Professor Mackenzie.'

Felixstone's shoulders relaxed a little, allowing a trace of smile to form on his lips.

'It is unfortunate you were unwilling to help me.'

'I can't,' George said.

'Well, that is a pity,' mocked Felixstone, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. After a moment's consideration, he turned and slowly walked back toward the Mercedes with Smith trailing behind in twitching with angry frustration.

In the confusion, George didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was hard to think rationally, but the one pervading thought was, 'Is that it!' After all he had endured. Could it be over? The pain, the anxiety, the near dissolution of his marriage?

Yet any wild celebrations were curbed by the feeling that the resolution had been way too easy. Would Felixstone have gone to all that time and trouble, the threats and intimidation, to be satisfied with just the name of some professor? Yet as evidenced by his immanent departure, it appeared so. On a near euphoric high, he had even considered challenging Felixstone over the theft of Kit's computer, but that moment of insanity quickly passed. He had no desire to cause Felixstone to be detained a moment longer than necessary.

Felixstone swung open the car door then stopped and shook his head. He very slowly turned back to George.

'I have just realised, that through your wilful obstruction, I am now in the most unfortunate position of having to wait for your son's return to resolve this matter.' He smiled, but not an ounce of warmth reached his eyes. 'And you know what, I don't think I'm very happy about that.'

George drew on his last reserves of courage. 'You leave my son out of this!'

Felixstone slowly made his way back towards him.

'It could have been so different if you had co-operated.' Felixstone drummed his fingers on his lips. 'All of which leaves me with a dilemma . . .' He looked George up and down with cold calculation. 'How to punish you.'

'Punish?' George gasped, unable to stop his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a jack hammer. 'What for?'

'Mr Bannister, one of my best men is languishing in jail because of you.'

George looked at him incredulously. 'He bloody-well tried to kill me!'

'No,' Felixstone said firmly. 'If he wanted to kill you, you would be dead.'

'A bullet hole in my ceiling says otherwise,' snapped George, unwisely being drawn into a debate on Ross's expertise as an assassin.

Felixstone looked to the heavens as if seeking inspiration. 'So, what should I do with you?'

George ran a shaky finger around his damp collar at the sight of Smith cracking his knuckles. He would be lucky to survive a mauling from that ape. George wondered how much pain he would have to endure before he became physically insensible; a couple of cracks on the jaw, his nose rearranged becoming an internal organ parked up somewhere up near his brain, or perhaps the excruciating sound of various combinations of ribs snapping.

Probably the only reason human beings hadn't adopted the sensible attitude of other small mammals by simply dropping dead when faced with a mortal peril, was an indefinable human condition called 'Hope'.

The odious reptilian smile returned to Felixstone's face, almost as if he had read George's mind.

'The Internet is a wonderful thing, don't you agree, Mr Bannister . . .?' He wagged a finger. 'But dangerous and sometimes wicked in the wrong hands.'

George listened both terrified and bewildered.

'Pornography, Mr Bannister,' Felixstone continued slowly. 'Especially Child pornography is the most despicable thing. Can you imagine how, to be branded a paedophile would leave a life in complete ruin and disgrace, bring utter shame upon the twisted perpetrator and their family.'

George didn't know where the conversation was headed, but he knew he didn't very much like the sound of it. Yet, as much as the utterances of this odious little man revolted him, he was held strangely transfixed, hanging on his every word.

'Computers are marvellous things . . .'

'If you've done something to Kit's computer, I'll – I'll . . .'

Felixstone raised his hand to silence him.

'Personally, Mr Bannister, I'd be more concerned about your own. You see we paid a little visit to your house.'

George tensed. Uncomfortable rivulets of sweat ran down his back as he spat angrily, 'Why, you . . .!'

Smith motioned forward with his few remaining teeth bared.

George cowered back as Felixstone fed ghoulishly on his discomfort.

'In less than an hour your computer will visit a particularly nasty little website and pass over your credit card details.'

'My . . . you . . .' George took a furious step toward Felixstone but was baulked by Smith who loomed forward excitedly clenching and unclenching his fists.

'Now if that wasn't unfortunate enough, this particular Site is actually run by the authorities, with the intention of catching the likes of people like you.'

As scared as George was, he was outraged.

'What! But I'm not a . . .' He couldn't bring himself even to utter the word.

Felixstone's lips drew slowly back into a thin smile.

'When they find the extensive collection of material on your hard drive they and your family may take a different view.'

It may not have been a physical reality, but it felt as if Smith had already punched him in the stomach.

'If you've loaded that filth on my computer, I'll . . .'

Felixstone wagged a finger.

'You're not a stupid man, Mr Bannister and when you've calmed down, I know what you'll be thinking. That you'll just go home and delete it. Reformat the complete system if necessary. No, Mr Bannister. Once visited it gives the authorities instant on line access to the complete content of your hard drive.' Felixstone then added proudly. 'A small piece of soft ware my IT Company designed.'

George was trembling. 'You really are a complete bastard. They'll know it wasn't me. No one will believe it.'

'Are you so sure? Those close to you may offer words of support, but you know there would always be a doubt. You'd see it in their eyes. And what of your neighbours, your work colleagues? Do you think any of them would trust you with their grandchildren?' Felixstone sighed. 'Yet all this could have been avoided. If only you'd listened, but now . . .'

'So you're happy to ruin my life and every one around me. Throwing your teddies out of the pram are you, over what? Money? Power? A sad little empire you've built up?'

The words stung hard. Felixstone turned on George with fire in his eyes. 'For me, Mr Bannister, me. This is no vain hunt for celebrity, for wealth or glory. I've enough wealth to last any man a hundred lifetimes. I am richer than you could possibly imagine.'

'I knew that couldn't have been your real office!' George blurted out.

Felixstone chuckled. 'Oh, it is Mr Bannister. One of many around the country. I have something of a reputation for, shall we say, being careful with my money – office space in London is so terribly expensive.' Felixstone stretched up to his full, but diminutive height. 'No. What I seek nothing less than El Dorado, the Golden One, and the source of the Elixir of Life, with its power to heal and its promise of immortality. The quest of kings, conqueror's and adventurers since the dawn of time, and I was there, that close. It was within my grasp.'

'Immortality, you're mad,' George said, stopping himself from laughing in his face.

Felixstone came back at him with his eyes aflame.

'How old do you think O'Connell was? Fifty, sixty, maybe. No, Mr Bannister I know, I have unequivocal proof, that he was ninety-three years old. And was he like any other ninety-three year old you have ever met, Mr Bannister? No. Ask yourself why.'

'Only a fool would want to live forever?' mocked George.

Felixstone bore down on him. 'I just want to live, Mr Bannister.'

Behind that powerful determination, George saw something else; there was fear in his eyes. Behind the merciless façade Felixstone presented to the world was a vulnerable and desperate man.

'Do you doubt the ability of this creature to heal? Your son doesn't. Why has he followed in O'Connell's footsteps and gone to Peru?' Felixstone had no intention of letting George answer. 'Because he knows it by doing so it is a chance to save the one person he loves above all others, his daughter, Lucy.'

'Huntington's is a genetic disorder, nothing can be done. It's impossible. The doctors – '

'Doctors know nothing!' Felixstone raged. 'Those same idiots told me that my Huntingdon's condition was incurable. They have given me just three lousy years, but I will prove them wrong. I refuse to have my life, in which I've spent every waking moment building into a vast business empire, to end as some quivering vegetable strapped to a wheelchair.'

'You've got – Huntington's?'

'Yes, Mr Bannister. No amount of wealth can alter the degeneracy of your parentage. Abandoned as a child, the one and only thing they bequeathed me with in this life was their vile and corrupted genes.' Felixstone pulled at the jacket that fell limply. 'Do you know what that disease does to the body?'

George did, and at that moment he sincerely hoped the three year life expectancy prognosis had been wildly optimistic by at least three years.

'It destroys the nervous system. A complete loss of muscular control; you twitch and writhe and jerk. It attacks your faculties one by one. Your sight and hearing fail, you lose the power of speech and then the final insult before death, dementia.'

Even if George's life was to be shortly terminated, he found some comfort in knowing that Felixstone wouldn't be far behind.

'And you believe that this El Dorado, this hair, can alter that?' George said openly goading him.

'Not believe, Mr Bannister, I know.' Felixstone turned away. 'You've wasted too much of my time already.'

'Kit will never help you after this.' It was the last throw of the dice. George had nothing to lose.

Felixstone faced him once more.

'Oh, he will, Mr Bannister. Then again you won't be around to counsel him otherwise.' He tut-tutted affectedly. 'What on earth would he think of his father, the man he'd worshipped all his life, being a grubby paedophile?'

George lost control and lunged forward with both arms levelled murderously at Felixstone's throat. He had rashly forgotten Smith's glowering presence. George didn't get within spitting distance before Smith grabbed his arm and twisted it violently behind his back.

With an effortless strength, Smith had George spread-eagled on the floor. The searing pain in his shoulder and the hand firmly pushing the side of George's face into the gravel was sufficient to dissuade him from any further heroics.

'He'll never help you,' George said defiantly, through gritted teeth.

'Take his keys,' snapped Felixstone.

Smith went through George's pockets applying more pressure on his arm to ensure his full cooperation. George's howl of pain only encouraged Smith to twist harder. Smith dug the keys out and dangled them in front of George's face, taunting him, as if they were a trophy of war.

Back on his feet, Smith handed the bunch to Felixstone. George looked up helplessly, not daring to move as Smith towered over him snarling.

'Oh, by the way, Mr Bannister,' Felixstone said, pulling a mobile phone from his inside pocket. 'Smith here tells me you were very careless with this earlier. It's just lucky he happened to come by it. There are so many dishonest people about, pick-pockets etcetera.' Felixstone smiled. 'And it appears you have a text message. Let's see?'

George made a move to get up, but a swift boot in the ribs from Smith painfully put paid to the idea.

'Your pals have sent a message warning you that you might be heading into a trap. Ah, bless.'

Felixstone laughed and let the phone slip through his fingers. It hit the ground with a brittle crack as the battery cover spun through the air. He nodded and Smith stamped down hard grinding it into something less than its component parts.

'Now it's time,' announced Felixstone.

'Time . . .? Oh, my, God!' thought George, this is it. 'Just get it over with quickly,' he said desperately.

'Yes, time I must be off.' Felixstone threw back his head and laughed. 'I'm not going to kill you, Mr Bannister, not today anyway. No, you will have to live with the consequences of your indiscretion for the rest of your life, which, I'm sure you will find, is far worse than death itself. Cheerio, Mr Bannister, I'll be sure to mention our chat to your son when I see him and offer my condolences at his father's fall from grace.'

With Felixstone reinstalled in the Mercedes and in a final act of humiliation, Smith cackled as he kicked the phone debris into George's face. He then lumbered back to the beaten-up Ford.

George didn't dare move until the two cars had sped out of the lay-by in a cloud of dust. Almost instantly, all around him heavy drops of rain began to hit the ground, exploding like miniature water bombs. Above the sky had become a heaving mass of steel grey cloud. George staggered to his feet and pawed away the embedded grit from the side of his face. There wasn't have a moment to lose.

His only hope was to get to a phone in the pub and alert the others to stop the computer opening the web page. Yet the gods were against him as the rain began to fall in great thrashing waves that rapidly soaked each inch of him to the skin. All around the potholes quickly filled to form deep puddles. An intense flash of lightning was accompanied by a deafening roar of thunder that shook the air.

George broke into a trot, but by the time he had reached the main road, he was already in trouble. He stood bent double clutching at the stitch in his side, gasping for air. He had banked on urgency, adrenalin and the indomitable human spirit seeing him through, although some minor things like regular exercise and training, might have been more useful under the circumstances. Without the luxury of an ice-pack for his head or time to get his breath back, he staggered on.

Bent low against the wind and with the rain stinging his face like pricks from a thousand needles, he slogged forward as fast as his legs would carry him. He struggled along the grass verge up the incline toward the pub. The ground under foot rapidly turned into cloying mud, each footfall sank deeper and deeper into the heavy clay soil, mercilessly sapping his strength with each yard gained.

He looked up; the pub was insight. A flash of lightening lit up the sky followed instantly by long deep growl of thunder. The storm was overhead. George wiped the rain from his glasses and saw that in the flat, treeless landscape, if the lightning was looking for something to strike, something just tad higher than the low lying fields, then worryingly, he was it. For a fleeting moment it crossed his mind to just stand and let Nature take its course; it might be best all round. It would be quick, presumably painless, and with just a pair of blackened, smouldering shoes left behind to tell the tale, but sheer bloody mindedness and that desperate failing of all mankind, hope, wouldn't allow it.

He pushed on. Every joint, bone and muscle in his body burned with an inner fire and every tense knot of sinew screamed at him to stop. With his face contorted with the agony, he sucked in air that did nothing to quench the inferno below.

Yet through sheer determination, he threw his legs forward one stiff, stilted step after another. He knew with certainty that if he gave in to his body's demands to rest, even for second, then it would be over. To blot out the pain, he shouted it down, and urged himself forward.

'Keep – going, one . . . two . . . three. Not – many – more . . . keep – going. Six . . . seven . . . eight. Nearly . . . there, keep going.'

Several times fierce gusts of wind nearly drove him backward, but stooping low, he staggered on. Sodden and half-blinded with rain crazed glasses, he neared his goal. He glanced up. The pub was no more than a hundred yards away. He pushed on harder. A procession of cars passed him at speed and doused him with spray from the road.

With one last desperate effort, he reached the car park and the welcome firmness under foot of the gravel. He allowed himself a moments rest, doubled-up with his hands on knees and a growing sense of elation. He had done it.

He quickly set off, hobbling toward the door. His shoulder came up hard against the woodwork. He made an urgent grab for the handles and pulled at the doors, but they stood firm. They were locked. His mind was racing. Why was it shut? He yanked frantically on the handles and hammered on the glass.

Then he saw a hand written note stuck on the inside.

'Sorry, Pub temporarily closed due to power cut. Bob.'

George stared at it in dumb horror.

'Oh God no, I don't believe this.' He hammered his fists onto the glass in the door until they were raw. 'Help, is anyone there. Help!' He ran to one of the windows and cupped his hands to look inside. 'Open up, help.' He beat his fist hard against the window rattling the pane. 'Help, I need a phone. I need to get to a phone. I need a phone!' he roared.

There was no movement from within.

George ran around to the back and into the small beer garden. The place was deserted and the doors locked. He kicked and beat his fists on the back door, but with no response. His stomach heaved over as the realisation finally hit him. There was no more he could do. It was over. It was official – his life was over.

He shivered as a freezing chill ran down his spine. He had been running on empty for a while, but finally his last reserves of energy gave out. The one small chance he'd had was lost to a storm. Felixstone had won.

George's legs gave way beneath him and he slid down the door onto the ground with his head in his hands. He no longer felt the rain running down his neck or the icy cold of his wet clothes. He felt nothing, he was dead inside. He sat motionless staring out through sightless eyes.

At a conscious level, he didn't hear the car that pulled into the car park, nor the two people talking as they approached the building. He was barely aware of them hurrying towards him in panic and confusion.

'Oh God, George, are you okay? Are you hurt?'

Something stirred in a deep recess of his mind, a spark of recognition, a memory, but it quickly faded.

'What's happened, are you hurt? Can you hear me, laddie?'

George slowly raised his head. There were two vague shapes standing over him silhouetted against the sky. Another memory stirred.

'Aye, he looks in shock.'

'Where's his car? He might have had an accident. Help me get him up.'

They hauled George to his feet.

'Get him in the car quickly.'

'Aye, we should get him to hospital.'

At some level, George wanted to speak, to resist and cry out, but there was nothing left inside, beyond a single vague desire to be left alone to let the lightning do what it did best.

33

George shot bolt upright in the bed having escaped the clutches of a nightmare permeated with a nameless dread. A damp, as chill as the grave, stuck the nightgown to his back as he stared disoriented into the half-light. The noxious smell of surgical spirit and stench of the sick and dying assaulted his senses. An old people's home? No. Oh God! – Not another bloody hospital! His heart? Then he remembered and recall came in a stomach-churning wave of nausea.

'Oh, God! Oh, God!' he repeated breathlessly, as he scrambled out of the bed to find his clothes. Part of him knew it was over, Felixstone had won, but the part of him that was grabbing and clambering into his clothes he had pulled from the locker was yet to concede defeat.

Hope is a terrible thing. He paused for a second to take stock. How could he cling to such a ridiculous notion that it wasn't too late, when every ounce of logic dictated it was? He silently sneered at the absurdity of human nature then frantically redoubled his efforts to get dressed.

He made no concession to the other patients around him, as he crashed around clumsily pulling on his trousers and squeezing into his shoes. While buttoning his shirt, which was still damp from the storm, he half ran, half hopped down the ward. Alerted by the commotion, the duty nurse stepped from her office and confronted him in her sternest matronly voice.

'And what do you think you are doing? Get back to bed this instant.'

George hesitated. People are conditioned from birth to submit to authority figures, but it only took a moment for him to realise that he would have a plenty of authority figures to deal with if he didn't get out of there fast. He brushed her aside and raced into the corridor.

The nurse flapped after him.

'It's not allowed. I insist you get back into bed. I'll – I'll – fetch the doctor.'

To have someone mithering in his ear and being able to ignore it, had become second nature to George. Her pleas didn't cause him to break his stride for a moment as he scurried away. He swung round a corner and was confronted by a tall thin-faced young doctor, who stretched his arms wide to stop him.

George sidestepped and pushed his arm away spinning him around like a weather vane. The doctor reached out to grab him, but George was too quick and got away. The doctor was soon on his heels gaining ground until he was close enough to make a lunge for George's shoulder. George tried to wrestle free, but the doctor's grip was far stronger than his slim physique suggested.

'Whoa. What's this all about? Mr Bannister isn't it?'

'I've got to get home,' George growled as wriggling for all his worth.

'Surely it can wait to the morning? You might still be in shock. We need to keep you under observation. It could be dangerous, especially following your recent illness.'

'No. I've got to go. Now!'

'Can't we talk about it?'

'No! Get out of my way.'

'As you wish. I can't stop you.' He let go and George took off. 'Is there someone we can call?' the doctor shouted after him.

George wasn't listening, he was intent on one thing. He had to get home to salvage something from the train wreck of his life.

George quickly picked his way through the corridors and finally turned into the A&E reception area and the main exit. He was oblivious to the outlandish sight he made, as he hurtled past the room of waiting patients with his shirt still flapping and shoes on sockless feet. For all the world, it looked as if he was a traumatised victim rushing off to find an accident to attend.

George fled past the many inquisitive eyes, as he plunged through the exit into the chill night air. The snatch your breath away cold brought him sharply to a halt. His predicament hit him as keenly as the drop in temperature. He glanced over his shoulder. The orange signed glowed in big letters:

Welcome to St Guilders NHS Hospital

'Bloody hell!' George cursed loudly. It was miles from home. He quickly assessed his options. There he was barely clothed and at a ridiculously early hour in the morning with no means of transport, which meant only one thing.

He dashed back inside and presented himself at the reception desk. The middle-aged receptionist, who sat staring at the computer, carefully ignored him. She had a pinched, snooty look as though she had a permanent smell under her nose – which, in fairness, judging by the motley clientele who frequented the A&E department at that hour, it was probably a hazard of the job.

George waited impatiently drumming his fingers on the counter. In a previous incarnation he would never have dreamed of such boorish behaviour.

'Hey,' he said, after waiting long enough, which was barely a few seconds. 'I need a taxi.'

His request evoked no response.

'Listen. I-Need-To-Get-A-Taxi-Now!' he said loudly.

Being no stranger to dealing with drunks and other dross of society, who regularly treated the A&E waiting room as a drop-in centre, she kept her head down and pointed over to the left. There was a telephone mounted on the far wall. It was a direct link to a local mini-cab firm.

'Quick Cabs,' said a world-weary voice at the other end of the line.

'I need a taxi from St Guilders to Wornham.'

George heard him sigh.

'When?'

'Now. Immediately.'

Another sigh.

'Hang on.'

The line went dead for what felt like an eternity. When he came back on the line the opportunity for a very lucrative fare hadn't lit any fires under him. '. . . 'bout an hour and 'arf. Double rate. Name?'

'Too long. I need something now!' barked George.

'Hour and 'arf.'

'Forget it.'

'Whatever.'

George slammed the phone down and he saw he had attracted quite an audience. The unexpected entertainment provided by his late night, one-man show, was clearly a welcome distraction from the tedium of hanging around waiting to be treated. The beanpole doctor came up behind him.

'Mr Bannister, if I can't persuade you to stay, perhaps I can call someone? Although it is late . . .' He showed George the time on his watch, hoping he would see sense. 'It is three-fifteen.'

'Yes, okay, phone this number.' There wasn't the slightest hesitation in George's voice. It didn't cross his mind even for a second that asking anyone to pick him up at that hour was extraordinarily unreasonable.

The doctor pulled the telephone from the receptionist's desk and put it on the counter.

'Right, fire away.'

George gave him the number. Understandably, for such a late hour, it rang for an age before being answered. Finally the doctor nodded.

'Yes hello. My name is Dr Arnold – no don't worry George is fine. Who am I speaking to . . .? Alan Pinkerton, good.' George nodded and went to take the receiver. With some hesitation, the doctor passed it over.

'Alan, it's me. I can't get a cab. I need to get out of here now.'

'Aye, but it's very late. I really think you're in the best place.'

'You don't understand. I've got to get home to the cottage, now.'

'What's happened are you in trouble, laddie?'

George took a deep breath then said firmly, 'Yes.'

He hated deceiving him, but it was a lie only in the sense that his life wasn't in immediate danger. The imperative lay in the fact that his life was already halfway round the U-bend.

'Give me half an hour.'

It proved to be the longest twenty-seven minutes of George's life. Once having gained a faithful following, his audience were reluctant to accept the show was over. He couldn't look anywhere without a sea of faces mooning at him in expectation of more antics. There were some groans of disappointment when Alan's car pulled up outside and George bid them farewell.

Once in the car, Alan was understandably keen to know why a good night's sleep had been interrupted. Yet to his disappointment, George offered little by way of explanation.

'Was it Felixstone again?'

George stared off into the distance. 'You brought the keys to the cottage?'

'Aye, but what's going on?'

George wasn't exactly gushing either over his friend's unswerving fidelity. 'Can't you drive any faster?'

'Look, I had a couple of wee drams before bed last night, I can't take a chance with the Old Bill.'

At just after four-thirty and with the first light of dawn still well over an hour away, they pulled onto the drive. The tyres crunched on the gravel as they came to a halt.

'Okay, we're here, now what?' asked Alan.

'Have you got the keys?' George demanded.

'Aye,' Alan said, handing them to him. 'So what's––?'

He hardly finished the sentence before George was out of the car.

Once inside, George flicked on the hall light unsure what to expect, but unnervingly, everything seemed perfectly Quiet and normal. Alan had caught up by the time George stood in front of the laptop. George could hardly bring himself to look at it; He was like a condemned man facing the instrument of their execution.

'Are you expecting an important email or something, laddie?'

Alan's good-natured banter was lost on him. George took several deep breaths then hit the power button. It initiated the usual start up sequence until a blue screen appeared with a system message in bold white text.

The System shut down incorrectly

Please reboot in safe mode

'Aye, the power cut,' Alan said, standing over his shoulder. 'Electric was off for about an hour. The storm yesterday.'

'Here, in the village?'

'Aye.'

'What time?'

'Probably about half five – that's when it went down at home.'

George took a deep breath then reached under the desk and ripped the power lead from the unit. If Alan thought this was particularly eccentric behaviour, he didn't let it show as George turned and looked him straight in the eye.

'But definitely before six?'

'Oh, aye, absolutely sure. Christine called me as I was driving home.'

George buried his head in arms. His shoulders heaved up and down. He felt Alan's comforting hand on his shoulder.

'Now, now, laddie we'll get you through this.'

George threw his head back and began laughing almost manically.

'Aye, it is funny when that happens,' Alan said, failing to grasp the hilarious aspect of a minor computer malfunction, especially at four-thirty in the morning.

George had cursed that laptop with its useless battery that barely lasted 10 minutes before it gave out, but now it was a thing of beauty. Then, as if galvanised by a new terror, George sprung out of the seat and flew toward the back door, knocking Alan aside in the process. Within moments he had returned in from the garden wielding a large club hammer.

'Are you expecting more trouble, laddie?' Alan asked, stepping out of George's way for his own protection. George hesitated for a moment as if to explain, but then thought better of it. He closed the screen and put the laptop on the floor.

George raised the hammer above his head and swung it down with such venom that it blasted bits of plastic to the far corners of the room. Again and again he bludgeoned the machine until what was left, was virtually unrecognisable. Exhausted, George collapsed against the wall. He lobbed the hammer aside and said breathlessly, 'I'm sorry. It had to be done.'

'Aye, I know. I can't stand that "Reboot In Safe Mode" thing either,' Alan said. 'But I'm not sure you'll be able to claim under the warranty for that.'

George slid onto the floor in a crumpled heap as his adrenaline-fuelled energy faded fast, leaving him in the grip of a desperate clawing tiredness.

'God, I feel so tired.'

'I know what you mean, but personally who needs sleep when you can have so much fun doing stuff like this. Now, let's get you back up to the house.'

34

Carrying their drinks George and Christine warily stepped out of the back door of the White Horse into the, not unexpectedly, deserted pub garden. There would have been few other souls hardy enough to drink outside on such a chilly October afternoon. Even the nicotine junkies were noticeable by their absence.

George ignored the squelching mud underfoot and kept a nervous finger poised over the send button on his mobile phone. It was a pre-prepared text to Alan seated outside in the car should things not go to plan.

The two occupants of the table at the far end of the garden by the children's play area also took a careful interest in their arrival. They too fearing things might not have been quite as they seemed. It was with some relief that George slipped the phone into his pocket. Unless Felixstone had employed some astonishing look-a-likes, one of which was drawn from a circus and the other from a pet shop, it was the two individuals who they were expecting to meet.

Old Pete was instantly recognisable by the twin tufts of red hair and beside him was his ferret-faced companion Tony, their group's elected spokesman.

It was during the evening, while George was in hospital after his ordeal, when Tony had rung. It was in response to an urgent email Christine had sent to Old Pete. She reported it was the briefest of calls, but laced with intrigue.

'We need to see you – three o'clock Saturday the 'White Horse'. We have news.' Tony then dramatically hung up. Yet it left them with a dilemma.

Initially when told of the call, George's response was calm, rational and considered. 'It's Felixstone! It's a trap!'

But with Christine's gentle persuasion, he began accept the possibility it was on the level.

'I really don't think so. He sounded so genuine,' she said. 'And it wouldn't be like Felixstone. He's far more deviously. I think we should take a chance and go for it, but take more precautions.'

'Sounded so genuine!' George repeated incredulously, 'He barely said half a dozen words.'

'But,' she insisted, 'it was the way he said them.'

'What the hell!' thought George, things couldn't get any worse.

It had taken him a full painful forty-eight hours before he revealed what exactly had gone on.

Their initial reaction was no more than he hoped or expected under the circumstances. They had their own individual ways to tell him he was foolish.

'It wasn't wise to go it alone. Thank God you were unharmed.'

'Aye, I don't think that was the most sensible thing to do, laddie.'

'George, I'm leaving you!'

Yet, equally, they were universal in condemning the depths to which an individual could descend; which, although they didn't exactly specify, George assumed they meant Felixstone.

In hindsight, he realised the demolition of the computer might have been subject to misinterpretation. He had thought long and hard as to whether to tell them, but without doing so, his extreme behaviour made little sense. He could have played the traumatised-victim's-eccentric-behaviour card, but why should he, he had nothing to hide.

Alan had unhesitatingly volunteered to ride shotgun, but George was loathe to let him loose on Old Pete, thinking the terrier-like Scotsman might intimidate his delicate sensibilities. After consideration, they decided all three would go, but Alan would remain in the car, waiting in reserve as the cavalry.

They approached the table. George's expectancy was tempered by the precise nature of the 'News' they brought. He sincerely hoped it was real and substantiated and not more of Janice the Witch's ethereal pronouncements.

Old Pete and Tony sat waiting. The introduction was awkward.

'Peter, Tony, this is Christine. She's a . . .'

Old Pete immediately turned turtle. That was perhaps the last they would see of him for the day.

'Hello, yes we know,' Tony said smiling half-heartedly and winking suggestively at Christine.

George should have warned her. Admittedly, she didn't appear too upset by the perceived amorous advance, as she flicked her hair of her face and smiled back coquettishly.

'I appreciate you coming. It's difficult for everyone,' said George.

'No, it's not that but . . . well,' Tony said with a pained, but highly mobile expression.

'No, it's okay. I really understand. I've experienced some unpleasantness myself.'

George was keen to discover the 'News'.

'So, you said you had information.'

Tony twitched eagerly. 'Yes, about Kit. Somebody has been in touch with him.'

'Really, as in properly, not just on some spiritual plane?'

'Of course, he saw him in Lima,' Tony replied appearing hurt by the suggestion. 'Kit told them he was ready. And he was due to fly back on . . . Friday,' he added with his eyebrows bouncing up and down like Groucho Marx.

'That's brilliant,' Christine said beaming.

George wasn't sure if Tony's last comment regarding the day of Kit's return was intended to throw Felixstone off the scent. Either Tony believed Felixstone had the pub garden wired or it was simply another one of his menagerie of tics. George needed to establish which it was before proceeding any further. He leant forward and projecting his voice like an actor to ensure that if the place was under surveillance, the eavesdroppers wouldn't miss a word.

'You – say – this – Friday?'

George's speech becoming strangely stilted had Christine looking at him curiously and unsettled Tony.

'Erm,' Tony said, 'that's what we were told – Friday.'

George thought he had his answer until at the last minute Tony's eyebrows once more bounced up and down teasingly.

In exasperation, George repeated loudly, 'Friday?' he said in the same stilted manner, while shaking his head and pleading with his eyes for the truth.

Tony's only reaction was to turn to Christine and wink at her, asking, 'Is there a problem with – Friday?'

George realised Tony was cool as a cucumber with this cloak & dagger stuff. George then stood up and moved adroitly to a table tucked out of the away beyond even the reach of a spy grade directional surveillance microphone and beckoning silently for the others to join him. Felixstone was good, but surely even he couldn't have the whole garden bugged.

Christine, who followed reluctantly, asked, 'George, what are you doing?'

He put his finger to his lips and motioned her to follow. Meanwhile a minor crisis developed over whether Tony should bring Old Pete along, being unsure if the displacement was just a temporary affair. Old Pete resolved the situation himself and waddled over without once looking up to see where he was going. It was a remarkable piece of navigation assisted no doubt by years of practice.

When they were all seated again, George, looking rather pleased with himself, said, 'That's better.'

'What is?' Christine asked, looking back and forth between the tables unable to adjudge any discernible difference between the two.

In the meantime, George leant toward Tony and asked in a low whisper, 'Okay, so what day is Kit getting back?'

'Friday!' Tony replied, twitching nervously, but having no reservations about using his regular speaking voice.

'Oh,' George said in surprise. Yet he still wouldn't be drawn into talking at a normal volume as he said out of the side of his mouth, 'I thought the place was bugged and you were giving me a sign back there.'

'What sign?' Tony asked, as his rogue eyebrows mocked George with another unsolicited workout.

'Ah, so, it's not . . .' George's voice tailed away. Everything became clear as he observed those irrepressible dancing tufts. He cleared his throat to hide his faux pas. 'So, Friday then. And do we know which airport?'

Tony hesitated. 'Um, it was Peter who got the email, but I'm pretty sure that's all the guy knew.'

George turned to Old Pete, more out of curiosity than anything else, confident that he wouldn't hear directly from the man himself.

'Surely there can't be many airports that have direct flights from Peru?' Christine suggested encouragingly.

'That's of course assuming he's returning on a direct flight,' retorted George.

'That's all we can tell you.' Tony shrugged. 'So, perhaps check with the airlines.' He saw it as mission accomplished and stood to leave.

George didn't intend to let them go that easily, not after all he had been through. 'I need to know how to get in touch with O'Connell; I assume the email I received from Felixstone about him being dead was just a fake?'

For once Tony's frenetic facial workout was stilled and even Old Pete showed a flicker of being in touch with reality, as he lifted his head for a moment or two.

'No, he is dead,' Tony insisted. 'We're sure. He was murdered.'

'Murdered! Good God!' gasped Christine.

'Bloody hell!' George thought. He had convinced himself it was just one of Felixstone's little ruses. He was back to square one unless he could tease any information out of the highly uncommunicative Old Pete. Then a dissenting thought or two occurred to him.

'Why wasn't it in the Papers? The murder of somebody who was once that high profile surely would be news?'

Tony nodded. 'Because they haven't discovered his body yet.'

It appeared a satisfactory reply until subject to a modicum of dissection.

'So, has someone confessed?' queried George.

'No, Janis has sensed that he's passed over.'

'Oh, right, I see,' George replied slowly. He glanced at Christine and rolled his eyes, 'But no real corroboration that either he is dead or even murdered?'

Tony looked at him quizzically as if it was proof positive as far as he was concerned.

'What if I told you, I'm still getting emails from him,' said George.

Tony began to twitch furiously with excitement. 'Messages from "Beyond the grave", wow!'

It was George's turn to be confused. 'Erm, no, I think you're missing the point. He signs himself off as 'The Seeker', but the 'Thought for the Day' communications I've received, must have been from O'Connell.'

'Oh,' Tony said. 'We get those all the time, but they're not from Father O'Connell. We don't know who The Seeker is.'

'They seem to have uncannily similar philosophy.'

'There are many people who believe broadly the same things as Father O'Connell.'

'Does Janis know who killed him?' Christine asked.

George turned and scowled at her. She was supposed to be on his side and not pandering to that stuff. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but found he was side-lined from the conversation.

'Felixstone,' Tony stated without hesitation. 'If not by his own hand, then on his explicit orders.'

'But why would Felixstone kill him?' Christine asked, 'It doesn't make sense. Surely, Father O'Connell would have represented his best chance of a cure for his illness?'

'Cure?'

'Felixstone's got Huntingdon's disease, the same genetic disease as Kit's daughter. It's terminal. He's got three years to live. That's why he's doing all this. To find a cure.'

'I see,' Tony said. 'But Father O'Connell couldn't help him, not now. He no longer has the Gift.'

'We thought he'd discovered some sort of Elixir of Life in South America?' Christine said.

'He was endowed with an exceptional gift in Peru, but nothing of a material nature.'

'You're saying his gift of healing was transmitted simply by the laying on of hands? So, what happened?' Christine asked.

'In the end it sort of just faded away,' said Tony.

'That's unfortunate.'

'You are aware of what he gave George, when they met?' Christine asked.

'He wanted Kit's father to have proof,' Tony replied. 'He told us he'd recognised something within him, as he had in Kit.'

George found it rather galling to be the subject of a conversation without having been invited to join it.

'What would the hair prove in relation to this Gift?' Christine asked.

'You need to understand what happened to Father O'Connell in South America.'

'Was it something to do with his cancer?' Christine asked.

Tony's smile was as disarming as it was unruly.

'He was a Chosen One, a Shaman, and recognised as such by the Mapinguari.'

Christine nodded furiously for him to go on. George wasn't so nearly enthralled.

'The Mapinguari are what has come to be known in the West as El Dorado. Or more correctly, Los Dorados. You can blame the Spanish for assuming there was only one.'

'Ah, our old friend the Golden Man.'

George's facetious contribution was met by a scowl from Christine.

'They're called The Golden One's,' Tony said, 'because they believed the Mapinguari radiated an invisible golden light that restored health and well-being to all those it fell upon.'

'And the hair?'

Tony glanced at her puzzled, as though asked why two and two made four.

'Proof that El Dorado is still alive, of course.'

George threw up his hands. He hadn't come all this way to listen to such airy-fairy nonsense. He wanted hard facts.

'So, let me get this straight,' George interrupted loudly. 'You say there are some primitive people out there who can perform all sorts of miracles by zapping people with what - just their charisma? Ok, I admit something very weird happened in relation to me and just maybe it was to do with that lock of hair, but even so, if O'Connell was himself cured by these people, as you say, why did he then go on to inherit this amazing ability? I haven't.'

'Being in close proximity to the Mapinguari is sufficient,' Tony replied. 'The simplest analogy would be like a piece of metal placed near a powerful magnetic, which then too becomes magnetic. It empowered him with what the Asharica people call the Breath of Life.'

'So, why isn't half the world walking around with these magical gifts should they have the misfortune bump into these characters?'

'Because encounters are rare and very few people share a mutually coherent resonance.'

'Resonance? With what?'

'Their DNA.'

'So, you're saying O'Connell is, what, closely related to them? A lost tribe in the Amazon? So tell me how does an Irishman become related to these people in Peru?'

'The Mapinguari isn't a tribe.'

'But never-the-less related to O'Connell?' mocked George.

'We all are,' Tony said.

'What you and Old Pete here?' George asked with a nod to each.

'We are all descended from them.'

'Pah!' snorted George.

Christine intervened. 'The tests revealed that this El Dorado's DNA is an ancestral human form. 'So in that respect it does make sense.'

'We're all descended from monkeys, but I wouldn't have expected my DNA to be anyway close to an ape's,' said George.

Christine eyed George in a way to suggest there might be some debate on that point.

'Can I go back a bit?' Christine asked. 'These Mapinguari are obviously very special, but their DNA is definitely human.'

'To understand that, you must understand who these beings are.'

'Go on then,' George said wearily.

'There are few that remain, but they are spread through-out the world, living, hidden, in the remotest wildernesses. Almost every culture has names for them. In Africa they are called the Nikki-Tikki, in Australia the Yowie and even in Britain as the Green Man, but probably they are best known as either Bigfoot or Yeti.'

For a few moments George sat in stunned silence then exploded with a huge braying belly laugh.

'You can't be serious? O'Connell's related to a Yeti!'

Tony recoiled with his facial tic in a hyper-drive. 'But you have been given the proof, the hair and the DNA, surely . . . ?'

'As Christine said, the hair was undeniably human.'

'Of course their DNA is the same as ours, all of mankind are their descendants.'

George turned to Christine. 'This is crazy, isn't it?'

George couldn't understand why she wasn't clutching her sides as well. Even worse, she looked quire fascinated.

'So, did Father O'Connell ever describe what they looked like?' she asked.

'He did,' Tony said hesitantly. 'But always insisted he couldn't say with any great authority that it was their true physical appearance.'

'I – I don't follow,' said Christine.

'The Indians in the Perene Valley in Peru told him the Mapinguari could appear to people in any form, a Jaguar, snake or even as a bird, like the Condor.'

'But you agreed they were human?' Christine asked, struggling to follow.

'I've got it now,' George smirked. 'They must be these so-called Shape-Shifters, the ones that flower-up the pages of cheap sci-fi novels.'

'No, no,' Tony said, nearly springing out of his chair. It was unclear whether that was directly related to his indignation or a freak combination of muscular waywardness. 'The Indians don't believe it actually physically changes, only how it appears to us, in our minds. We see what the Mapinguari wants us to see.'

'And how does it do that – smoke and mirrors?' George asked sarcastically.

'The Mapinguari of Peru is an immensely powerful psychic being who since the beginning of time have guided mankind from afar. They can create within us false memories. Their minds are our minds.'

'So how is it you know so much about these people, if they are so elusive?' George demanded.

'It was revealed to Father O'Connell in a series of visions.'

'Visions!' snorted George. 'I'm always highly suspicious of supposedly apocryphal insights revealed in visions.'

'Possibly,' said Christine. 'But you forget Father O'Connell once helped a great deal of people! There has to be something in this or why else would your own son have taken the trouble to go there too?' She turned to Tony with a concerned expression. 'They are surely at the point of extinction. Is that our fault for encroaching on their natural habitat by destroying the rain forest?'

'No. There have always been accidents,' Tony replied enigmatically.

'So,' George said, 'let me get this straight, the hair O'Connell gave me, wasn't just to prove the existence of this creature?'

'Father O'Connell recognised something in you . . .' Tony faltered, guessing that George wouldn't like the answer 'And as you discovered it has miraculous healing powers.'

'Of course!' said Christine. 'It explains your amazing recovery from the heart attack.'

'Yes,' George said irritably, 'I agree, I was lucky, but how could just a sample of hair do that?'

In a timely intervention, the young barman appeared and collected the empty glasses from the table.

'Thank you, ladies and gents. You're a brave lot sitting out her today.'

If he speculated over the sudden silence he met, he gave no indication of it and swiftly returned inside.

'Okay, so why wasn't I told all this when I saw you in Salisbury, it would have saved me an awful lot of aggravation?'

'We didn't know anything then,' Tony said. 'It was only after Father O'Connell met you that he told us what was going on.'

'So why not let me know later?'

'We knew Felixstone was hacking-in to all our emails. So we couldn't risk contacting you.'

'Hmm, there is a wonderful devise called a telephone, you know,' said George.

'We couldn't risk the calls being tapped. And perhaps just as importantly, there is also a wonderful notion of giving people your number, if you want them to use it!' Tony retorted.

'Oh, George,' Christine said, 'didn't you put a contact number on your emails?'

'Well, I thought,' George mumbled, 'you know in this day and age, with technology, the internet and all that, well . . . quite frankly, it didn't occur to me. Anyway, O'Connell had it.'

'But he's dead,' said Tony.

'So you say,' George said, seizing his opportunity. 'If that's the case, would Peter know where there are more samples of the hair?'

'I wouldn't have thought so.'

George smiled hopefully. 'I know Peter was close to him at the church, I thought . . .'

He fervently hoped Old Pete would join them in the real world, just long enough, to reveal he had a stash put aside for this very contingency and get him out of jail with Felixstone. George stared long and hard at the shiny crown of Old Pete's head, willing him with all his might to rise to the occasion and utter those few words of comfort. Old Pete remained resolutely unmoved – head firmly wedged in his chest.

'I'm sure he would have said something,' Tony said. 'I've known Peter for a long time.'

'Blood hell!' These people are totally useless. They got him into all this trouble and now have left him high and dry.

George saw the meeting as at its end and he stood to leave, but Christine hadn't read the script.

'Alan's waiting,' George reminded her, hovering impatiently.

Carefully ignoring him, she leant across the table and asked, 'Look, before we go there's been something puzzling me since George mentioned it. Can you tell me why Father O'Connell made so little mention of any of these incredible things, but insisted on putting such great store in the Creation Story in Genesis? What's the connection?'

There wasn't a hint of a smile or a customary wink to let them know that Tony wasn't being anything other than deadly serious when he said, 'Because he knew every word written in the Creation Story was the truth. That was far more important than anything that happened to himself.'

George let out a resigned sigh. 'Christine, please, it's time to go.'

Christine wasn't to be prised away that easily.

'It is accepted by most modern theologians that although divinely inspired, it is to be understood as purely symbolic in explaining mankind's creation and 'Fall' to seek redemption from Original Sin,' Christine said.

'No,' Tony said firmly. 'His visions revealed a different and more straightforward truth. It was a truth, which became self-evident if you understood the nature of each principal element involved in the original account.'

'What's the connection with this Mapinguari?' Christine asked.

Tony smiled. 'Does not your Bible tell you that the Elohim, the Fallen Angels, who were later identified as the Watchers in the Books of Genesis and Enoch, were those who taught men the knowledge of all things? The Mapinguari are the original Elohim – the Fallen Angels. Was it not they and not Yahweh who declared in the Garden of Eden, 'Let us make man in our image!'

'So, this Yeti is a god now, is it?' said George.

'Yes,' Tony said firmly. 'They are immortal gods made flesh, directing the progress of mankind.'

'This is what O'Connell told you?' George then metaphorically patted Tony on the head by adding. 'Perhaps it is important to realise even the smartest amongst us are sometime deluded. Didn't the great Isaac Newton spend much of his life in pursuit of Alchemy?'

Then like a flower opening in the morning sun, Peter began to rise up until he sat tall and straight in the chair. His eyes were clear and bright, aflame with a passion reserved for religious fanatics or the insane, which amounted to much the same thing in George's book.

'How can someone so desperately ignorant of the truth be sure of so much?' Old Pete said in a strong clear voice.

'Uh-oh!' thought George, taken aback by the sudden metamorphosis. Someone's forgotten to take their medication.

Christine too sat back, amazed by the emergence of a personality that neither suspected existed.

'I have not come here to offend you or your beliefs,' George said who had spent the last half-an-hour doing exactly that. 'And perhaps there are things in this world I am truly ignorant of, but the literal truth of the Biblical creation story cannot be taken seriously. Christine, an obviously committed Christian, has admitted as much herself.' George hesitated, seeing an opportunity to take advantage of Old Pete's unexpected verbosity.

'But saying that, I don't suppose there is any more of this Mapinguari hair around anywhere, is there?' George inquired casually. 'To give to Felixstone – to get him off my back.'

'You have no idea how rare a find that was and how privileged you were to receive it. It was more valuable than all the gold on earth – as rare as a unicorn.' said Tony.

'Okay, that's it, I'm outta here,' George declared. 'Christine!' he barked, stomping through the mud out of the pub garden.

George returned to the car park and climbed into Alan's car. Alan eyed him at first merely with curiosity, then some concern.

'Are you alright, laddie?' he said, craning his head to look for Christine. 'And, eh, where's the missus?'

'Still talking,' George said, throwing up his hands. 'I really think the world's going mad.'

'Aye,' yawned Alan. 'You've been gone a while. Get anything?'

'Apparently, Yetis and Bigfoot not only are real, but they also lurk in the wilderness imparting mysterious powers to passers-by in their spare time. Oh, and the hair, don't you just know it, is rarer than rocking-horse shit.'

'Oh, aye . . . but what about Kit?'

'They recon he's flying back Friday.'

'And Felixstone?'

The mention of that accursed shadow made George shudder. 'They are convinced that Felixstone murdered O'Connell.'

'So he is dead. And murdered, jees',' Alan whistled.

'Although this is only a presentiment by Janis the Witch!'

It was a quarter of an hour before Christine appeared from the pub garden and eased herself into the back of the car.

'George was just saying about O'Connell being murdered.'

'Yeah.' She looked distracted.

'Have they gone?' George asked.

'They went out the back way.'

'I can't say I was expecting that,' George said, shaking his head. 'Unbelievable.'

'Aye,' Alan said, starting the car. 'Home?'

'George,' Christine said gravely. 'You realise this wasn't just about Kit, today. Peter told me he needed to warn you, as Father O'Connell had previously warned Kit.'

'He didn't need to warn me about Felixstone.'

'No, not that. About what may happen when he returns. Kit may be different – changed by the experience. Like Father O'Connell was. And it could affect you too. Father O'Connell sensed that your life-field, aura, shares a harmonic resonance with . . .'

George held up his hand. 'Christine, please, not you too. I really have heard more than enough of this stuff for one day.'

Alan steered the car homeward in silence. Alone at last with his own thoughts, George still had plenty less metaphysical matters to contemplate, not least, precisely where and when Kit would be arriving back in the country and how to keep one-step ahead of Felixstone.

George had never been a vindictive person. True, he had pulled the legs off spiders when he was a kid, but all the kids in his street did. The advent of Video games must have been a positive boon the arachnid population. He began to savour some deliciously dark thoughts. He would have paid good money to see Felixstone in the full throws of his terrible illness – to witness the vegetative wreck of humanity into which he had descended. George was sure he would feel not an ounce of pity. And should Felixstone be cremated, George would insist the curtains remain open as the casket slid into the furnace, so he could see him burn his way to hell. In the meantime and before that glorious day, Felixstone still had him very much by the short and curlies.

35

As the car turned into the airport approach road George glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. If their information was correct then the Kit's flight was due to land at just after ten.

George felt the need to reiterate his appreciation of Christine's unwavering support, if only to take his mind off more vexing issues – as in her driving.

'Thanks again, you really didn't have to do this, you know. Especially as we don't even know he'll be there.'

'I couldn't let you go on your own,' Christine said cheerily, as she blindly swung out to overtake a stationary line of queuing traffic. It was a bold manoeuvre designed to circumvent the jam at a stroke. Unfortunately, it put her on the wrong side of the road forcing the oncoming vehicles to swerve here, there and everywhere to avoid a head-on crash. Naturally, Christine was oblivious to the mayhem she had created.

'Road hogs!' Was her defiant response to the frenzied flashing of headlights and blaring horns.

Having emerged from the carnage unscathed, she drove up to the car park barrier at a speed, which to a casual observer might incline them to think she hadn't seen it. George instinctively ducked as the stout metal beam loomed large in the windscreen. At the last possible moment, before the process of turning the car into a cabriolet became irreversible, Christine stood on the brakes and executed a perfect emergency stop. She collected the ticket as it popped out of the machine, seemingly unfazed by the fact that to all intents and purposes half of the car was already inside the car park.

'Was it because of 'You-know-who' that Diane was so anxious?' she asked.

'I don't think she'd be very good in a situation like this,' said George said. He sensed it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. He needed someone who kept a cool head in a crisis, who stood firm in the face of adversity, who fought the good fight and would support his every step, but unfortunately, Alan his plucky Scottish terrier had let him down big time by inconveniently arranging a crucial business meeting elsewhere.

George knew a couple of sixteen-stone guys with rippling muscles and short tempers at the Cricket Club, but he had refused to involve anybody outside their immediate circle. There would have been too many awkward questions. So Christine, bless her, had volunteered instead. She couldn't match their rippling muscles or fiery tempers, but what she did exceeded them in, was wits, bravery and her unshakable faith in help from Him above.

Although George had sat brooding anxiously over what the next few hours might bring, there was something else on his mind.

'I wish you hadn't said anything to that priest.'

'Father Tom? But he's not likely to . . .'

'Why was he phoning anyway?' George asked suspiciously. Recent events had made him distrustful of everything and anyone. Even the postman, uniformed, unassuming and putting mail through the door, as he had done for the last ten years, was subject to a grilling. George insisted the postman produced his ID, which George then scrutinised for an age. The gentleman, with imminent retirement sharpening his tongue, and who, during his long career had suffered many indignities including the partial loss of three digits at the hands of dogs, whose astonished owners assured him wouldn't hurt a fly, wasn't amused.

'Bugger off. If you've got any complaints, call the Sorting Office.'

George suitably admonished, mumbled something about, 'Can't be too careful', and bid him on his way. That same paranoia ate away at him regarding the young priest.

'You know why he phoned. To see if we'd heard anything more from Father O'Connell. Sounded quite upset when I'd told him that he was dead.'

'Why?' asked George.

'Camaraderie of the Priesthood?' Christine suggested with a shrug. Then, after a moment's consideration she added, 'And don't forget he was the centre piece of his studies and never got the chance to meet him.'

'Umm,' said George. 'All the same I think it would have been better to say nothing. The less people who know the better.'

'Even if Felixstone does show up, there'll be police everywhere. What could he do?' asked Christine.

That was the scary thing. George's imagination held no bounds where Felixstone was concerned. Even now, there was a possibility that he was hiding in the back seat of the car. Resisting the urge to look back to check, George blotted out the worst of his imaginings with idle small talk.

'I'm glad you know where you're going, I haven't been to Stansted in years.'

'I've had to drop Alan off a few times recently. It's such a pain to get here otherwise. Parking here is atrocious – so expensive.'

'Hopefully it will be a quick in and out,' George said, keenly aware he might have to face a show down with Felixstone and or Smith, and one in which he wasn't guaranteed to come out best. Taking a hiding from Smith was one thing, but paying the exorbitant parking charges for the privilege was the final insult.

Christine shakily negotiated the awkward turns of the car park, made more so by completely ignoring the direction arrows and no entry signs. George understood she wasn't a wilful scofflaw, she just hadn't noticed them.

'I bet they don't have to pay to park here,' Christine said, nodding towards a police patrol car left in a public bay.

'Probably looking for badly parked cars or under-inflated tyres rather than catching real criminals.' There was bitterness to his voice that went way beyond cynicism that comes with age.

Christine glanced over as he scowled out of the window.

'For someone who's considered such an upright and honest pillar of the society you have such a negative attitude toward the police.'

'I know what they're capable of. You can't trust them.'

She shouldn't have taken her eyes off the road. Her driving was erratic enough, even when she was notionally concentrating. George hadn't seen the man either. He turned sharply and saw a blue blur, like the passing of a car wash brush sliding along the outside of the car accompanied by a distraught cry. Only once they had driven past did his brain piece together what had happened. A tradesman had been pinned against the back of his van by Christine's car as it crawled past.

Hardly daring to look, George glanced in the wing mirror and saw the tradesman waving a furious fist while clutching his mangled foot with the other. Hopping to maintain his balance, it was a display of gymnastics that appeared unsustainable. It was, and he promptly toppled over, carefully protective of his crushed foot to the very end.

Blissfully unaware that she was a hit and run driver, Christine carried on. With time short and more pressing matters on his mind, George didn't have the heart to tell her.

They meandered up and down the packed rows of parked cars, getting ever further distant from the terminal until George finally spotted a space.

'Over there.'

She didn't hesitate for a moment as she swung the car into the gap in a magnificent single sweep. George was impressed. Except for the minor technicality of clipping the wing mirror of the car parked alongside and then using the hatchback in the bay ahead as a buffer, punting it halfway back into the roadway, the manoeuvre was performed expertly.

They climbed out of the car in silence and Christine hastily led the trek back towards the terminal. They strode purposefully along the designated footpath that bisected the vast expanse of tarmac. Christine steamed ahead like an icebreaker ploughing relentlessly through an assortment of trolley-wielding travellers, who had nothing like the same urgency to be anywhere soon.

Her full clerical attire was more effective than any polite appeals to their good nature as the dawdling travellers parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. The majority offered respectful nods and some came close to a full bow. George felt so empowered by their deference that he was half inclined to offer them a quick blessing, but he settled for a soapy smile and faint tip of the head in thanks.

Both were blowing hard from the forced march as they entered the terminal. George glanced at his watch. It was ten-fifteen. Looking around, it struck him how much it was like any other bustling shopping mall found around the country with its comprehensive array of High Street retailers. It was a consumer heaven where anything from burgers to bathroom suites were up for grabs. The business of flying appeared purely coincidental.

But, the presence of body-armoured policemen with deadly machine guns positioned on every corner, accompanied by teams of sniffer dogs on the hunt for drugs, terrorists or people acting in a manner contrary the public good, i.e. anyone they considered shifty, was to George's mind incongruous and still slightly unnerving to the gentlefolk of this nation. Except, perhaps, to those scallywags up north, where armed coppers have added a certain spice to their shoplifting experience for years.

George didn't hesitate to make directly for one of the information screens. He studied the arrivals schedule, but didn't see Kit's flight listed. Christine tugged his arm pointing down.

'Look. It's delayed.'

'Bloody hell!' he hissed under his breath, holding back from a fuller expression of his dismay for the benefit of Christine's pious ears. A flight delay wasn't factored into the plan. Christine gently nudged him. 'It's going to be a while. Do you want a coffee?'

'Yeah, that'll be good,' he said, but would have preferred something stronger. He looked at his watch. Was ten-thirty too early even for him. He hesitated. Then again? He stroked his chin thoughtfully and contemplated the benefits of a pint of beer against the practical need to keep a clear head. By the time he had wrestled back and forth with the psychological and physiological merits of sense and insensibility, she had returned with two plastic cups of a liquid that purported to be coffee. George took one and tentatively sipped it through the tiny aperture in the lid. It tasted of little beyond molten plastic and heat.

'Why can I never make coffee like this at home?' Christine said, smacking her lips appreciatively. George looked at her quizzically, wondering if she was talking about the same brown sludge that he had just had the misfortune to imbibe.

'May be if you didn't throw away the dish water,' he replied.

Engrossed with updates on the monitor, the culinary tip was lost on her.

'It hasn't changed. It's still landing at eleven-thirty. That's good news,' she said.

It was, but it didn't feel like it. Purgatory would have been marginally more fun compared to hanging around there for another hour. George anxiously scanned the crowd keeping an eye out for Felixstone and or his brutish sidekick.

During one three-sixty sweep of the concourse, George saw a figure entering the building. It was the boiler-suited tradesman. He was dragging his lame foot behind him with an awkward shuffling gate, not unlike The Mummy. Although the tradesman no longer brandished a threatening fist, the furious look on the man's face didn't indicate that he was seeking Christine out so they both could have a good laugh about it either. Nor did George suspect the fellow was in the frame of mind to accept that being run over was one of those little tribulations that life throws at us occasionally.

Not wishing to alarm his companion, and keen to avoid an ugly scene, George suggested hastily, 'Hey, perhaps you could check with the airline to see if Kit's definitely on the plane?'

'I don't think they'd tell me anything, security and data protection and all that. I'll stay here, they might tell you, though,' Christine said, loath to abandon her post.

Christine's back was turned to the aggrieved tradesman, but George saw Christine's unmissable clerical attire had been picked out from the crowd and the injured man, who could have done with borrowing a bandage or two from his ancient Egyptian counterpart, was homing in.

'Worth a try,' George said casually, while turning her bodily and giving her a gentle shove in the right direction. Annoyingly she stood her ground.

'Maybe we'd be better off staying together?'

Seeing the figure behind Christine lurching toward her with a determined look in his eye, George propelled her on her way

'No, no, off you go. I'll stick around here.'

No sooner had she made a move, George made a rapid departure in the opposite direction. He saw the man hobble away in dogged pursuit of Christine, her shiny fuchsia blouse attracting him like a heat seeking missile. It should have been an uneven contest. Even at a modest canter, Christine should have easily out-paced her stricken avenger, but George feared, like the harried victims of The Mummy, no matter how fast she ran, in the end, it would never be fast enough.

In the meantime, with Christine safely out of the way, George had at least an hour to kill. He had to keep his head down without drawing attention to himself. Loitering furtively would have soon marked him out as either up to no good or on day release from an institution. Either way, it would have quickly brought him to the attention of the ever-watchful security people, which was exactly what he didn't need. He found a quiet spot to bide his time.

The bustling crowd was in a state of constant flux; the only noticeable exceptions were two policemen, who stood discretely, if untidily, in the background by the arrivals gate. They kept themselves very much to themselves on the periphery of the action. They were two ordinary constables. They weren't dressed like the regular airport police nor were they nearly as smartly turned-out as their gun-toting colleagues.

The younger of the duo's shirt was merely unbuttoned at the collar, but the older man wore his cap on the side of his head like a music hall entertainer, and his tie was so estranged from his top button to suggest pending divorce. Bored and kicking their heels, they seemed absolved of any normal policing duties. They probably wouldn't even have told you the time.

Although he kept a watchful eye out for Christine, George hadn't seen sight of her in ages. She could of course have realised she was being pursued and had taken evasive action – or even worse, she might be helping the police with their inquiries. The advantage she had was that not even the most hard-bitten officer would fail to be moved by the Church minister's genuinely aired, if erroneous, protestations of innocence.

While scanning the crowd, George saw something that sucked the air clean out of his chest. He had only seen the back of a head, but there can't have been many that distinctive or indisputably ugly. Shiny, with thick folds of deeply repellent pink skin rucked up around the base of the skull like a concertina; it complimented what he knew to be owner's beaten-up face. It was Smith, Felixstone's psychotic lackey.

George edged backwards, as near as damn it, on tiptoe. Unnecessarily so, as his footfalls were unlikely to be singled out from the general hubbub, but it seemed an appropriately stealth-like thing to do. George retreated to the safety of a wide concrete pillar and dared to crane his head back to look. His tactical retreat having seemingly gone unnoticed, he snatched the mobile phone from his pocket and called Christine.

'Where are you? I––'

'Listen,' George gasped, barely able to catch his breath, let alone talk coherently. 'He's here – Smith.'

'Oh my God!' said Christine. 'How?'

'Probably by car like most people, but that's not important right now. What are we going to do?'

'I don't know. Where are you?'

'I'm near the main entrance.'

'And Felixstone?'

'Dunno, Smith seems to be on his own by the arrivals gate,' George said and then asked frantically. 'So, what are we going to do?'

He sincerely hoped that the extended silence was Christine gathering her thoughts, but the longer it went on, the greater his anxiety grew. He had the same sinking feeling experienced by many a 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' contestant on discovering they had chosen a particularly useless 'Phone-a-Friend'.

'Look,' she said decisively, 'get outside, I'll go and see what's happening. He doesn't know me.'

George let out a long sigh. He never doubted for a minute that Christine would fill the void left by his own lack of initiative. It briefly crossed his mind to inquire if she had noticed anything out of the ordinary on her wanderings, but no doubt she would have mentioned if a complete stranger had tried to throttle her.

As he crept towards the door, he chanced to look over his shoulder. It was a poor decision. Sometimes not knowing is for the best, and that was one such occasion.

Smith had detached from the crowd and stood observing George's not so discrete withdrawal. George froze as if he had been picked out by a searchlight in a prison break. Even at that distance, he saw Smith's eyes. They lacked any discernible human emotion, being blank and scarily primeval. George had seen more spark and vitality on a fishmonger's slab than those dull brown orbs. Moreover if indeed the eyes are a window upon the soul, there should have been a 'To Let' sign on his forehead.

Given the option, he would have called Christine again to urgently revisit their strategy, but fate took a hand. A gaggle of twenty or so smartly dressed men suddenly strolled by. They were all of a similar build, wearing identically cut dark suits with identically cut hair and carrying identical black brief cases, each with identically placed stickers indicating they were Delegates en-route to a Human Cloning conference in London. It broke the spell and George was out of the door before you could say genetically modified.

He nervously paced up and down the pavement outside waiting for Christine to call. The wide pavement was chaotically awash with travellers, lumbering with piles of suitcases on trolleys, filing onto the endless stream of buses and taxis, but George was pretty sure he would still have been able pick out Smith's hideous crimson dome from the crowd if he came looking for him.

George waited. Five minutes became ten, became fifteen. As each minute past, it became apparent that Smith was in no rush to search for him.

While one immediate anxiety eased, another grew. He still hadn't heard from Christine and time was getting short. He called her. It connected, but it switched instantly to voice mail. Two minutes later, he tried again with the same result. It was more than possible, that through sheer dogged persistence, her boiler-suited pursuer had finally run her to ground and made a citizen's arrest. With Kit's plane due to land within minutes and as unpleasant as the prospect was, he made the decision to go back inside the terminal building and face Smith alone.

As he crept back into the building, his eyes were everywhere but not necessarily working in tandem. It was a nervous ocular workout worthy of a dark alley in Transylvania.

With no sign of Smith, George cautiously made his way toward the arrivals area. He glanced up at the monitor. Kit's plane had finally touched down and according to the screen the passengers were disembarking. George glanced at the two idle policemen and sensed there had been a subtle change in their brief; literally smartening up their act. Buttons were fastened, the older man's cap was placed at a more sober slant and his tie and top button were reconciled. More disturbingly for George was their apparent sudden interest in the arrivals board. It was paranoia, but surely it was no coincidence that Kit was due in at any moment. Now it seemed George not only had to keep a wary eye out for Smith, but also the Pride of the Constabulary.

Time seemed to pass at the speed that the continents were separating. Kit's flight had landed what felt like a week ago, but according to the arrivals board the passengers had yet to reach the Luggage Reclaim area. He tried to call Christine again. While muttering some very uncharitable things under his breath as it diverted to voice mail once more, he felt something touch the back of his leg.

Resisting the urge to cry out, he spun round. There was a police Labrador admiring the quality stitching on his trousers. With loud snuffling sounds of approval, it ran its black glistening nose up and down the seam. George feared his erratic behaviour had ticked one box too many with security and it was welcome to twenty-eight days detention, under the auspices of the Anti-Terrorism Act.

He dared to snatch a glance at the handler. The blank expression beneath the peaked cap drawn down over his eyes revealed nothing. If he hoped George would make a run for it and give his dog a chance to exercise its jaws, or offer his colleagues some live target practice, the dog handler was to be disappointed. George stood motionless. If he was arrested, he would not make a fuss about it. A dog that determined to chew big lumps off you wasn't to be taken lightly.

Thankfully, the hound, clearly of some refinement, recognised George's innate honesty and more importantly, his drug-free attire and led the policeman off elsewhere.

George glanced over toward the two idle constables and although there was quite a crowd milling between them, he was convinced they had looked on at the proceedings with more than a passing interest. George urgently rechecked the Arrivals monitor.

'At last,' he said. The passengers had reached the luggage reclaim. He glanced back toward two policemen, but in the blink of an eye they had vanished. George wondered what the hell was going on. First Christine, then Smith and now the two policemen had all been unaccountably spirited away.

George reckoned he still had a couple of minutes before Kit came through the arrivals gate, so he shot outside to quickly look for Christine. The rain that had threatened all morning had started to fall in earnest. He barely noticed it as he dodged around the heavily laden trolleys. Christine was nowhere in sight.

With time short, George made his way back through the main entrance. The automated glass doors silently parted as he hurried through. He came to a dead stop as if he had run into a wall. Standing shoulder to shoulder before him were the two slovenly policemen. For a good few seconds all three stood motionless in a freeze-frame.

George was first to break the impasse and stepped to one side, then the other, but in perfect sync they mirrored his movement like some curious, but stately eighteenth-century dance. Realising this was no ordinary embarrassing doorway shuffle; George tensed in anticipation of what was to come.

The taller and younger of the pair was first to speak astonishing George with his ear grating enunciation of the English language.

In his experience, the previous generation of coppers at least attempted to speak with the correct diction, even if they failed to do it well, or truly disguise their clear deficiency in the brain department, but this young man had passed-out from Hendon Police Training College as an unreconstructed East End barrow boy.

'Er 'scuse me, sir.'

Of dodgy market trader stock or not, he represented an authority empowered by the State. George's face flushed with an indeterminate sense of guilt, which at some level might have just related to the injured tradesman. George's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Believing it was wilful obstruction, the younger officer's eyes narrowed.

'Sir,' he said sharply.

George found his voice albeit in a disjointed bluster,

'Look, I I –– I'm in –– I'm in a bit of a –– hurry.'

'This shouldn't take a mo', sir.'

The second officer stepped forward and began closely eyeing him up and down. George nearly gagged on his acrid tobacco breath.

The young officer spoke again. 'Sir, I need you to identify yourself.'

'What? Why?'

'Sir.' The PC's face was set hard, indicating the request was non-negotiable.

'Look, officer, can you tell me what this is all about?'

'It would be great assistance if you could furnish us with those details – and now, please! If you have no reason not to that is.'

It seemed to be the cue for the older policeman to turn up the heat. He stepped up closer still and slowly began to circle round George, scrutinising him as though he was a fascinating work of art. George might have found it comical to be worthy of such interest if he wasn't so anxious.

The entry requirements for the police force were clearly in sad decline if the older officer had been anything to go by. Too short by far, he was more like an over-officious parking attendant than a guardian of the law. He had a disorderly fringe of unkempt grey hair that stuck out horizontally from under the rim of the cap, and he carried himself with the graceful deportment of Quasimodo. Yet whatever he lacked as a commanding presence, his younger, but senior partner amply compensated for. The blonde youngster stood to his full height and thrust out his chin.

'I would appreciate it if you didn't waste our time.' There was now an edge to his voice that bordered on unpleasant. 'Or we might 'ave to take you in for furva' questioning.'

'George Bannister,' George said reluctantly.

The policeman glared at him.

'And your business 'ere?' he demanded.

The older man, having completed his circumnavigation, retook his station at his young superior's side.

George hesitated.

'Mr Bannister!' the young constable demanded again.

'I'm here to – meet my – son.'

'Name?'

'Ki –' he hesitated. 'Christopher – Bannister.'

'Well, it would be, wouldn't it,' sniggered the older officer.

'What, Christopher?' George queried, fearing the dumb and dumber routine had been just an act.

'No.' The older PC chuckled admiring his own razor sharp wit, '. . . Bannister.'

'Oh I see,' George said smiling, relieved that his first and less complimentary impression of the gormless duo had been absolutely spot on.

The younger officer was having no such nonsense.

'Flight?' he demanded.

'Air Madrid 471.'

The young policeman slowly deliberated on George's replies while tapping his notebook with his pencil. Finally he said, 'Very good. Thank you, Mr – Bannister.' The young PC offered a taut smile. 'There's an on-going security alert.'

Without another word, both men turned and disappeared quickly back into the building. George's jaw hung open in speechless apoplexy.

'This bloody country's turning into a police state. Bloody fascists!' he mouthed angrily and was just about to march off back into the terminal when he heard a voice calling him from behind.

'George, wait.'

He swung round on his heels. The sight of Christine, red-faced and breathless, scurrying toward him made his brush with the long, but dim-witted arm of law of no further consequence.

'Where have you been?' he said, waving his phone. 'I've been . . .'

'Sorry, battery,' she puffed. 'Should have checked before we left.'

Once at his side, she looked with curiosity toward the terminal entrance.

'What was happening with those two policemen?'

He needed no further prompting to get on his soapbox.

'Asking what I was doing here. Who I was meeting – the lot. The bloody liberty of these people. Can't move anywhere nowadays without justifying it.'

She glanced over his shoulder then lowered her voice.

'No, listen, I was inside . . . phew,' she said, taking a much-needed breath. 'Look, I could be wrong, but after what's just happened, I'm sure now that I saw Smith ¬ it had to be him from how you described him – make signals across the room to those two.'

'Bloody hell!' George groaned. 'Felixstone's got the police in his pocket as well – where's Smith now?'

'I took my eye off him for a second – then I lost him.'

George paced around in a circle muttering and cursing.

'No, hang on,' Christine said. 'I think they might be bogus. Remember the police car in the car park. It might be a total coincidence, but what better way to get Kit out of here than those two posing as policemen.' She stepped forward and grabbed the pocket flaps of his jacket. 'And there's something else. I know I was a long way away, but I'm sure . . .'

Without asking she began rummaging through his pockets. As a pickpocket she would never be rich, or keep out of jail for long, but as a bloodhound she was first class.

'Hey, what the . . . ?' George protested.

Undeterred, she rifled through each in turn, removing their contents and handing them over. George stood bemused, holding a handful of various combs, handkerchiefs, keys and loose change before Christine declared triumphantly, 'I think this is it.'

She held it out for inspection. It was a small ball of paper held twisted together at one end, like a fortune cookie. It could easily have gone unnoticed in his pocket like an old till receipt, but as Christine unwound the twist, its powdery contents spilt out onto her hand. She sniffed at the sugar-like granules then gingerly touched a few to her lips.

'Cocaine,' she announced confidently.

George was horrified. 'Are you sure?'

She gave short humourless a laugh. 'You'd be amazed what we have to learn for counselling.'

'Bloody hell, the bastards planted on me!' George said to make it quite clear that he didn't routinely have stashes of drugs about his person.

'Lucky I saw something.' She rewound the paper as carefully as she could then tossed it in the nearest waste bin. 'They set you up. If you'd have walked back in there, those police sniffer dogs would have thought it was Christmas.'

'So, what the hell are we going to do!'

Christine used a tissue to wipe any traces from her hand.

'The one thing we know is what they're about and their little scheme to get you out of the way didn't work.'

'But if they are real police . . .'

She offered one of her irrepressible, saintly smiles that instantly made him feel guilty about his rampant, if not unreasonable defeatism.

'Remember, you and Kit have done nothing wrong.'

'Huh,' George said dismissively. In his experience truth, justice and common sense had very little to do with the way the police operated. He glanced at his watch.

'He should be coming through about now. We'd better get back inside.'

'Not with that jacket you don't,' Christine said firmly.

'What?'

Christine peeled it off him and hung it over her arm.

'It'll have traces still. You don't want to face a load of awkward questions do you? Not now. We'll have to leave it outside.'

'What!' cried George, fearing it would either be nicked by some light-fingered tow rag or blown up by the bomb-squad as a precaution. Not wishing to forfeit one of his nattiest sports jackets, and with the sudden appearance of a hobbling blue, boiler-suited figure in the distance lurching towards them, he had another idea.

'You could take it back to the car,' he said breezily.

'What now?'

'Now would be good.'

'But that would leave you on your own.'

'It'll be fine now we've sussed them out. Go on,' he said putting his hand in the small of her back and gently guiding her on her way.

'Well if you're sure.' She half turned but then nodded in the direction of her boiler-suited stalker and said, 'Hey, see him over there. I swear, if I've seen that man once today, I've seen someone just like him a dozen times or more all over the airport. It's weird.'

George shrugged and put his arm around her shoulders and steered her in the direction of the car.

'Suppose it's a bit like buses. You don't see a crippled tradesman for ages then they all turn up at once. Now, off you go.'

With Christine carefully extricated and literally keeping her one-step ahead of her limping nemesis, he plunged back into the terminal building. Smith was still nowhere in sight, but the two constables were back on station, loitering at the back of the crowd by the arrivals gate. George caught the eye of the older officer who immediately nudged his partner to alert him to George's arrival. The younger man made little effort to disguise a smirk. He bounced up and down on his toes presumably confident that George's arrest and forced extraction from the scene was imminent. The older copper didn't look quite so sure, perhaps realising that George was no longer wearing his jacket.

George didn't hesitate or break his stride as he strode purposefully toward the Arrivals barrier. He was quickly singled out by a police Alsatian dog team, no doubt prompted by the word having gone out in the kennel that, sartorially, George was worth a sniff or two.

The dog straining on its lead, approached with his head going back and forth across the floor like a mine detector. It spent a moment admiring himself in George's highly polished shoes, then nuzzled him in the crotch a little bit too firmly to be just good natured, before losing interest and walking on.

George couldn't resist a smirk of his own seeing the confusion that resulted. It became a knock-about routine with pushing, shoving and heated recriminations hissed out of the sides of mouths. Yet it was nothing compared to what was to follow.

There was a short whine of feedback as the public address system came to life.

'Smoke has been reported coming from a police patrol car parked in the short-term car park. This is an urgent requested that the officers in charge attend their vehicle immediately.'

The constables might well have been informed that their pants were on fire, because their reaction was the same. They ran around in ever decreasing circles bumping into each other, waving their arms animatedly until the older man was finally cowed into submission by his dominant partner was dispatched, with his dazzling intellect honed and ready to sort it out.

It must have been Christine's doing. George was sure that even she wouldn't have the audacity actually to set the car alight, but she was more than capable of making a hoax 999 call – and who would dare question the word of a church minister?

A broad smile spread across George's face in admiration of his companion's outstanding enterprise. He couldn't resist a gloat as the shrill wail of sirens and a red blur whooshed past the terminal building. The emergency services will be crawling over the car long enough to make any attempt to spirit Kit away nigh-on impossible.

While George kept an eye out for Smith and another eye on the young copper, who had taken to moodily kicking the floor, he picked his way through the crowds closer to the arrivals gate. There were plenty of passengers of various ethnicities, shapes and sizes emerging from the exit, but there was no sign of Kit. Then again, if George understood Old Pete correctly, perhaps he should have been on the lookout for a Jaguar or a Condor. Whether the beast would have been seen sporting a rucksack or not, or how it could have subsequently got through passport control, wasn't at all clear.

'Come on, come on,' George mouthed impatiently. 'How can it take so long to collect a rucksack, for goodness sake?'

As more people began to emerge from the Arrivals hall, the jostling crowd pressed forward. George was a little disturbed to feel hot breath on his neck, but before he could turn to investigate, a voice growled, 'Did yer fink I wouldn't find yer?'

George was about to launch into a tear-jerking explanation as to why someone so hopeless at driving was allowed on the roads, and the loss it would have been to all the orphan charities Christine supported if she lost her licence, when he felt something firmly prod him in the back. George swallowed hard. It was a distinct possibility that there had been a serious case of mistaken identity, and he was the one making it. He twisted around enough to see it wasn't the boiler-suited tradesman with his metatarsals rearranged by Christine's fourteen-inch radials, but Smith's masticated mug grinning inanely – and unless Smith was just pleased to see him George surmised the thing sticking in his back was a gun.

36

'Don't do anyfin' stupid, Bannister.'

George had no intention of muscling in on Smith's area of expertise. He anxiously waited for Smith's next move. It wasn't long in coming.

Smith tugged on his arm to pull him back out of the crowd, but George stood firm. Having come so far and to have his goal snatched away at the very last minute was a crushing blow. Smith encouraged his compliance by lancing the gun painfully into George's ribs.

How could Smith hope to get away with manhandling him out of there, in a crowded airport awash with armed policemen and security? George made an attempted to shake him off.

'Don't fink I won't use it,' growled Smith. It was a reminder, if needed, that George was dealing with someone that had the mental capacity of a particularly thick baboon and therefore wouldn't have hesitated to shoot. They shuffled away from the arrivals gate locked in tandem, like an unholy pair of Siamese twins conjoined by six inches of concealed gun barrel.

Next to a large advertising display, which acted as an unofficial no-man's-land between the Departures and Arrivals, George was prodded by the gun. Smith grunted something indecipherable, which George interpreted as, 'If you care to stop here dear boy, this will be fine.' but it sounded like, 'Ugh 'ere.'

George didn't need prodding twice and came to halt. He was about to waste his breath and point out to his abductor, with little justification, that Smith would never get away with it, when Felixstone, like a vengeful spectre, suddenly appeared before them. He had emerged from a small coffee shop that was boarded-up and posted as closed for refurbishment. Not before time if George's experience with hot liquid beverages in this airport had been the norm.

Felixstone had dropped the veneer of civility from previous encounters, as he snapped, 'In here!'

Should George no have heard or was non-compliant, Smith jabbed the gun into his back and shoved him into the dingily lit room. George staggered inside avoiding an assortment of wrecked chairs and tables scattered around like the aftermath of a bar room brawl.

Once the door swung shut, immediately Felixstone began to stalk up and down unsteadily, with his left foot kicking out involuntarily as if shooing away a fly. He weaved through the furniture stroking his chin, affecting an air of great deliberation.

'Mr Bannister, you are a most persistent annoyance, but rest assured,' Felixstone said, 'you will trouble me no longer.'

George froze. It didn't seem as though he was going to be let off this time with something as trivial as ending up in prison as a social pariah. George briefly considered fighting back, but the sound of Smith's knuckles cracking had strangely debilitating effect upon his spirit.

George did muster some courage on behalf of his son, as he blurted out, 'Do anything you like to me, but leave Kit out of it.' Mortified by his injudicious declaration, George was keen to issue an immediate retraction. 'Well, when I say anything . . .'

Felixstone held up his hand. 'I can assure you your son will be unharmed . . .' He then added darkly, 'If he co-operates.'

As Felixstone laughed, he wobbled and rasped wheezily like a deflating bagpipe. Smith knocked tables and chairs out of the way as he touchingly rushed to his frail master's side.

George sensed an opportunity to make a break for it, but as he turned to run he was immediately tripped-up by a table leg.

'Hoping to leave us, Mr Bannister?'

'I was just admiring the floor,' would have been an appropriately cool thing to say, but he was more concerned with finding his specs that had flown off somewhere into the debris.

'Gerrup!' Smith said, hoisting him to his feet.

'But . . . oooffff!!!' George groaned loudly, sucking in air to quench the fire in his back, after Smith had lumped him one in the kidneys for his transgression.

'Don't make this harder than it has to be,' Felixstone said. 'Smith is keen to earn his wages today. He tells me he intends, in his parlance, to – "Mess you up".'

George quickly surmised that messing-him-up would involve more than Smith skewing his tie and ruffling his hair. Felixstone noted his discomfort and added casually, 'He has ingenious methods of inflicting pain.'

George obviously didn't want to die, but if it were to happen, he would rather be spared the grizzlier details in advance.

'Kit's too smart, he'd never go with you,' George said, desperate to keep up a dialogue as a stay of execution.

Felixstone smirked. 'Would not a loving son insist on being rushed to the hospital bedside when told of his dying father?'

'You're sick,' George said. His retort came out more spitefully than was wise under the circumstances. Smith lunged forward but Felixstone held him back.

'Quite right, Mr Bannister.' He spat out the words at barely more than a whisper. 'But if your son believes he can do what that old fool O'Connell claimed to have done, then I intend to be the first to benefit from it.' Then Felixstone dismissed him with a wave of the hand as he said to Smith. 'You know what to do. Get him out of here.'

George winced as he was speared in the ribs with the gun, but didn't move. 'What are you going to do, shoot me?' George said defiantly, hopefully planting the seed in their minds for a quick and painless end for himself. 'Kill me, like you killed O'Connell?'

'I told you, he was a fool . . .'

'So, he is dead and you killed him!' George said.

Suddenly the boarded entrance door crashed open. For a moment all three stopped as their heads swung round. A figure stood on the threshold, but his face obscured by a scarf and a wide turned up collar. The stranger stepped forward and pulled down the scarf. It was young Father Thomas and he was visibly shaking. George turned quickly to Felixstone for signs of mutual recognition. Felixstone's irritated scowl clearly indicated that not only did he know the cleric, but also it wasn't a pleasurable encounter either. From the agitated state of the young man, it was either an impromptu gathering of fellow Huntingdon's sufferers or the priest was in emotional meltdown. It didn't take long to discover which.

'So, why did you kill him?' Father Tom demanded, slamming the door shut behind him and stalking towards Felixstone. 'It was lies, wasn't it, your promises? All lies.'

Smith made a few grunting noises and stepped forward with fists clenched at the ready.

Felixstone hesitated, not so sure of himself, but still greeted the young priest with an air of condescension, 'Ah, The Seeker himself.'

'You weren't hard to find,' Father Tom said, guessing what was on Felixstone's mind. 'Your man, Smith, doesn't exactly blend in with the crowd.'

Smith balled his hands into fists and lurched forward.

'This is not the time for this. Get him out of here,' Felixstone demanded impatiently.

For George the dramatic change of dynamic rekindled once more the opportunity to escape, yet he was held, bewitched by the young man.

So there before him was the morbidly depressed, serial emailer. Clearly, in his case, a religious calling wasn't the simple recipe for a happy life – and it quickly became apparent that young Father Tom hadn't just happened by, he was there to unburden his soul.

'All my life I've been searching for the 'Truth'. I need, I must know the reason for it all. Why we're here; what is our purpose; the Meaning of Life.' His voice quivered and tears streamed down his face as he bared his soul. 'And the one man, the only man who knew . . .'

Felixstone dismissed him like an errant child.

'O'Connell knew nothing. I paid you well. Now, go home!'

'James O'Connell, a man touched by the hand of God, is dead . . . and you killed him.'

'Don't be ridiculous!' Felixstone snapped. 'It was a mistake. He refused to cooperate. Ross over-reacted.'

'You never understood, never wanted to understand – your promises if I helped you find Father O'Connell – Why?'

Felixstone shook his head wearily.

'Don't you understand, I truly don't care if O'Connell was the second coming of Christ himself. He failed me, that's all I care about.'

George tried to slide surreptitiously toward the door while their attention was drawn to the priest's confessional. He was undone by the loud snap of glass under his feet. Not only was George furious to see his now mangled glasses under his shoe, but also immediately in a great deal of pain, as Smith turned and landed a big right-hander squarely in his gut.

'Don't move, Bannister,' Smith grunted.

Doubled up in pain and severely winded, George couldn't have moved even if a tiger had been chewing on his backside. Smith using George as a punch bag went unnoticed by the tormented priest. A torrent of emotion continued to pour out and the priest was barely audible between great heaving sobs.

'I – truly believed in becoming a priest – I – I would one day join the ranks of those who had the Wisdom of the Ages . . . answers to the ancient mysteries . . . the Knowledge, that which is revealed only to a chosen elite within the Church. The Truth – as revealed to Father O'Connell. Then I realised very quickly that they know nothing. It was O'Connell himself and he alone had the answers . . .'

Felixstone's eyes were smouldering, his patience exhausted. 'The Truth is, however O'Connell performed those miracles, I intend to find out and personally benefit from. It's a simple as that. And now if you please.' Felixstone pulled open the door for the priest to leave. Smith was at his master's side to add encouragement to his departure, but Father Tom acted first.

'The . . . Bible,' he stammered. 'Says . . . "An eye for an eye".'

He pulled a long metallic glinting object from inside his jacket and lunged forward at Felixstone. Smith reacted, but was too slow to prevent the knife plunging deep into Felixstone's chest. Felixstone gasped and sunk to his knees, while Smith leapt-in to wrestle the priest away. In a deadly waltz, the pair fell through the doors into the main concourse, and George seized the moment.

Still bent double nursing his abused stomach, George gingerly stepped around frantic activity on the floor and scurried away. Behind him was a scene of chaos. Felixstone lay slumped motionless, while Smith and the priest were in grappling over the blooded hunting knife. Airport security officers had appeared almost instantly from all quarters, sprinting towards the affray.

Then heading directly towards him George saw, albeit in just a hazy blur without his glasses, the limping tradesman bearing down on him.

'Bloody hell!' George hissed at having to detour away from the Arrivals gate.

His only option was to leave the building and then double back to shake him off. He dashed out through the main exit and onto the wet pavement outside. The traveller who had absent-mindedly pushed their empty trolley across his path couldn't possibly have been aware of the tragic consequences. Without his glasses, George saw nothing more that a fuzzy outline of the trolley below his eye line. He caught his shin hard on the low metal frame. His momentum propelled him head long across the rain-soaked pavement and sliding into the roadway.

Time stood still as George looked up and saw the horror etched on the face of the cab driver. The cabby having just made a pick-up had hit the gas and was accelerating hard away. The black mass of the vehicle loomed towards him. When impact was unavoidable, in a reflex action, George curled into a protective foetal ball. As the dark the shape engulfed him a final thought went through his head railing against Mother Nature and the absurdity of instinct. The final ignominy: meeting his maker in the way of a countless multitude of hedgehogs since humanity invented the wheel.

'He's still in a coma, I'm afraid.' The doctor's expression was neither one of hope or resignation, but matter of fact – professionally detached.

'It's been six weeks.'

'Some patients wake in days, while others . . . well, take longer.'

'Has there been any improvement – physically, I mean?'

'The body is a remarkable thing – self-healing following the most traumatic episodes. With a little help from medical science of course.' The doctor allowed himself a genuine smile.

'And if . . .' The words stuck. '. . . and when he does wake up – how will he be after the brain injury?'

'It's too early to tell – but he will be changed. You must prepare for that. One step at a time.'

'Do you think he is aware of anything – do you think at some level something is going on inside his head?'

The doctor thoughtfully stroked his chin. He didn't want to offer too much encouragement.

'There is anecdotal evidence of comatose patients hearing what's going on around them but are unable to communicate that awareness to the outside world. Even if not, we still believe loved-ones talking around a patient and the playing of favourite music does have a beneficial role in the recovery. Your presence in particular seems to have sparked a remarkable revival.'

'Do you believe anything is going on inside his head?'

The doctor wavered. 'His brainwave pattern is that of a deep sleeper. It is understood that when we dream it is during the R.E.M. faze of sleep indicated by increased brain activity, heart rate and breathing, but it may well be that we can only recall the dreams produced during that faze. It is possible we live a fantasy life within deep sleep that we can never shine a light on.' The doctor made a 'who knows' gesture with his hands. 'We really have a long way to go before we fully understand the true workings of the brain.'

'So we must wait.'

'The hardest part. He doesn't require life support – no decision on that is thankfully required. Presently, the greatest danger lies further complications, as in a stroke or another heart attack.'

'If it happened, do you think he would know he was about to die, even in his condition?'

'Again anecdotally, in a conscious state some people appear to have presentments about their approaching death. Partaking in unusual behaviours – the urge to revisit people and places of their past, a sudden desire to put their affairs in order, an ominous sense of foreboding – often noted with airmen during the war and more recently among top racing drivers. But perhaps these anxieties are only remembered for when a tragic event does occur and not the hundreds of times when they don't. Yet there are many documented occasions when unconscious patients nearing death unexpectantly revive as if to say goodbye. But in answer to your question, Kit, who knows.'

Kit sat by the bedside contemplating if his father's life held a future.

In the all-consuming quiet, a gentle rap at the door became a thunderous explosion. It startled George from the exhilaration of his new talent. He had no wish to neither frighten a visitor, nor reveal his amazing secret just yet. He drifted back to his seat.

The door opened and the human creature by the name of Christine stepped into the room.

'Is this a good time? I'm not disturbing you, am I? George?' Her eyes rapidly swept the room to find him.

'Not at all,' George replied.

Startled, she swung round. 'But . . .'

'Are you okay, Christine?' George asked with a trace of a smile.

'I must be going mad. For moment I thought I saw a cat sitting on that chair. Wow! That's weird.'

'You are obviously mistaken. Perhaps a trick of the light?'

'Some trick,' she said with doubt in here voice. 'Sorry, George, but anyway, how are you?'

'I have never felt better actually.'

'This is a tiny room. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in something a bit larger?'

'It is all I require.'

George didn't get up, leaving Christine no option other than to sit on the bed where she proceeded to bounce up and down to test the mattress' springs.

'They don't go overboard with the luxuries, do they? I don't know how you can sleep on this, its rock hard.'

George couldn't recall the last time he slept. In fact only tangentially did his previous animalistic behaviours have any influence upon the spiritual being he had now become. He retained a few obligatory details from that unthinking, instinct-driven creature he once was, such as the recall of names and faces, but beyond that he had no desire to refer back to the insubstantial froth on the ocean of reality that once was his material existence. Remembering those futile things was a distraction, but necessary, if only not to appear rude or to be simplistically labelled as mentally incompetent by those imbeciles who attended him – the primitive so-called physicians whose grasp of what it is to be truly alive still rested in the stone-age.

George eyed her infantile bouncing antics. From the moment she first landed on the bed, calculations were instantaneously taking place in his head confirming with absolute certainty that if she repeated that action twice over, the force exerted by her accelerating mass would exceed the weakened tensile strength of the polymer chains of cellulose within the fibrous structure and she would rapidly find her derrière on the floor, surrounded by a multitude of liberated springs and snapped wood. He could have warned her, but she seemed intuitively aware of the jeopardy and abruptly ceased her child-like behaviour.

'How long must you stay here?' she asked gently.

'I am waiting for Kit.'

'They say you are not well.'

'I was not well before. I suffered from a malaise that afflicts all mankind – one that keeps you all in ignorance. The fortuitous accident was the necessary spark for my eyes to be opened and cleanse me of that all-pervasive canker.' George turned toward the window. 'I have fulfilled my birth right. Resonance – a perfect harmonic resonance – their minds in tune with my mind. Like a plucked string on a musical instrument vibrating another across a room – their thoughts have become my thoughts. We are at one.'

He recognised the animalistic expression of sadness in her face.

George smiled. 'Yet I don't claim to be unique. There have been many before me. Some took knowledge of who they were to the grave, such as Rasputin and another died on a cross trying to save the world.'

'Are you saying . . . ?'

'Yes. I have become one with the Elohim. Those who descended to earth to create Mankind in the Garden of Eden. Is it not written in the Book of Genesis that the Elohim say, "Let US make Man in OUR image." It was they, the Elohim, the Watchers, the Golden Ones, who fashioned man for their own purpose, not Yahweh, as Gaia, the soul of the Earth is described in the Bible. Do you deny what is written in your holy scripture?'

'True,' Christine replied, choosing her words carefully. 'The Bible does actually say that it was the Elohim who created Man, but it is always interpreted as God using the royal 'we', so to speak.'

'The Elohim – the Golden Ones who are the emanation of the Light – the fallen angels identified in the Book of Enoch as the Watchers, who have been here since the beginning of time in the shadows of creation shaping and guiding mankind's progress. There is no royal 'We'. Your god of the Bible is a Demiurge, a lesser god of the base material world whose sole function is to protect the perfection of Gaia in the same way the immune system does in a living creature.'

'Oh, George . . .'

'I require no pity. This is not some passing madness. My eyes have been gloriously opened, while ordinary men are left to sleepwalk through their lives in a half-light of being – with most having lived and died without once ever questioning why they ever existed.'

He leant forward from his chair and pushed opened the window. A rush of wintry air chilled the room, which he instantly knew was just a single degree above the dew-point and therefore, in humanistic terms, chilly.

'What do you see when you look out there?'

Reluctantly, she squeezed up to the window and peered out.

'It's the countryside. Fields – trees – some cows.'

'Do you know what I see? I see a machine. An abomination – an unimaginably vast, but corrupt machine, which, like a virulent cancer has contaminated this special sphere from the deepest ocean to the very edge of space. The separation and individuality you believe exists between the grass and the trees and the cows are an illusion, they are but many shades of a veneer – a wallpaper. Yet one that was never intended to come into existence at all.'

Christine shuffled uncomfortably. 'I don't understand.'

'Have you ever had a weed in your garden that no matter how many times you dig it out grows back again and again?' George asked. 'Have you ever wondered why it so tenaciously clings to a meaningless life when surely it would be simpler and require far less effort to succumb to non-existence? Why do plants and animals in the cruellest of environments insist on striving to maintain their insufferable lives, to only then foist that same barren, seemingly pointless, existence upon their offspring and they then in turn, to theirs.'

'Everything wants to live,' Christine said softly.

'Wants?' retorted George. 'A plant doesn't think. It doesn't feel or desire, it is a machine, as you are, that exists purely to replicate, to create the more of the same. Like all other life on Earth it has to survive to pass on the precious DNA it carries within, to the next generation and the next and the next. That is why life goes on, because it has to. It is impelled to. That is Life's purpose. And that's their problem.'

'I'm sorry, George I still don't understand. Whose problem?'

'The Elohim. That's why they are here and that's why Man creatures have been elevated to its exalted status way beyond its just standing in this Earthly realm. They control you to do their bidding, driving us towards their goal. They attempted this with others before men – the Neanderthals and the Dolphins, but these creatures with their greater intellect and fortitude wanted no part in their scheming. That feeble minded men wilfully murder their own kind and kill anything and everything with such wanton disregard as no creature before in Earth's long history, only sadly confirms what an excellent choice they have made.'

'Choice? To do what?'

'Men are the chosen means to eradicate the error – the abomination that has despoiled the planet – your science would call it this corruption – Evolution.'

'How can evolution, and the wonderful variety of life it produces, be an error?'

'DNA,' he replied. 'That amazing, eternal and resilient structure that is at the core of all life. Do you know its true purpose? Its only purpose?'

'It's what makes us what we are, isn't it?'

'No. It is to replicate – over and over – replicating perfect identical copies time after time after time without failure or error. It only has that one single function, existing for no other purpose. Have you ever given a thought as to why?'

'Surely, we'd be in a right mess if it didn't.'

George smiled enigmatically and gestured out of the window. 'Quite so, just look around you.'

Christine leant forward. 'Looks lovely to me.'

'In the eye of the beholder.' He cast his eyes down. 'If a virus gets into your computer and threatens to corrupt the system do you admired it and applaud the ingenuity of its destructive design – allow it to remain to do further damage – or do you destroy it?'

'Well of course.'

'That is why mankind was plucked from obscurity in the animal kingdom.'

'So what's gone wrong? Is it Global Warming?'

He looked at her. It never ceased to amaze him how fickle these human creatures were. For the last hundred thousand years the northern hemi-sphere had been covered in ice up to a mile thick. Now it has finally gone, bizarrely, they want it back.

'No, the problem is both simpler and has profounder consequences than can ever imagine. What I tell you will rock your world to its very foundations. You will not accept it; you will go through the rest of your life in denial, but never the less it will be true. It is the greatest deception of them all – simply too immense for the minds of men to even countenance.'

'You're not going to crack the old "The Pope's not Catholic" gag again are you?' Christine chuckled.

George ignored her attempt at humour. The Apocalypse was no laughing matter.

'To understand it you must understand what the Earth and the Life on it was intended to be.' George turned back to the window. 'Barely three percent of a single strand of DNA contains the essential genetic code to create, what is described as the most complex machine on the planet – a human creature. The remaining ninety-seven percent is labelled ignorantly as 'Junk DNA'. Why would, what you call Nature, be so profligate with its resources, if indeed it was not intrinsic to its purpose. Computers are not lauded for their aesthetic outward appeal, but for their capacity to disseminate, manipulate and hold information. Neither should the appearance of any apparently fabulous creature in the animal kingdom.'

'So, you believe all human advancement is guided toward finding what this junk DNA is for?' Christine asked.

George smiled. 'They don't need mankind for that. They already know what it is for – they put it here.'

'So, what then is our special purpose?'

'Damage limitation. To rid Earth of the virulent abomination that threatens to destroy the vast organic data depository that is called Gaea or as it was grandly named by the ancients – Rex Mundi.'

He stared out into the gathering gloom.

'Are you aware that there has been life on Earth almost from the beginning? Almost as soon as the planet cooled sufficiently to allow liquid water to form the seas, it was seeded with what you call Life, and what they call information – knowledge. For four aeons this Life-knowledge remained in a state of perfect balance and harmony and importantly without the corrupted DNA of evolution. A factory for the production of single celled organisms: the Monera and Protista, cynobacteria and algae. An eternal living machine and one which contained the sum total knowledge of the Universe, deposited here by the Elohim, held encoded within is dismissed as 'Junk' sections of DNA of those creatures. An unimaginably vast storehouse of knowledge retained within the unchanging strands of DNA. This was your Garden of Eden, the Golden Age of Arcadia before The Fall. Even now over ninety percent of the bio-mass on Earth is algae or bacteria. Large-scale evolved life is a twisted abomination.'

'But is it not said we were created for a purpose in the Garden of Eden?' asked Christine.

'Penicillin is a useful tool. Men for all their technological achievements couldn't defeat the tiny microbes that could kill or leave them ridden with disease until they enlisted the aid of other microbes, which greedily devoured their own kind. Think of mankind as their penicillin.'

George looked at the scene of despoliation beyond the window. 'This Golden Age came to an end 500 million years ago, when the system became corrupted by the virus of evolution. And the Watchers have been trying to rid themselves of the catastrophe ever since.'

Christine wore a frown like a ploughed field. 'So, what difference does evolution make to their Junk DNA?'

'Sex,' George said. 'Perhaps religions are right to point to that as the Original Sin. Until that time all new life was created A-sexually. The creatures multiplied by simple cell division – fission budding. Every generation was a simple, identical copy of the previous. The DNA remained essentially unchanged for billions of years. Each strain of bacteria, to all intents and purposes was immortal. In that golden age, death as you understand it didn't exist, only continuous and unchanging life – true immortality. When one cell dies an exact copy replaces it, just as in the cells of our own bodies until the decrepitude of evolutionary adaption comes to bear. Within their immortality these simple creatures preserved the unique library of wisdom encoded within their DNA. Evolution changed everything. The advent of sexual reproduction meant the shuffling of DNA, half from each parent, thereby disastrously jumbling the carefully encoded knowledge. It can be likened to tearing an encyclopaedia in half and half again with each new generation. Evolved Life, in all its wonderfully varied forms that you can see around you, is a catastrophic error and mankind is the chosen means to get rid of it.'

'What all of it!' Christine said incredulously.

George nodded sadly. 'DNA with its four bases is the only structure, mineral or organic, on Earth that has remained unaltered since the beginning of time, four billion years ago. There is not one continent, ocean, rock or geological feature today that existed when the planet first cooled. Ninety-nine percent of the soil under our feet is less than 500 million years old, but the basic structure of DNA is eternal and has remained unchanged forever.'

George noticed Christine give a little shiver. It was either: the drop in ambient temperature within the room, the realisation that the bottom of her world was falling out or his nasty little friends, the microbes, doing what they are good at and giving her a chill.

She eyed him warily as he reached out and took her hand. Although she had no inkling, in an instant, by that simple act he had banished any impending ills from her body. It was another wondrous ability he had acquired since his rebirth.

'Surely,' asked Christine, 'can we not simply live our lives as best we can to reach happiness and fulfilment, whatever the truth of this?'

'On one level, yes, but on another it's a bit awkward knowing it's your manifest destiny as a species is to be the destroyer of everything it holds in its thrall.'

'This all sounds rather bleak, is there no good to come of it all?'

'You got washing machines, microwaves and the works of Shakespeare.'

'Does take the gloss off it a bit though, doesn't it.'

George smiled. 'James O'Connell was correct; the Creation story in the Book of Genesis and Man's expulsion from the Garden of Eden, does lay bare the greatest secret never told. Evolution was The Fall and expulsion from The Garden of Eden was the end of the golden age and the destruction of the perfection of Arcadia. Genesis tells us Adam was immortal before Eve arrived. Adam should be understood as a metaphor for the simple single cell creatures that were seeded on Earth and Eve for the advent of sexual reproduction that brought death to the world. The taking of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge represents the desecration of the encoded wisdom through the corruption of mitosis and the jumbling of the DNA. Is not the serpent, so reviled, the perfect representation of a single strand of DNA and there with it, the evil done by the destruction of wisdom.'

'Wow, George. I never thought I'd hear you quote bits from the Bible.'

George smiled as he turned to her. 'Again, does not your Bible say, 'In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God'. Those ancient scribes had some notion of the truth and why Life and Gaea exists to ensure the Word, the Knowledge, remains uncorrupted and perfect for all time. And does it not explain why Gaea, your God, endeavoured to continually wreak an unreasonable vengeance upon Mankind; a metaphor for all life that has evolved.'

'Heavy stuff. So, why aren't more people aware of this?'

'Heavy, but it's the truth. Knowledge can be lost, misunderstood, reinterpreted or simply suppressed. It was less than one hundred and fifty years-ago that Mankind discovered the existence of microbes and just a few decades ago the discovery of DNA. And did in those less enlightened times adepts and initiates dismiss this wisdom, perhaps being unable to comprehend that the son's of Adam weren't the pre-eminent manifestation of their perceived Almighty God's will, especially to something as insubstantial and elusive as microscopically small creatures. And yet perhaps at another level mankind has always been aware of it. The Greek god Hermes, the Winged Messenger whose symbol's the Caduceus, the entwined serpents wound in the shape of a double helix, is the very representation of DNA and Knowledge itself. It appeared five thousand years before the physical structure of Life was verified by modern Science. It is Hermes who is credited with the axiom – 'As above, so below' – meaning, that which is in the firmament is mirrored here on Earth. What better description could there be of the sum-total knowledge of the unbounded Universe that is encoded within the heart of every living creature here on earth? The ancient magi and initiates even gave it a name – the Akashic Record. In almost all religions aren't the said manifestations of God on earth, like Christ, claimed to have emanated from a virgin birth. Why? Because it represents purity. Unadulterated DNA represents to return to perfection – to how life was before The Fall.' George smiled 'There of course is another reason people are not aware of it . . . it's crazy. Who would seriously believe it?'

'Let me ask you a question. So if these Watchers are so determined to rid Earth of all 'Evolved Life' why didn't they do something about it when it first occurred?'

'They tried by physical means. The Permian Extinction Event nearly three-hundred million years ago was perhaps the closest they came, when ninety-five percent of all known evolved life forms became extinct. Regardless of Ice-Ages that virtual turned the planet into snowball or asteroid impacts that set it ablaze, like the weed in your garden, nothing has prevented the contagion of corrupted life enveloping the planet.'

'So is there a time scale for the end of the world? A few people have had a crack at it in the past, but so far they've all got it wrong,' she asked brightly, 'George . . .?'

He feigned preoccupation with the world outside and then she was gone. He was alone again.

In the twilight George saw some cows silhouetted against the horizon, resting beneath a bare limbed oak. Those simple creatures are attuned to the Earth, they would sense when the impending cataclysm was due to fall.

He attempted to recall the conversation with whatever human creature had been in the room, but it was instantly lost, having only been held briefly in his consciousness like a lightning flash against the sky, being mental detritus needless to retain.

Was he mad? Yet he did know all there was to know. Perhaps he should have demonstrated his new ability to fly as proof of his transformation, but it might have unnerved his visitor to see him hovering effortlessly in the air. Or perhaps he should have openly demonstrated his ability to transmute into different animalistic forms.

Part of him, the person he remembered he had been, still believed at some level that it was a self-deluded nightmare from which one day he would awake. Surely, he knew too much for it to be just an delusion. He knew why pi, in the crude human creature counting system wasn't a whole number as it was in five dimensions. He knew how all the matter in the Universe emerged out of nothing – matter and anti-matter mirroring each other and expanding in diametrically opposite time continuums, while the total energy of the Universe remained at zero – the elegant perfection of everything being created out of nothing. And he even knew why it happened. He knew many of the great plagues that wrought deadly havoc throughout the ages were the Elohim, seeding the Earth with new information. He knew why it always rained at the weekends.

And should it be announced that scientists had finally started to decode the eternal wisdom held within the 'Junk DNA' then he knew the end for the human creatures, the one the Elohim had made known to him, would come to pass. They can never permit their vile chimera, their chosen means to rid the earth of the corruption of evolution to appropriate anything of their vast knowledge of travelling in space and time to breech its containment from the confines of the earth.

The human creature's ultimate end was no longer of consequence to George. He had left physical concerns of the animal body behind since his rebirth. He was a spiritual being no more than appearing to retain the human form as a convenient shell. It is why he can transmute into other living forms – it is why he can fly by the power of thought alone.

Perhaps now was the time to demonstrate what he had become. Until then he had restricted use of his wondrous new ability to within the privacy of these four walls. Now was the time to reveal it to the world.

His room in the institution was on the third floor. What better way to demonstrate his rebirth than to take flight from his window ledge – to hover effortlessly above any observers below. It is unlikely they will believe the evidence of their own eyes, perhaps concluding a concealed rig of conjuror's strings and pulleys. That George will be able to soar up into the sky, flying effortlessly alongside the avians in their vaulted realm must surely convince all but the feeble minded that he has been freed of a human creature's mortal limitations.

He opened the window wide and climbed up onto the ledge then crouched down gripping the frame to hold himself steady preparing to launch into the air. He glanced down at the ground thirty feet below – enough height to gather speed before sweeping majestically back up into the sky. Two people walking in the grounds saw him and began shouting and calling for help. More people emerged from the building looking up and joining in the alarm. George waited. More people who witnessed his momentous display the better.

Behind him, the door to his room flew open and two members of staff raced towards the open window. George glanced over his shoulder.

'No time like the present.' He sprung off the ledge – arms extended like a high diver.

There were screams below and cries of, 'Nooooo!'

As George plunged towards the ground, he heard a voice.

'Dad. It's me, Kit. Come back to us.'
