The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 7

He headed west along Herford Road, cursing the rush-hour traffic, towards Kelly Green industrial estate where his fledgling business was housed. He parked outside the big, breezeblock and corrugated iron buildings and walked down an alleyway between skips and wheelie-bins to his little printshop. The premises of JA Print were in a converted mobile home tucked into the supplies yard of a lot belonging to one of the bigger companies. He opened the padlock on the door and stepped inside. The chipboard floor gave a little under his weight and it was chilly inside. The coffee was starting to burn his stomach so he downed a couple of antacid tablets before switching on the portable heater. He made himself another cup from his sideboard kettle and switched on his laser copier and offset-litho press; both were working OK. He’d reserved most of his office space to store completed orders, but only two wrapped piles of fliers for the local newspapers stood in the corner ready to be delivered. He switched on his computer and scanned his emails, but for the third day that week there were no orders. He sat down on his stool and sipped his coffee then The Key to Life out of his pocket and read a passage from chapter 7:
It doesn’t matter what the business is, so long as it’s yours. Then you cease to be an employed chattel and become a businessman, responsible, independent, able to generate your own income. This transformation is one of the most defining stages of the Key. Therefore, your first APL should have starting your own business on or near the top.
As with all elements of the Key, you can’t expect things to happen overnight. It is beginning the process that counts; this might mean starting off as a small-time sole trader, working from home or from a very modest locale. Don’t be downhearted if this is the case; just remind yourself that you are on the right track. If you are committed to the Key, this stage will not last long. No matter how small your profit is, its exchange rate is ten times the same social value in the salary of the most well-heeled employed individual. He is a mere cog in a machine, spoon-fed and dependent, one of the useless morons.
Charlie closed the book with a smile, feeling reassured. He gingerly returned it to his pocket and buttoned the flap so that the book was safe and wouldn’t accidentally fall out.
The post arrived at 8 o’clock and Charlie jumped up with an ambivalent feeling of both dread and eagerness as a number of envelopes cascaded through his letterbox. There were no orders; he was worse than disappointed. There was a bill for the business rates, the rent a series of second reminders for his car loan and credit cards, an acidic letter from the bank about his overdraft and, far worse, a final demand from Elasmo Finance for his first mortgage repayment. His hands shook and his sweat soaked into the paper as he read it:
Dear Mr Doughty. Despite three reminders dispatched to you (it gave the dates) we have received neither payment from you nor any correspondence as explanation. If you do not contact us within seven days we will have no choice but to deploy one of our representatives to locate you and retrieve the amount due from you personally. Yours Sincerely, Jack Scartane (Collections Manager)
Charlie whimpered aloud in terror. He knew very well what “retrieve the amount from you personally” implied. His other creditors would have to wait; the very worst they could do was take him to court; Elasmo Finance didn’t bother with niceties like that. Paying Elasmo was all that mattered right then. His fingers fumbled on the keyboard as he opened his books. He almost fainted with relief. The fee from the Belswill Gazette had cleared giving him just enough to pay the mortgage instalment. He’d only have ten pounds left for housekeeping, but that would just have to do. He’d told Mary that he’d been granted a mortgage from his building society. He hated lying to his wife, but he had no choice; no high street institution would lend him what he needed so he’d been forced to go... elsewhere. He quickly filled out a cheque, slipped it into the return envelope and went out to post it.
He sat around the office all day reading from The Key; he had nothing else to do. The phone never rang, no email arrived and no more post was delivered except a few more bills. He closed the office at 3pm and drove out of town to Bishop Stortford. He shuddered as passed the children’s school. Brendan, Lucas and Cara went to the local, cheap, square-block comprehensive, no better than the one they’d gone to in Liverpool. It wasn’t good enough. As soon as he reached Bishop Stortford he found Galton School for Boys and drove straight in through the cast iron gates. He smiled with satisfaction and admired the old stone buildings covered in ivy and the surrounding gardens dotted with sycamore trees. The headmaster met him in the carpark. He was an elderly, distinguished man with an academic gown and half-moon spectacles. He led Charlie into the building, along oak-panelled corridors with old paintings and black-and-white photos of past pupils and teachers. His office was similarly furnished and a big globe stood in the corner. He offered Charlie a seat in a red leather armchair and gave him a glass of sherry. “So, Mr Doughty.” He said in an old-fashioned accent. “You wish to enrol your two sons, Lucas and Brendan, aged 15 and 13, until the end of the next academic year?”
“Yes indeed, Dr Crossley.” Charlie replied in his best enunciation; the elocution lessons were beginning to take effect. He had listened to recordings of himself and was gratified to hear that the ugly Scouse drawl, his life-long unknown curse, had been scrubbed from his voice. “Do the children sleep in separate rooms?”
“No, all our boys sleep in dormitories of thirty-six.”
“Good.” said Charlie. “A staunch, traditional public school education! That’s what I desire for me progeny.”
The headmaster looked at him over the tops of his glasses. “This is a very traditional school and our fees reflect that: twenty-one thousand pounds a term.”
Charlie recalled an appropriate passage from The Key: Your children are your legacy to your own eternal glory. Give them the best and only the best. Get them out of the state system and give them an elite education. This will augment your own status as well. The privately-educated are in a class of their own.
Charlie indignantly suppressed a gulp of unease. “Very well.”
“I trust you have the two thousand pounds deposit available now.”
Charlie hesitated. “There’s a cheque in the post.”
...................
Charlie’s mind was churning and palpitating as he drove back to Belswill. Thoughts kept popping into his head and were instantly annihilated before he had the chance to study them; it was as if his brain had some kind of antivirus installed. Eventually, a rogue worm broke through: “You fool!” it shouted at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!? You’re going to ruin yourself and your family!”
“No!” Charlie put his hand to his forehead to blot out the voice. “This is the path to success!”
It was getting dark by the time he left the M25 at the Belswill junction and headed home along the Hertford Road. He passed a pub and his foot went for the brake. He pulled up at the side of the road, feeling a sudden craving for alcohol. He put the car into reverse and then stopped himself. The pub was a conventional English one, of the type where he used to waste time in Liverpool. Through the windows Charlie could see a group of men in T-shirts around a pool table. He drove on, knowing that to enter such a premises would be a betrayal of The Key. He recalled the relevant passage: Once a member of the Elite, not always so. Status requires effort to maintain because the tides of society are continuously ebbing. You will be forever battling the current that wishes to pull us all down into mediocrity. Avoid all social contact with your inferiors; cross the street when they walk towards you, ignore them when they speak to you, for they are a claw that, if given a chance, will to tear you down from your citadel. Charlie turned the car around and headed for a place he’d been meaning to go to for weeks: Belswill Tennis Club.
He parked the car a few hundred yards away so that the members wouldn’t see it and walked to his destination. Belswill Tennis Club was situated in a leafy residential district of large detached houses. It was surrounded by a high wall and as he walked towards it, Charlie could hear the sounds of bouncing tennis balls from within. The sky was by now almost black and the courts were floodlit. There was an upstairs terrace covered in parasols and gazeboes. Charlie waited outside the gate and after a few minutes a couple appeared who looked like the sort of people he was seeking (They are the Nugents- Ed). The man was in his forties, dressed in shirtsleeves, with bright and intelligent eyes. His partner was slim and attractive, wearing expensive-looking clothes and jewellery. Charlie stepped out to meet them as they walked into the gate. “Good evening.”
“Good evening.” they answered in chorus with a smile.
“I wonder if you could help me. I’m recently moved into the area and...” He only hesitated briefly for the lie. “...I’m a keen tennis player. Would you tell me how I can join the club?”
“Certainly.” said the man in a deep, distinguished voice. “You need to apply to the membership officer in writing, enclosing a letter of reference from your previous club. Your application will be put before the committee and you should hear back from them within a month.”
“Thank you. Would you be willing to sign me in tonight so I can take down the details?”
“Certainly Mr...”
“Doughty. Charles Doughty.”
“I’m James Nugent and this is my wife, Carol.”
“Delighted.” Charlie smiled as he shook their hands.
The interior of the club was finely decorated and scrupulously clean. There was a uniformed concierge at the porch who held the door open and all the bar-staff, or “stewards” as they were called, wore white jackets. The air was scented by well-arranged flower vases and the clientele spoke slowly in low, educated voices. There was no juke box, no pool table, no dartboard, no peanuts on sheets of card behind the bar, no widescreen Sky TV on the wall and the people drank mostly wine instead of beer. Charlie felt his spirits rise as the Nugents gave him a tour of the club. The bar had a strict dress-code and sportswear was forbidden. Anyone coming in from the courts had to shower and change before having a drink. The changing rooms were luxurious with individual showers, scented soaps and acres of fluffy towels. The Nugents then led him to the club’s eight clay tennis courts. “So tell me, Mr Doughty.” said James Nugent. “What do you think is the best way to play a stop-volley?”
Charlie clenched his teeth to stop himself from stuttering. He prayed that he wasn’t blushing. “Erm... well it depends on the circumstances.”
“You mean whether you’re forced into a backhand position?”
“Well... yes.”
“You’ve got nothing to lose by trying eh?” Nugent nudged him with his elbow in a friendly manner. “The point’s gone either way. I’ve heard boasts that it’s even possible to deliver one right off the serve. What do you make of that?”
Charlie had no clue of what Nugent was talking about, but he bluffed his way through the thicket of the conversation until it thankfully moved onto another subject. Charlie made a mental note to get some private tennis lessons as soon as he could.
James Nugent signed Charlie in and gave him a membership pack, then he bought a round of drinks and they sat down on some velvet seats beside a rosewood table. Charlie’s throat spasmed in disgust as he sipped his white wine, but he managed to force a smile. “Mmm, what an excellent finish. It was a good year.” He knew that he’d miss his beer, but he had to give it up. He considered for a moment having a stash of beer at home to drink secretly, but then remembered what The Key had to say about that: Don’t be tempted into hypocrisy or having a double-life. You are what you are, both in private and in public. Do and say nothing at home alone that you would not do and say in front of your friends and acquaintances.
Nugent was a high-court judge and his wife sat on the board of a children’s charity. Needless to say, Charlie embellished the truth when telling them about his printing company. JA Print was situated in a six-story office block in London. He had three hundred employees and turned over a million and a half every year. Nugent and his wife seemed adequately impressed. They left the club at 11pm and bade each other a warm farewell outside the club, exchanging telephone numbers and email addresses. The Nugents even half-invited him and Mary to an opera in London the following month. Charlie walked back to his car with a spring in his step. Making friends with the Nugents was a major achievement, number 3 on his APL. This rich and sophisticated couple were his ticket into Belswill high society.
When he got home he switched on his PC and went online. He’d need to do a lot of research into tennis clubs if he were going to produce a forged reference.
...............
“Charlie?”
“Yes, Mary?” He looked up from his breakfast cereal.
“A funny thing happened yesterday. I went down to the bank for the housekeeping and the machine said ‘request denied’. Why’s that?”
A cornflake lodged at the back of his mouth. He swallowed and felt it dig into the tender flesh of his throat. He grunted and coughed until it shifted. “Ahem... I’m sure it’s just a cock-up, Pet. Some cashier wanted to get off work early and hit the wrong key. I’ll pop in there at lunchtime and sort it out."
“Well, have you got any cash on you, Charlie? I need a few quid for groceries.”
“Erm... sorry, Love, no. Not on me at present. How much food have we got left?”
She opened the cupboard and shook her head. “It’ll have to be beans on toast tonight... again.” She turned slowly and looked at her husband. “Charlie, is everything alright?”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“The business is doing well, but you never seen to have any money on you. Why’s that?”
“Erm... well...” He fiddled with the table cloth. “I’m going through a bit of a cashflow trough at the moment. Happens to all businesses.”
She raised her eyebrows. “'Cashflow trough'?”
“Yeah... I’m waiting for the bank to clear the returns on my expenditure.” He quickly drained the last of his cereal and stood up. “I’ve got to get going now. I’ll see you later.” He kissed her and walked out. As he left the kitchen and headed for the front door he felt her eyes on the back of his head.
................
When Charlie arrived at the JA Print hut the postman had already called and a number of envelopes lay on the floor. He made some coffee with one hand while he opened them with the other. One of them was a big brown one marked “Hertfordshire Country Court”. He opened it and the coffee mug dropped from his hands. It bounced and came to a rest intact on the damp floorboards, splattering its contents everywhere.
His eyes jerked on and off the lines of text like a stylus on a scratched vinyl disk, but the words they jumped from and too echoed around his mind: Gross arrears... grievous debt... culpable neglect... enabling order... bankruptcy... bailiffs... arrestment of earnings... warrant sale... His breath hissed between his teeth. The interior of the hut orbited around his head. He forced himself to sit down and tackle the panic that was rising inside him. Slowly his breathing returned to a normal rhythm. “OK... OK... This is real.” he panted aloud. “It’s happening. You’ve got to deal with it.” He stood up and marched out of the hut, his mind hijacked by pragmatism, his emotions held firmly in check. He went to his car and straightened his tie in the rearview mirror, then he drove to the bank, marched purposefully up to the reception desk and asked to speak to his account manager.
The accounts manager’s handshake and greeting was more forced and insincere than is used to be. He invited Charlie into a private office to talk. “So, you’d like a business loan?”
“Yes please.”
The banker tapped his keyboard. “But you already have a business loan, Mr Doughty.”
“I know, but...”
“It’s for eight thousand five hundred pounds.” He looked up sharply. “We’re still waiting for your first repayment.”
Charlie stammered. “Yes...well... could I extend the loan?”
“By how much?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds!?”
“Yes... I’ve... incurred some extra costs lately.”
He shook his head. “We can’t lend you any more money.”
Charlie trembled. “Why not?”
He frowned. “Don’t you know!? We’re extremely concerned about your position, Mr Doughty. We’re very concerned about the eight thousand pounds we’ve already lent you, let alone an extension of fifteen thousand!”
Charlie felt tears budding in his eyes and blinked to fight them back. “Mr Cathcart... I really need this money. I’m begging you...”
“I’m sorry, Mr Doughty. The answer is definitely no.”
Charlie staggered back to the car and drove. He cruised aimlessly around town for a while with one hand on the wheel. He parked in a side street and opened The Key. There had to be some mistake; he’d been confused with someone else. He’d spent the last three months following The Key, not following it, living it. In every detail, to the letter. He put The Key back in his pocket and returned to his office. As he emerged from the alleyway he froze. The door to his hut was open. As he approached he saw that it had been forced; the hasp was smashed and ripped off the wall. Voices came from inside. “Oi!” he yelled and burst in. “What the hell is going...” He cut off.
“Mr Doughty?” said one of the intruders, a smartly-dressed young man.
“Yes?”
“We’re from Elasmo Finance. May we have a word?” The speaker was of average height and build, but his three companions towered over him. They all wore identical suits into which their enormous muscular bodies barely fitted. Their heads were all shaved and their eyes hidden by sunglasses.
Charlie took a step back towards the door, but one of the men immediately leapt behind him, as if anticipating his move. The other two heavies closed in on him from the front like American football players. “We’d really appreciate a moment of your time.” said the speaker in a calm Cockney accent. “It won’t take long.”
“What... what do you want?” This time Charlie didn’t care about the terrified quiver in his voice.
“You owe us a lot of money, Mr Doughty.” He stepped forward between his companions until he was less than a foot away.
Charlie backed off, but then felt the cliff-like chest of one of the heavies jam against his nape. “I paid you!” he blurted. “I sent you a cheque last week!”
“And we received it, but unfortunately it bounced.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Tell that to the bank.”
“OK! OK! I’ll write you another cheque...”
“We’ll take cash if it’s all the same to you.”
“I don’t have it.”
There was an icy pause. “Oh dear. Those are regrettable words that we hear all too often.” He briefly glanced at one of his companions. The heavy produced a baseball bat and began repeatedly driving it into a palm of his hand with a rhythmic slap... slap... slap...
“Wait!... Just give me one more day!... please!...I’ll have the cash for you tomorrow afternoon.”
The speaker hesitated. “First thing in the morning... without fail!”
“OK! OK! I’ll have it for you tomorrow morning. Four-sixty, right?”
“Wrong. One thousand six hundred.”
“Eh?”
“Last month’s instalment, plus this months.”
“But that comes to only nine hundred and twenty!”
“Yes, but seeing as you defaulted on your first repayment we were forced to add on a... minor service charge.”
Charlie tried to respond, but his mouth had frozen solid.
“We’ll see you in the morning, Mr Doughty. Have a pleasant evening.”
.................
Charlie was frozen on the spot. He stood there for many minutes after the four men had left. Then he took a few steps and fled. He ran along the pavements and roads, not knowing why or where he was going. People jumped out of his way and cars hooted him. He eventually fell to his knees on a corner, gasping and panting, his heart thumping painfully in his gullet. He drooled and spat to clear his burning airways. He was at a crossroads in a side-street residential area and over the road in a little corner slot was a public house. He crossed the road and went inside. “”Double scotch please.” He said to the barmaid.
“Ice or water?”
“Neither thanks; I’ll take it neat.” He knocked it back in one, his teeth rattled against the glass, then he slammed the empty glass down on the bartop. “Same again please.”
The barmaid gazed at him suspiciously as she pushed the glass up against the spirit optic twice.
Charlie had another, and another, and then another, and soon the world around him began to liquefy into a comfortable, warm slush. His fears eased from a sharp sting to a dull ache. Sounds around him became muffled and distant, the electronic noise from the fruit machines, talk and laughter from other customers, the clatter of billiard balls, the door to the toilets squeaking on its hinges. “Same again please.” he said with his numb mouth.
“Sorry, Pal.” The barmaid who’d served him up to now had been replaced by a gruff landlord.
“What?”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
“Aw come on! Just one more!”
“No. Look, Mate, you’ve been here three hours; why don’t you just go home eh?”
Charlie looked at the clock, but couldn’t focus his bleary eyes on it. It felt like just twenty minutes since he’d arrived at the pub. “Iss not late.” He could hear the slur in his voice as his tingling tongue and lips struggled to form the words. “One... one more for th’ road, eh?”
“No way. Come on, Mate! Let’s have you moving!” The landlord escorted him to the door.
Charlie was outside and the fresh air and noise of the town felt loud and intrusive. He staggered along the pavement, clutching at fences and gateposts for support. He hummed and sang to himself, the deeper part of his mind drew amusement from his own drunkenness. He went into a shop and bought a bottle of whiskey, then sat down on the steps outside the shop and drank. He could hardly taste it now. He opened his eyes, but he was virtually blind; his surroundings were just splotches of light and dark. Sounds were unrecognizable, as if distorted by an electronic synthesizer.
He awoke from a deep stupor. His first thought was that he was very cold; he was also soaking wet. He was sitting on some cement steps in an alleyway beside the shop. All around him was rubbish. It was raining and heavy drops plopped onto his head from a gutter above. He raised his hand to touch his forehead but missed and poked himself in the eye. He didn’t feel any pain. He looked down at the whiskey bottle and picked it up. He tipped it into his mouth, but only a few drops came out. He shook it as if he were pouring ketchup but tasted only fresh air. “Fuck it!” he spluttered. “Gotta... get more... whiskey.” He tried to get up, but his body was paralysed and refused to move. He grasped a drainpipe and eventually hoisted himself to his feet. As soon as he let go he pitched face down onto the ground. Blood dripped from his nose. He clambered upright again and this time managed to stay so.
As he stepped into the forecourt of the little grocers shop he saw that it was dark. He had no idea of the time, but the shop was still open. He fell against the door and the bell rang loudly as it fell open.
The shopkeeper was a small, elderly Asian with a thick white beard. “Hello, can I help?”
“Got any... whiskey?”
He turned to the shelf behind him. “We have Bells, Grants, Famous Grouse in hip bottles or...”
“Just giz a big bott... bottle.”
The man took down a full-sized bottle and placed it on the counter. “That’ll be thirteen seventy-five please.”
Charlie leaned on the clear plastic box that dispensed scratchcards as he prospected in his pocket. He struck a deposit of damp, screwed-up banknotes and handed them to the shopkeeper.
The clunking, bleeping sound of the till opening made him start. He gawped as the drawer slid out; the compartments inside were stuffed with tight, copious wads of notes; fives, tens and twenties. He stared at them hungrily. “Here, Mate.” he said. “Can I have some o’ yer money?”
The shopkeeper slammed the till shut and handed him his change. “No! Of course not.”
“Aw, please! Listen, Mate. I’m in the shit, OK? There’s these blokes, big fuckers wi’ baseball bats... gonna beat the shit out of me. You understand? I gotta pay ‘em in the mornin’ or I’m fuckin’ dead. You hear me? I need yer help, Mate... Please. I need some fuckin’money.”
The shopkeeper back away. “No, I’m not doing that. I’d like you to leave now please.”
“I’m not leaving ‘til you give me some money! Come on, Mate. Please! Save m’ life!” As he looked at the indignant shopkeeper he felt rage build inside him, a kind of rage he’d never felt before, primitive, infantile, primeval. “Come on! Giz some money!... NOW! Yer tight Paki cunt!”
The shopkeeper pointed at the door. “Get out now or I’ll call the police!”
Charlie always found it hard to recall what happened next. He looked down and saw a section of copper pipe lying underneath one of the shelves. He felt the pipe in his hands, hard and cold. He felt the rage, the madness, the horror and panic. He heard himself bellow and scream incoherent abuse and maledictions at the shopkeeper. He brought the pipe down on the counter again and again, shattering the scratchcard box, the chewing gum display. Newspapers and magazines flew everywhere. There was terror in the eyes of the shopkeeper as he fumbled with the buttons on the till. The next thing he knew was that he was pelting down the street with his pockets jammed full with money.
He awoke on the floor of his office. Cold misty air filled the little Portakabin. He sat up and saw an ant crawling on his hand, his clothes were ripped and there were scratches and bruises all over him. Dark morning sunlight washed in from the open door. Pain shot through his skull as he moved his eyes; he clutched his temples and groaned out loud. There was a slimy pool of vomit on the floor and his trousers stank of urine. “Oh, God!” he rasped through his dry throat. He grabbed the reservoir pot from the coffee-maker and gulped manically. The water was tepid and mouldy, but he didn’t care. He stopped when the pot was empty and collapsed back down onto the floor.
He didn’t stir again until a row of dark shadows blotted out the sunlight. “Good morning, Mr Doughty.”
Charlie opened his eyes and yelled in shock. He sat bolt upright and kicked his heels against the floor, backing away from the four suited men.
“Deary me.” said the small man. “What have you been up to? Some sort of party obviously.”
“Uh.” Charlie moaned and reached into his pockets. “I’ve got your money.”
“That’s good.” The small man smiled thinly. “Let’s have it then.”
“OK, Sixteen hundred pounds, right?” Charlie took the thick bundles of notes out of his pocket and began counting off some twenties. But then three huge pairs of hands reached down and seized all the money.
“Hang on!” protested Charlie. “There’s at least five grand there!”
The small man bowed in mock-courtesy. “I know. You are so generous, Mr Doughty. This is the biggest tip we’ve made in weeks... Come on, boys.” The four men headed for the door. The small man turned and looked back at him when he reached the doorway. “And remember, your next instalment is due on the twenty-eighth. I trust we’ll receive it on time. Good day, Mr Doughty.”
...................
Charlie knew that he was in no fit state to drive, but he didn’t care. He drove home as quickly as he could. As soon as he put his doorkey in the lock the door was snatched open by a haggard-looking Mary. “Where on Earth have you been!?” She glared at him.
“Sorry, Mary. I’ve been working late.”
“Late!? You’ve been out all night! And look at the state of you!”
“Sorry, Pet. I fell in a puddle.”
“I’ve been ringing and ringing your mobile phone! Ringing and ringing the office! I was about to call the police!”
“The police!?” he snapped. “You didn’t did you!?”
“No but...”
“Thanks God for that!... Well I’m home now so quit panicking!”
“So what...”
“Give it a rest! Please, Mary!” He softened his voice. “I’m tired OK?” He climbed the stairs and went to the bathroom, stripped off his reeking clothes, showered, shaved and brushed his teeth until he felt more himself. However the stench of stale spirits clung to his body like glue. He took some paracetamol to tackle his headache then he dressed and went back to the office to repair the broken lock on the door. His alcohol-induced coma was no substitute for natural sleep and in the afternoon he went home to get some.
.....................
He felt much better when he woke up. It was getting dark outside and he stared up at the ceiling; his worries seemed far away and he enjoyed that feeling, knowing that it might now last long. He went downstairs, ate dinner and then joined his family in front of the TV. The national news was on and most of the programme reported on the progress of the war. The invasion of ACAIR was well underway and embedded journalists spoke to the camera in front of convoys of armoured personnel carriers and lorries.
“Can I watch Southeast Today?” asked Mary.
“OK by me.” Charlie shrugged.
The channel changed to the regional news. The programme began with a grim-faced reader: “There has been an armed robbery at a shop in Belswill, Hertfordshire. Last night at approximately eleven pm, a man entered the Biskin Street newsagents and demanded money after purchasing a bottle of whiskey. When the owner refused the man became violent and used a water pipe to vandalize the shop and threaten the staff. He then fled with over five thousand pounds in cash. The shop’s owner, sixty-three year old Mohammed Badran, had to be treated in hospital for shock. The police have recovered fingerprints and CCTV footage of the suspect...” The TV picture showed a grainy monochrome security video of a shop interior in a series of stills. A man in a tousled suit approached the counter and purchased a bottle and then reached down, picked up a blunt instrument and used it to demolish the shop’s fittings. The footage froze and zoomed in on the assailant’s face. The image of his features was particularly clear. “The robber is described as aged forty to forty-five, is sockily built and spoke with a Liverpudlian accent. The police have appealed to the public to...”
“Hey, Dad. He looks like you!” laughed Brendan.
“Ho ho!” chuckled Lucas. “What have you been up to, Dad?” Mary and Cara laughed too.
Charlie’s mouth smiled and his voice laughed. “Well, they say everybody’s got a double somewhere!” Inside his heart was pounding and his stomach clenched with terror. He felt the reality of the situation crashing down on him like an avalanche. “Erm... I’m going to pop out for a stole, OK?”
“Sure.” replied Mary, not taking her eyes off the TV. “Could you pick me up a packet of peanuts from Ellensmart?”
“OK.”
“And I’ll have some fruit saucers, Dad.” piped up Cara.
“OK.”
Charlie paused in the corridor and listened to his family chattering idly about the next news story. Then he turned his back on the lounge and fled.
(Prev: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2010/05/obscurati-chronicless-part-6.html
Next: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2010/07/obscurati-chronicles-part-8.html )

The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 6

The following morning Lucas and his mother arose before anyone else and left in the car. At the Belswill service station they turned west onto the M25. Lucas sat quietly in the front passenger seat while his mother drove. She talked non-stop about the new home; her earlier misgivings and regrets appeared to have dissolved. “...and the Cooker, Lu! It’s got a halogen hob and extractor; have you ever seen anything like it? To think that we could ever own something like that! Your dad’s an amazing man!...” Lucas thought of his father’s little yellow book and remained silent.
They took the M1 and the M6 up to Birmingham then continued north through Stoke-on-Trent to Liverpool. They arrived at their old hometown at midday after having done the entire journey without stopping. His mother parked outside their block of flats and got out, Lucas rubbing and stretching his stiff limbs. It was a bright, warm day, washing hung on the lines outside balconies and music blared from one of the windows. In the shadow of the huge tower children frolicked in the little rec. The concrete canyons echoed with the thunder of the warplanes which cruised overheard above the city since the disaster at Anfield. Lucas and Mary entered the familiar doorway and walked through the graffiti-covered lobby to the lifts. The door to their old flat had a council notice on it announcing that the home had been vacated. Mary paused, as if wondering if the locks had been changed, but her key opened the door as normal.
Their home was untouched, exactly as they’d left it down to the half-finished drawing on the kitchen table that Cara had been doing. Her colour-pencils lay beside it. On the sideboard by the sink were his and Brendan’s dirty teacups. “Right.” said Mary, stiff-lipped. “Let’s get on with it, Lu. Just the bare essentials; remember it has to fit in the car.”
“What will happen to the stuff we leave behind, Mum?”
“The council will bin it. Some of it might go to charity.” She jerked open a drawer and began rummaging.
Lucas went to his bedroom and stood in the doorway for a few minutes, his eyes shuttling from one of his possessions to another. He sighed, then unplugged his Playstation and tipped his collection of DVD’s and books into his suitcase. He was about to seek out his favourite clothes when he realized that his father probably wouldn’t let him wear them.
“Don’t look so dismal, Love.” She smiled sympathetically as he appeared in the lounge with his suitcase. “Nothing lasts forever. God has given us all a wonderful gift, a new and better life.” They went back down to the car and loaded their belongings into the boot and onto the back seat. “Right, Lu. Let’s go and pay Tina and Sean a quick visit.” She got into the driving seat.
“You go, Mum.” He replied quickly. “I want to visit someone else. I’ll meet up with you later.”
His mother tilted her glance and said in a curious tone ”Alright, Lu; I’ll see you at Tina’s flat at 3 o’clock.”
Lucas waited until she’d driven out of sight then set off in the opposite direction, his heart thumping. His destination was a twisty cul-de-sac of modern, red-bricked houses; these were private properties, not council and were four or five bedroom jobs, even bigger than Lucas’ new abode. He shivered as he caught sight of one of the homes, with its familiar frosted-glass door and smooth lawn. His hands fumbled with the gate-latch and his heart sprinted as he walked up the path and rang the doorbell.
“Oh... Hello, Lucas.” The woman who answered the door wore her usual reluctant smile of welcome. “I heard you’d moved away.”
“I’ve just come back to visit, Mrs Lovelock.”
“Oh.” She appeared relieved. “I’ll call Jody for you.” She shut the door, leaving him on the front step.
Lucas glared at the woman’s shape, wondering if her hostility would ease if she knew the kind of house he was living in now. The door reopened a minute later and Jody peeped out. “Lucas!” She smiled broadly and swung the door wide.
“Hello, Jody.”
“Oh, Lucas! It’s good to see you.”
They embraced and kissed. “Oh, Jody!” Lucas felt he’d melt with relief and pleasure. He squeezed back tears from his eyes.
She let him go a little sooner than usual and stepped back. “It’s good of you to come and visit me, Lucas.” There was a strange, almost embarrassed tone in her voice.
“I’ve come home with my mum to pick up our stuff. I’ve got to go back soon... I just wanted to see you, Jody. I wanted to say... I’m thinking of you and I want to stay in touch with you. I can visit you in the holidays and...”
“Lucas.” She interrupted. “Now’s a bad time.”
He paused. “”What do you mean?”
She turned away from him nervously and folded her arms. “I’m a bit busy this afternoon.”
“What do you mean, Jody?”
“You’re going to have to go now, Lucas. I’ve got to do my homework or Mum’ll do her nut.” She turned back towards him and kissed him briefly on the cheek. “I’ll call you, OK? We’ll sort out a time when we can meet up.” She stepped back inside the front door. “Have a safe trip home, Lucas.” She avoided his gaze and stared at the floor as she shut the door.
Lucas walked sadly back up the street. Before he’d gone a hundred yards he saw a boy on a bicycle ride into the close whom he recognized as Marvyn Paynton, a tall and handsome Year-10 who was captain of the basketball team and head of his house. He glanced briefly at Lucas and greeted him with a nod as he passed. Some instinct made Lucas stop and look back. Marvyn freewheeled down the close towards Jody’s house and braked. He mounted the curb by her front gate and locked his bike. Lucas felt no shock; it was as if a jigsaw piece that he knew was there had just fallen into place. Marvyn strode confidently up the garden path and Jody came out to greet him. They kissed passionately in the middle of the front garden. They then walked hand-in-hand into her house and Lucas heard the door shut.
He ran until he could run no longer and collapsed onto a park bench panting dryly. He moaned through his breathing, his nose running and his eyes blurred by tears. After a while he recovered and just sat motionless for a long time, his vision out of focus and his mind blank. The sun was sinking into the line of trees when his mobile phone rang. It was his mother. “Lucas! Where are you?”
“Er...” He cleared his throat. “In Everton Brow Park, Mum .”
“What are you doing there!? Get down to the main road where I can pick you up! We’ve got to go home now.”
“OK, Mum.” Lucas stood up and took out his wallet. He gazed at the photo of Jody for a few seconds then screwed it up and dropped it into the litter bin.
................
The TV picture shows a vast desert landscape of dunes and rocks. Soldiers in camouflaged battledress and helmets are running in front of the camera brandishing rifles. A news reporter begins his commentary: “These are the men of the Royal Welsh Regiment engaged in Operation Cannard, the largest multinational exercise since the Cold War. When they came here none of them expected it to be a prelude to a real war. However, like all the British armed forces, the unexpected is always on the cards. These two battalions are awaiting redeployment to the borders of ACAIR, but until their orders are finalized they continue to train in attack and evasion methods, here in the harsh desert sand of Oman and Qatar.” The picture switches to a cloudy day on an airport apron. A C-130 Hercules transport plane is backed onto the camera with its cargo doors wide open exposing its black cave-like interior. Servicemen are pushing pallets of boxes up the ramp into the aircraft’s hold. “At RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire supplies are being sent to the prospective battle lines almost every hour. “There’s a feeling here that war is inevitable...”
............
Charles Doughty flicked off the TV and dropped the remote control onto the coffee table. He got up and went to the kitchen. “Everything alright, love?” asked his wife getting up from her seat and putting s hand on his shoulder.
“Fine.” He replied shortly, scooping a large spoonful of coffee and dumping it into a mug. He threw in a splash of hot water from the kettle and gulped it back. His brain was churning over his various problems... challenges, he corrected himself while Mary was talking in the background of his consciousness.
“Charlie.” She said loudly.
“What?” He turned to look at her.
“I said do you want me to pick the kids up from school?”
“Erm... yeah. Sure.”
She chuckled. “What planet are you on, Love?”
“Sorry, Mary. I’ve got a few things on my mind. I’m going to open the shop early today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Business is so good; I need time to deal with the extra orders.” he lied.
She grinned broadly and gave him a hug. “It’s wonderful that you’re doing so well.” When will you be ready to begin expanding?”
“Any day now, Pet.” He said quietly.
“I’m so proud of you.” She sat down and returned to her half-finished breakfast.
After a pause she said: “One of thing, Love. When are you going to have that little chat with Lucas?”
“Soon, Mary.”
“Being his dad you might be able to get through to him.”
“Hm.”
“Brendan and Cara seemed to have settled in here OK, but not Lucas. Do you think he’s happy at that school?”
“How would he know; it’s only his fourth week there. They’ll all be moving schools soon anyway.”
“Well whatever niggling him it needs to be cleared up. Perhaps you could take him out somewhere for the day; to the flicks, or to football.”
“Not to football!” he retorted, then added more quietly: “I’ll heart-to-heart with him sometime soon. I’ve got to go now.” He kissed her. “I’ll be home a bit late tonight; I’ve got my elocution lesson.”
“OK. Charlie. Drive carefully; God bless.”
Charlie left the house and walked towards where he’d parked his car fifty yards down the street. He glanced around him before opening the door to check that none of the neighbours were watching. It was a Volkswagen Passat, the best he could afford right now, but it wasn’t good enough. Buying a new car was currently Number 3 on his APL, Advancement Priority list.
(Possible section break here- Ed)

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The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 5

Lucas awoke slowly the next morning; sunlight shone through his eyelids. He wondered for a few moments why he was lying on such a hard surface. He sat up and opened his eyes all in one movement and remembered everything a second later. He was sitting on the floor of one of the upstairs rooms in their new house, the one with the bedstead in it. He’d tried sleeping on that at first, but without a mattress the steel mesh base was like a bed of nails. He’d spent the rest of the night sleeping on the floor using his shoes as a pillow and his jacket as a blanket. He stood up and stretched, his body numb and aching; there was a carpet burn on his left elbow. The room’s window overlooked the back of the house, facing the rear facade of another row of houses. Their new garden consisted of a cracked cement patio and a patch of overgrown grass and brambles a dozen feet square. After living all his life in a sixth floor flat the thought of having a garden was a strange one to Lucas.
He heard a voice outside his room and went over to the door to investigate. His mother was standing at the top of the stairs with her back to him; her hair was unkempt and her clothes creased. She was holding her mobile phone to her ear. “Yes.” She said. “It’s totally unfurnished; well we’ve been left one settee.... Seventy-two thousand and he reckons that’s a bargain... Maybe if it had furniture it would cost more... He won’t tell me, Gail! Somehow he’s managed to wangle a mortgage... God knows! Gold alone knows! He can barely meet the council’s rent!... I just don’t know what in Heaven’s name is going on... No he’s quite with it in every other way; he’s not hallucinating, not sleepwalking or anything, and if he’s hearing voices he’s not telling me. Something happened to him after he got hurt... Well I don’t see what we can do now we’ve lost the flat... I don’t know, Gail, he says he’s got something lined up... No, he’s quit Collingers, and he could hardly commute from here anyway, could he?... Oh no! He says he’s thought of everything!... We’ve got to find some furniture and stuff, get a GP and dentist, get the kids into local schools... No, to tell you the truth it hasn’t sunk in yet. I don’t know anyone in these parts! I’ll have nobody to talk to!” She started to cry. “Of course we’ll stay in touch, Gail. We’re in Hertfordshire not Burma; I’ll come home and visit whenever I can...”
Lucas closed the door quietly and walked back to the window. He took his wallet out of his pocket and unfolded it. There, in the picture window, was a photograph of Jody. He’d taken it a few months earlier after school one day. She was standing facing the camera smiling; her blonde hair was curled around her shoulders and her eyes gleamed in the afternoon sun. He put the wallet back in his pocket and looked at the floor. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. A little later he went downstairs. His father and Brendan were still asleep in the car while his mother had returned to her bed on the settee. The kitchen smelled of grease and the steel takeaway trays still lay on the worktop where they’d left them last night. “Lu!” Cara ran up behind him.
“What is it, Caz?”
“Will you wake Daddy up? Please please please!”
“Why?”
“He’s got the back door key and I want to go out in the garden.”
By nine o’clock the whole family were awake. Lucas’ mother and father were chatting in the lounge while Cara frolicked in the garden; Lucas was in the back bedroom watching her. The tears that had been brewing up all morning burst out. He leant his head on the unvarnished windowsill and wept quietly into his screwed up jacket.
...................
That afternoon Lucas and his father went out in a taxi, his father was eager to see more of their new hometown and Lucas went along just to get out of the house. They headed out of the residential district onto a main road with shops and businesses on both sides. The first stop they made was to a bank and Charlie made Lucas wait in the taxi while he went in. He came out a ten minutes later fanning a thick wad of notes. “Dad! Where did you get that!?” exclaimed Lucas as his father lowered himself into the taxi.
“My savings.”
“But you’ve quit work.”
“I know.” he replied and laughed manically. His father seemed to be in a state of ecstatic lunacy. He sang and hummed to himself as the taxi rolled along the street. They stopped at a large, modern shopping centre; the taxi fare was eight pounds fifty. Charlie gave the driver a twenty pound note and told him to keep the change, then he hobbled the sliding doors into the glass enclosure and made straight for a stylish clothes store where he had both himself and his son measured for suits. “What do you think of this, Lu?” he asked. “You’ll look smart as a brass button in that, eh?”
Lucas looked down with distaste at the green jacket and trousers laid out for him on the fitting room table. There was also a starched white shift with a colourful tie. “Dad, I can’t wear this.”
“Of course you can.” Charlie began stripping off his jogging bottoms, tugging them roughly over his plastercast; his leather jacket and football shirt followed. He kicked the sandal from his good foot against the wall.
“But, Dad! I’ll look poncy!”
“Rubbish!”
“Dad...”
“Lucas.” Charlie said in a low, threatening voice. “We’re a decent family now. Decent! You understand? Children from decent families do not walk about dressed like that.” He gestured at Lucas’ casual trousers and t-shirt.
Lucas paused then began to strip. Once in his new suit he examined himself in the mirror in dismay.
“Come here, Son” His father crouched down in front of him. “I’ll show you how to do up your tie.” He flipped and twisted the tie around Lucas’ neck and pulled the knot tight.
Lucas choked as the tie closed around his throat like a noose. “Ah! Not so tight, Dad!”
“OK, OK. I’ll loosen it a bit.”
“That’s still too tight, Dad.!” Lucas tore at the collar with his finger, but his father stopped him.
“That’ll do, Son. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. Charlie paid for the clothes in cash and left the shop with their old clothes in a plastic bag, which he dropped into the first litter bin they passed.
The shopping spree continued. They bought furniture and kitchen appliances, a TV set, a stereo, beds, bathroom fittings. When Charlie’s cash ran out he started putting bills on his credit card, one he hadn’t had before, Lucas thought. They caught another taxi out of town to a garden centre where Charlie purchased a whole plethora of gardening tools and a small greenhouse. It was getting dark by the time they stopped for a cup of tea at the garden centre cafe. Lucas sat opposite his father at the table and felt weepy again. He forced his emotions down and sipped his tea noisily to cover the sound of his runny nose. On the way home in the taxi Lucas asked: “Dad, why are we doing this? You’ve spent thousands of pounds this afternoon; you’ve bought piles of gear. We can’t afford it.”
Charlie laughed again. “Who says we can’t afford it?”
“Well, you’re out of work now.”
“Not for long, Son.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged in an evasive yet teasing way. “Something... different.”
“Different in what way?”
“I mean we’re different people now, Lu; different from what we used to be.”
“But, Dad; I don’t want to be different.”
“You do, Son.”
“No I don’t...”
“Yes you do!” interrupted his father sharply. “When you grow up you’ll be glad this happened.”
“But what about...” He gulped down hard. “...my friends back home in Liverpool?”
“Forget them, Son; they’re losers, worthless nobodies. And this is home now.”
“But... they’re my friends...”
“No! You’re above them now. Don’t let them drag you back down. You’re going to live the rest of your life among proper folk: homeowners, professionals, people with money and status.”
“People who wear suits?”
“Yeah.” replied Charlie, appearing to miss Lucas’ ironic tone.
There was a long silence. “So this is our new life?”
“Yeah.” Charlie grinned. “Great, isn’t it?”
“What’s this place called?”
“Hertfordshire.”
“No, I mean the name of our town.”
Oh, it’s called... er... hang on.” Charlie pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Belswill.”
“So that’s its name?”
“Yes,” His face became wistful. “Belswill: a clean, happy little English town. No council estate, no inner city schools and not an asylum-seeker in sight! Sweet country churches instead of mosques and cultural centres. This is the life for us, Lu!”
“Dad, what brought this on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You go out one day a perfectly average guy, the dad I’ve known all my life, you get hurt in that riot and you come out of hospital... like this.”
Charlie sighed and leaned his arm on the taxi’s window ledge. “A lot happened to me while I was in hospital. You know, when that wall fell on top of me it shook me... jarred me out of my normal train of thought, my daily life organization, everything! It made me sit back and think, to assess who I am and where I’m going. In that hospital bed I had days and days to sit and think and process that feeling, just think for the first time in my life. To think and... to read. I’m still the dad you’ve known all your life; I’m just... an upgraded dad, a better dad who can provide for his family and give them what they deserve.”
“So how did you decide that this was what you were going to do?”
His father didn’t reply and just sat still for a long time. Then, just as Lucas was about to repeat his question, he leaned forward and slid closed the window between the passenger compartment and the driver’s seat. He reached inside his jacket pocket, brought out a book and dropped it in Lucas’ lap.
Lucas picked it up and read the words on the cover aloud. “’The Key to Life- Ten Steps to True Success by Jared Ariston.’ Where did you get this?” The book looked old and was creased and tattered. Its yellow cover had not been laminated and the plain black lettering was its only decoration. The pages inside were thin and made of poor quality paper, the typeface and print were crude and untidy and the margins uneven. It was as if the book had come out of a cornershop photocopier and been bound in somebody’s garden shed. Lucas turned to the introduction. It began with a quote: “’If you’re born poor it’s not your fault, but if you die poor it is.’ Joselito Saliendra.” He turned the page: “So you want success? True success that will make you shine out above all the rest and make everyone around you envy you? Well, who doesn’t, but only a very few strive to attain it. Ninety-nine percent of the people in this world achieve almost nothing and live lives of no value. They spend their lives in menial employment, gaining little in the way of money, property or assets. Our society, quite rightly, shows no respect to this dispossessed underclass and treats them with the contempt that they deserve. If you’ve read this far, now is the time to tell you a few home truths: This book is the most important book you will ever read in your life. This is because it tells one how to live. If you put this book down now and walk away then you are unworthy to have ever been born. You’re unfit to be a parent, your parents don’t deserve you as a son or daughter; in short you are a disgrace to humanity. Sorry to put it so bluntly, but it’s the truth...”
“I just found it.” said Charlie. “It fell into my lap. When they moved me out of Intensive Care and onto the trauma ward it was sitting there in my bedside locker, right next to the Gideon Bible. It was as if it had been left there for me, a sign from God! I’ve read it three times!” His eyes glowed with passion. “This book spoke to me, Lucas! It made me see the world in a new light and understand what life is really for, what it’s true meaning is. It’s a terrible shock when the blindfold is lifted and the light of the real world is laid before your eyes, but it’s wonderful too!”
“Dad, this doesn’t look like a very nice book.”
“Nice? What do you mean?”
“It says you’re an unfit father. You’re not; you’re a good father to me...”
“I am now. I wasn’t before.”
“No, Dad; you’ve always been good, all my life.”
Charlie sighed and bowed his head. “Don’t say that.”
“But...”
“Lu!” he snapped. “I said don’t say it!... We’re not going to live in denial any longer.”
...................
The household appliances Charlie had bought arrived the following morning and the family spent the next two days locating and installing them; the bare house slowly transformed into a furnished home. The novelty and excitement lifted the spirits of the whole family and even Mary became enthusiastic as she planned out her new kitchen, bedroom and lounge; she chattered excitedly as she unpacked box after box of matching crockery, cutlery and culinary tools. Lucas and Brendan were given the back bedroom where Lucas had spent his first night, only now there was a mattress and clothes on the old bed and Brendan had a brand new divan. They had a cupboard and a desk with a PC and a case of bookshelves. The windows had been hung with Venetian blinds. Brendan set up the second PC in the lounge while their father assembled the greenhouse. In the evening of the second day Charlie went out to introduce himself to the neighbours, “announce ourselves” as he called it. He came back an hour later ruddy with frustrated gloom. “Damn it!” he shouted as he slammed the door. “I’ve been to four doors; next door is a contract carpenter!” He pointed to his left. “That side they’re in roofing tiles and opposite is a pest-controller and a bloody nurse! Damn and blast!”
“What’s wrong with them?” asked Lucas.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? They’re all losers!”
“The nurse is a loser?” said Lucas. “Nurses helped save your lives a few weeks ago.”
His father ignored him. “It’s a shame we have to start off in this area. It’s all we can afford right now. Never mind, we’ll soon be selling and moving somewhere better.” He pulled a folder out of a kitchen drawer and dialled a number on the newly-installed telephone. “Damn, I’ve got a voicemail... Hello, is that Prickells Estate Agents? This is Charles Doughty at Sixty Madeira Terrace, Belswill. I’d like to put my house on the market please. I’ll call back about this tomorrow.” He put down the phone.
“Dad, we’re not moving again are we?” asked Brendan. “I’ve only just got the PC set up.”
“Of course we’re moving again, Bren.” he replied. “We can’t stay here; this area is much too common for us.” His voice had changed. His Scouse accent was now heavily disguised by Queen’s English.
“Common!?” shrilled Lucas.
“But we’ve only just moved in!” continued Brendan.
“So what?” said Charlie. “This ain’t... isn’t going to be our permanent home. This is just the first rung of the Property Ladder. We’re going to do this joint up and sell it for more money than we paid for it. Then we buy somewhere a bit better, do it up and flog it again; and so on till we’re living in a proper home in a really decent area. It’s called property development and all professionals do it.”
“Talking about professionals, Charlie.” Said Mary. “What kind of professional are you planning on becoming to pay for all this development?”
Charlie started filling in a form on the estate agents’ folder. “I’m working on that.” He replied without looking up.

(Prev: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2010/03/obscurati-chronicles-part-4.html
Next: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2010/05/obscurati-chronicless-part-6.html)

The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 4

There were no taxies or busses running so they had to ask a neighbour for a lift to the hospital. As they walked into the Accident and Emergency department Lucas almost held back, terrified of what news he was about to hear. The five minutes in the waiting room cuddling a weeping Cara were torture. As soon as he saw his mother emerge from the doctor’s office he knew by the look on her face that the news was good. The relief was almost painful; he came close to fainting from it.
An hour later the family were allowed to see him. Charles Doughty was in a curtained off space on a bed asleep with an oxygen mask on his face. He had a black eye and his body was covered in cuts and bruises. His legs were encased in white plaster wrapped in fabric. He’d been in theatre having his leg bones surgically repaired. “Daddy, can you hear me?” Cara asked quietly. Her father didn’t respond, but sighed deeply in his drug-assisted slumber. “How many Muslims did you kill, Dad?” asked Brendan proudly.
The family went home an hour later and planned to return the following day. Lucas got up early the next morning and went out. The small shops in the centre of the estate had reopened and he bought a bunch of grapes, some flowers and a get-well card. When he got home the family wrote loving messages of the card and tenderly wrapped the flowers before leaving the flat and catching the bus, which was running once more, to the hospital. They’d called earlier and a nurse confirmed that Charlie was awake now and they could visit; therefore it was mystifying to arrive on the ward and be intercepted by a nurse who told them they couldn’t see him. “Why on Earth not?” demanded Mary.
“He’s requested no visitors.“
“”What!? We’re his family! I’m his wife!“
“I’m sorry, Mrs Doughty. We have to honour the patient’s wishes, and he’s requested no visitors, not even you.“
“Why!?“
The nurse shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
They went home in silence.
……………….
The TV still showed permanent news on all broadcasting stations; the others were closed down. The riot in Liverpool was just one of many up and down the country. The gang from Lucas’ estate had marched on the Liverpool Central Mosque. In their thousands they had broken in and laid waste to the building, smashing ornaments, ripping up the carpets and trying to set the place on fire. A handful of the mob had commandeered a bulldozer and managed to demolish a wall. Some of the rioters were crushed when the rubble fell on them, Lucas’ father included. All in all, across the country 160 people had been killed and several thousand injured. The programme switched the international situation: The Prime Minister and US President were back on TV. The call had gone out for action. Mohammed Evel Al Kokkah was currently reported to be ensconced in the mountains near Dushanbe in ACAIR, the Autonomous Central Asian Islamic Republic. The US Secretary of State was in the ACAIR’s capital, Ashkhabad, holding emergency talks with the Republic’s president Akbar Jeen. He demanded that ACAIR seek and arrest Al Kokkah and extradite him to the United States to face charges over what had already been dubbed the “Three/Twenty-Three Attacks“. Akbar Jeen denied that Al Kokkah was located anywhere inside the ACAIR’s borders. America had asked if US troops could be deployed on his land to make sure and Jeen had refused. The following news-piece on the 3/23 attacks was a horrific recording of mobile phonecalls made by passengers on the aircraft. “Oh God! There’s these Arab-looking guys on the plane!… They’ve killed the stewardesses!… They’ve got screwdrivers to this guy’s throat!… “Tell the kids I love them…” and it went on for several minutes while Mary gritted her teeth and winced. The voices sounded a bit tinny, robotic even, like artificial electronic voices. The newsreader explained that this was caused by distortion, because the mobile phone signals had been so bad on board the aircraft, up in the sky and moving quickly.
…………..
The next day school reopened. When Lucas went with all the other children there was a bad and fearful atmosphere. Everybody walked around the playground looking nervously over their shoulders; and more often than not, up into the sky. Along with many other pupils, Lucas’ girlfriend Jody wasn’t there and she’d been his only reason for attending school himself. After a particularly tedious maths lesson filled with thoughts of his father, Lucas decided to play truant and try to visit him again. Her guessed that the police wouldn’t be interested in him; they had other things on their mind. He caught a bus to town and walked to the hospital.
There were no nurses manning the ward’s reception desk. He heard voices behind the curtains pulled round the beds and guessed that they were all busy. He waited a few minutes to ask permission, but nobody appeared. Eventually he got tired of waiting and began walking slowly around the ward bays searching for his father’s bed. Eventually he heard his father’s voice coming from behind one of the screens. Lucas paused for a moment, wondering if it was OK to enter; a nurse might be washing him: “My credit rating ain’t that bad. I paid back every penny on the loan for my van.”
Another voice replied: “I know, Mr Doughty, but that was a mere five thousand pounds; this is a far greater sum. And I understand you’ll be wanting to borrow even more money for this… other investment of yours.”
“So.” Lucas’ father replied with a chuckle. “If I don’t pay up you’ve got my car, my van and my pension.”
“Your collateral won’t cover the amount you want to borrow.”
“Well how much can you lend me… Lucas!”
Lucas had poked his head through a gap in the screens. “Dad? What’s going on?”
His father was sat up in bed reading some documents in a folder. A smart young man in a suit sat on the bedside chair operating a laptop computer which was resting on the bed. Doughty seemed to almost recoil from his son. “Lucas, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, Dad. I was worried about you.”
“Why aren’t you at school?”
“I bunked off.”
“Go back, Son.”
“What’s going on?”
“Go! Now!” He shouted so loudly that the conversation in the rest of the bay stopped.
Lucas fled from the hospital and retuned to school, his mind churning. When he got home from school he opened his emails and was surprised to find one from his father: Hi Son. I’m sorry about what happened today and I’m sorry I’m keeping you, your Mam, Bren and Cara away from me at the moment. Please don’t tell them you’ve been to see me. It’s not because I don’t want you to be with me. To be honest, it’s because I feel ashamed. Not because of what I did to those Muslim bastards, no I’m proud of that. No, I’m ashamed because I feel like I’ve betrayed you by giving you the life you’ve got. I can’t face you again until I’ve at least begun to do something to repair the damage I’ve done to you. Then we’ll all be together again, I promise. Love you always. Dad.
Lucas frowned as he read the email again and again, then he clicked “Reply” and composed a response: Hi Dad. What do you mean you’ve done damage to us? I don’t understand what all this is about. Please tell me. Love from Lucas.
He had to wait till evening for his father to answer: I can’t now, Lu. Not this way. I’m getting out of hospital next week. I’ll explain then.
The following Wednesday Lucas and his brother got home from school at around the same time as their mother got home from picking up their sister from her primary school. They’d just sat down to a cup of tea when a key turned in the lock of the front door. The door opened and footsteps were heard in the hall along with a strange, repetitive thumping sound. They all came out to look and saw Charlie hobbling towards them on crutches; it was these that made the thumping sound. His right leg was encased in a plastercast. He grinned broadly. They all laughed and ran forward to embrace him. “Thank God I’m back.” sighed his father as he limped into the lounge. “I’m looking forward to a good roast dinner. That hospital food must kill more people than…” He stopped in the doorway to the lounge of their little council flat and froze. He stared at the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“Charlie?” His wife looked at him with a quizzical frown.
He took a step forward and ran his finger over the crumbling plaster of the walls. His face blanched and his eyes glazed over with tears.
“Charlie, what’s wrong, Love?”
“’Love’?” he muttered hoarsely. “Do you really love me, Mary?”
She chuckled nervously. “Of course I do. Charlie, what’s the matter with you?”
He smiled and raised a had to wipe his eyes, the crutch hanging from his forearm. “You’re a beautiful woman, Mary. You could have had your pick of the fellers. Why did you marry me?”
Brendan appeared from the kitchen with a streaming mug of tea and offered it to his father. Charlie reached out to take it then stopped and said in a much stronger voice: “Thanks, Bren, but there’s no time.” He brightened up. “Everybody, get in the car. I’ve got a nice surprise for you.”
“Eh?”
“You’ll have to drive, Mary; I can’t manage it with my bad leg.”
“I haven’t driven for years.” Mary protested. “Anyway, where are we going?”
There was barely enough room for them all in his family’s beat-up old Ford Fiesta. Lucas was in the middle of the back seat with Cara squeezed against his left shoulder and Brendan against his right. He felt uncomfortable with one leg on either side of the driveshaft. His mother drove in a flustered (Synonym?- Ed) manner, punching the pedals hard and making the car jerk. Her hands shook on the wheel and she ground the cars manual gearbox. Her husband sat in the front passenger seat with his crutches across his lap giving directions. To their increasing wonder, he guided her out of the city and onto the motorway.
Charlie stubbornly deflected all questions about their destination and simply ordered his wife to continue driving. They stopped for a meal at a service station in Birmingham when it began to get dark and sat around a table in silence, munching microwaved burgers and sipping from plastic coffee cups. Soon after they returned to the road Lucas fell asleep. He began to stir when the car exited the motorway. He teetered in a pre-awakening stupor for a while as they drove along slowly through the carotene wash of the streetlights, then roused totally when his father said: “This is it. Park us there, Mary, just behind that lamp-post.”
Lucas looked at his watch: 10.22PM. “Where are we?” he yawned.
“Hertfordshire.” replied his father, hoisting himself out of the car with his crutches. “Come on, out you all get.”
The night air was chilly and Lucas could see his breath in front of his face. They were parked on a long, suburban residential street bordered on both sides by rows of large semi-detached houses. Streetlamps punctuated the pavement at various intervals and there were lights behind most of the windows. His father led them along the pavement, counting the numbers on the doors. “Fifty-six… fifty-eight… sixty… This is it!” He stopped at a house that was completely unlit. The garden was a tangle of weeds and the curtains in the windows were all open. A wooden signboard stuck out of a patch of mud by the bare brick wall and there was enough streetlight for Lucas to make out the word “SOLD” on it in large black letters. Charlie thumped confidently up the gravel path to the front door. Lucas expected him to ring the doorbell, but instead he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He turned to them and grinned playfully. “Are you coming in or are you going to stand out there in the cold all night?” He pushed the door open with the rubber pad on the end of his crutch and vanished inside. Mary paused then trudged after him without a word. Her children followed.
The interior of the house was cold and dark; none of the light switches worked and the streetlamps outside were the only illumination. Charlie opened a cupboard under the staircase and began fumbling around. “Aha! Here it is. Let’s try this out. Great!” The bulb on the corridor exploded into light; he tried more light switches and they worked too. “There’s a charge key on top of the meter. It’s got five quid in it, just like the estate agents said.”
Lucas screwed up his eyes until they adjusted to the glare of the shadeless light bulbs. The house was almost bare except for a settee in the lounge and a bed frame in one of the upstairs rooms. Sounds echoed off the smooth wallpaper and the rooms looked cavernous without furniture. The kitchen had linoleum on the floor and the rest of the house was carpeting with clean white pile. “Charlie?” said Mary. “What is this place?”
Her husband smiled and gave a luxurious sigh. “This is our new home.”
There was a stunned silence. “What?” she chuckled. “Of course it’s not, Charlie… Are you feeling alright?… We shouldn’t be here. How did you get they key? We’d better leave before the owners turn up.”
“They… we have tuned up.” He lowered himself into the settee and tossed his crutches onto the floor.
“What are you talking about, Dad?” asked Brendan. “We don’t live here. We live in Liverpool, in our flat.”
Charlie winced as if in pain and put a hand to his face. “No! We used to live in Liverpool in that place! That stinking, poky little flat! Don’t ever remind me of that again!”
“Dad.” said Lucas. “Are you saying we’ve… moved?”
“Yes, Lu. But we’ve done more than just move. This is a new beginning for us. The first day of the rest of our lives. We’ve died and been born again!” His eyes glistened with passion.
“Charlie!” snapped Mary. “Stop this nonsense! I don’t know if you hit your head in that accident as well as your legs, or if this is a side-effect of your painkillers, but… come on! Let’s get in the car and go home before the neighbours call the police.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Woman!?” he shouted. “We can’t go back! We’re not going back!”
“Well then you can stay here and rant by yourself while I take the children back home.”
“It’s too late!” he laughed. “I’ve already been to the council and cancelled our tenancy. We’ve got two weeks to clear out our stuff.”
She gasped and took a step back. “Tell me you haven’t!”
He shrugged and laughed again. There was a look in his eyes that Lucas had never seen before.
“Sweet Lord Jesus!” she crossed herself. “Charlie! We spent a week living in your mother’s garage to get that flat!” It’s been the only home we’ve ever known!”
“I told you not to remind me!” he yelled.
Cara started crying and ran over to her mother. Mary put her arms around her and stroked her hair.
Charlie paused. He seemed to soften as he looked at his daughter. “Mary, you talk about that mouldy little council shoebox as if it was a place to be proud of.”
“I was proud of it!” his wife retorted. “And you had no right to take it away from us without discussing it first!”
Charlie breathed deeply and sat back stretching his limbs; his plastercast rose off the carpet. “I guess there are mules who are proud of their hovels… I wanted it to be a nice surprise; sorry if you don’t see it that way. We can’t go back, Pet. We’ve burnt our bridges."

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The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 3

Everyone remembers where they were on Three/Twenty-One. Lucas Doughty remembered it very well indeed, but not for quite the same reason that most other people did.
He was at school in his biology class, examining his own skin cells under a microscope, when the deputy-headmaster walked in and whispered something in Mrs Lever’s ear. She turned pale and dropped her chalk, and the deputy-headmaster put his hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Right, class.” he commanded hoarsely. “I want you all to go to the hall straight away, quietly now; no running or pushing.” When they were in the hall the headmaster told them what had happened. It took more than an hour for Lucas and his older brother Brendan to get home because they weren’t allowed to walk as they usually did. His parents had to come and collect them. They walked home swiftly between the shoulders of their mother and father. The streets were jammed with traffic, every face which passed was drawn and horror-struck. Echoing police sirens whooped all over the city. A mountain of solid black smoke towered into the sky from the direction of Anfield. Lucas felt a moral obligation to feign the same expression, but really he just felt numb. Once they were home Lucas’ father locked and bolted the door to their council flat while his mother went to collect his sister Cara from her school. When the family were all home they ripped the masking tape off the door to the cupboard containing their emergency supplies and retrieved the bottles of drinking water, chocolate bars and cans of food. They then huddled together in the lounge and switched on the TV.
“….The death toll cannot begin to be guessed at right now.” said the news reporter, pausing as an ambulance screeched by. “But all four stadiums were filled to capacity…” The scene in the background behind was indistinct. The sky was grey and foggy as if a huge sackcloth had been draped over the scene; to his left was the orange glow of a fire. Jets of water from firemen’s hoses arced into the air. Rows of emergency vehicles were lined up as if on parade. The grim-faced reporter was replaced by an equally grim-faced newsreader. He was struggling to retain his usual professional composure. “In case you’ve just joined us, the only headline today is: Four aircraft have crashed at four different Premiership football grounds this afternoon killing thousands of people…”
The afternoon wore on and the different detailed reports and analyses seemed to blur into one for Lucas: pictures of people weeping in the rubble-strewn streets, experts on aviation disasters and terrorism interviewed in the studio, aerial film shots of the famous football grounds wreathed in flames and black smoke. The chairman of the FA making as statement to a press conference with red eyes, coverage of the emergency Parliament session. Lucas’ mother was weeping and preying at the same time, fumbling her rosary in her quivering hands and struggling to mouth the words. Lucas felt his father’s eyes on him; his expression was thoughtful and sad. “Dad?”
“You’re lucky you’re too young to understand all this, Lu.” It was almost the first time he’d spoken all afternoon. He’d been sitting in his armchair in his usual posture, slouched back with his chin on his chest and a can of lager in his hand. His brows had been clenched and his eyes fixed on the TV.
“Get outa town! I do understand, Dad.” said Lucas.
“Do you?” He picked at his string vest and scratched his unshaven cheek. “You’ve grown up with all this, Son.” He gestured at the TV screen. “You don’t remember what the world used to be like when I was your age; how much safer we felt.”
“Ah, the good old days!” sighed Brendan with a sarcastic smile.
His father ignored him. “We only had the Russkies to worry about back then and I think we all knew deep down that they’d never really drop the Bomb.”
“Don’t forget the Provoes. Charlie.” said his mother.
“Mary, the Provoes were lambs compared to these Muslim creeps! They used to give out warnings for Christ’s sake!”
“Don’t blaspheme!” she scolded. “Today of all days!”
“And they never used planes and dirty bombs!” he continued. “Little explosions; once they went off that was it.”
“Were they clean bombs, Daddy?” asked Cara who was sitting on the floor fiddling with her dolls’ house.
Everybody looked at her and there was a long silence.
…………
Lucas gazed out of his bedroom window at half-past one in the morning and saw lights burning in all the other tower blocks. No one was sleeping that night. A helicopter guttered overhead, shining its spotlight onto the streets below. On the network of roads below Lucas’ block a number of police cars cruised slowly along. No other vehicle was using the roads. On the pavements nearby strutted a squad of soldiers dressed in gasmasks and protective clothing. In the garish streetlight they looked unearthly, like aliens from a science fiction film. Another police car shot past on the main road, its siren echoing in the concrete canyons of the estate, its light dieing the scene in flickering blue. (New PG? Ed) Lucas turned away from the window and flopped down onto his bed. The lights of the helicopter shone in, illuminating his walls and ceiling. He turned on his TV. The non-stop news broadcast of the last ten hours now showed an announcement by the Prime Minister. “… Everything that can be done is being done. Don’t try to help just yet. Stay in your home and keep your TV or radio on and tuned to the news. Remember that the presence of chemical, radiological or biological agents cannot yet be ruled out. Do not drink tap water and do not bathe in it. Keep your windows shut and only consume food and drink from your home supplies. Cooperate in every and any way asked by the military and emergency services…”
Lucas switched off the TV and closed his curtains. He lay back down and tried to make out his Liverpool FC poster in the dark. He felt he were watching a movie of his own life.
………………..
Lucas didn’t remember falling asleep. When he awoke his alarm clock said seven forty-five, but he didn’t need to be told that school would be shut today. He put on his slippers and padded into the lounge. His parents and Brendan were all seated avidly watching the news. “Morning.” Lucas yawned.
“Shh!” hissed his father, pointing at the TV. The screen showed a grainy, flickering image of a man. Despite the poor quality there was no mistaking the piercing black eyes, the handsome, Roman nose, long, greying beard and pill-box hat of the rogue, fugitive warlord Mohammed Evel Al-Kokkah. He was speaking in a foreign language, but his words were interpreted by subtitles at the bottom of the screen:
"I, Mohammed Evel Al-Kokkah, leader of the Glorious Jihad of God, hereby announce that yesterday’s attack against the British infidels, the Satanic American puppet, was carried out by brave soldiers and martyrs of God. I offer no apologies for the loss of life and injuries resulting. Those killed and maimed were enemies of God. It is our right and duty by God to kill as many of them as possible. Satan claims his own and God and the prophets smile with delight at their demise. God’s eyes open in greeting to the brave soldiers of the Jihad, the best of his people who love Him and dedicate their lives to Him. They are right now gazing upon the Heaven that He has prepared for them. This is not the end; it is only the beginning! More battles will follow until Satan’s infidel hoards are defeated and the armies of God have triumphed and Islam can reign on Earth for eternity. Victory to the Jihad! Glory be to God!”
“What a terrible man!” said Mary. “He should be ashamed of himself… Are you alright, Charlie.
Charlie just sat and stared. He was flushed and sweating; his eyes twitched.
The TV was now showing a picture of the interior of an airliner. The narrator explained how Al-Kokkah’s hijackers coordinated their attack, sneaking aboard each plane and attacking the passengers and crew soon after takeoff with Stanley knives and sharpened screwdrivers. “Ugh! Those poor people.” said Mary.
“They then locked the cockpit doors and took control of the four aircraft.” said the TV. “British Airways Flight 4167 was the first to be hijacked soon after taking off from Heathrow Airport en route to New York.” The picture changed to a photograph of a handsome, elderly man in a pilot’s uniform. “Captain Robert Saunders was one of BA’s most experienced pilots. He was due to retire next year after more than forty years in the air. He and his first officer, Nigel Blake, didn’t even have time to radio for help or press their panic buttons. The hijackers would have immobilized and killed them as quickly as possible, aware of these security measures. The terrorists then shut off the autopilot and radar beacon and flew the plane, a Boeing 747, on a new course. Eyewitnesses in North Wales and fishermen on the Irish Sea have reported seeing the aircraft fly past them at very low altitude. The hijackers flew back inland over Liverpool towards Manchester where they dived straight into Old Trafford football ground. The plane was almost fully-laden with fuel…”
Lucas’ father leapt to his feet and hurled his beer can at the TV screen with a bellow of rage.
“Charlie!” exclaimed his wife.
He stormed out into the hall.
“Dad, are you OK?” asked Lucas.
“Daddy, come back.” called Cara.
Their mother reached out and touched Lucas’ and Cara’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re dad’s upset, but he’ll be alright in a minute.”
They heard Charlie’s voice on the ‘phone for a few minutes then he came back into the lounge dressed in his overcoat. “I’m going out for a bit.”
“Out!?” shrilled Mary. “You can’t go out! You heard what they said!”
“I don’t care, I’m going out.” His face was pale and wooden.
“Going where?” asked Brendan.
“I’ve been on the phone to a few of the lads.” his father responded. “We’re going to sort out the people who did this. The people who tired to kill us. These…” His face twisted with rage and his eyes glinted. “…these fuckin’ Muslim scum!” He turned and walked out. The front door opened and slammed.
…………….
A few hours later the all-clear was given. The security services had verified that there was no trace of contaminant in the air or water supply. Lucas and Brendan then went out to look for their father while their mother stayed at home with Cara. It didn’t take them long to see where he’d gone. Half the estate seemed to be out on the streets walking swiftly along the main roads in huge crowds. Some carried weapons, baseball and cricket bats, metal pipes and stakes. One or two even brandished shotguns and hunting rifles. Lucas saw Mr Cage, his school’s caretaker. The gentille old man Lucas knew was transformed; he was marching along, his face red and his teeth gritted. He carried a crossbow in his arms. Her spotted the two boys. “Go home, lads! Both of you!”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Downtown, to the mosque.”
“The mosque! Why?”
“Just get the fuck out of here!” he shouted. “Go home and stay there!” He picked up his pace and disappeared into the throng.
Lucas and Brendan obeyed. They went to Brendan’s bedroom for a few hours and played computer games until the sky went dark outside to take their minds off the situation. Then their mother poked her head around their door, her eyes were tearful and her lip trembled.
“Mum! What’s wrong?”
She sniffed. “It’s your dad. He’s… he’s been hurt.”

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The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 2

“My whole family ghosted you know”.
Nicholson looked at his lap and pursed his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Everyone; my wife, my kids, my parents, my brother. Why not me? I’ve listened to these various New Agey types giving lectures on “dimensional splits” and how some of us ascended and others couldn’t because their “vibration was out of synch”. What a load of bollocks! My wife was the sweetest, kindest person in the world! Why was she left behind? What’s more I know some right creeps who did “ascend”. He spat at the word. Where’s the logic in that!? Where’s the bloody justice!?”
Nicholson shrugged. “Well at least they didn’t Rep.”
It was just past lunch and Southsea was doing his routine tour of the hospital, stopping off in the main hospital lodges, the Women’s Centre, the West Wing, Theatres, to sort out any problems and give advice and encouragement; or just to have a quick cup of tea. The crews were a bit reserved after the recent vote, but the Portering camaraderie remained as unbreakable as ever, a salving foundation that underlay the most bitter of disputes. One of the late shift Porters phoned in sick so Southsea joined the Level 2 crew for an hour moving patients between the wards and the Orgone Clinic. He helped the nurses move the frail and elderly patients from their wheelchairs into the quiet and dark accumulator chambers.
“You said that your family were quite mainstream and average; you weren‘t brought up to think in unconventional ways. So when did you first know?” asked Nicholson.
“Know what?”
“That the world was not what you thought it was.”
“Ah! Subconsciously I always knew it, but the first time I consciously understood was when I met a man called Charlie.”
(Possible chapter/section break here. Ed)
The last day of Bob’s life began normally. He washed, shaved and put on his uniform, the one in which Julie had been unable to resist him when they’d first met all those years ago. He ran his fingers through his greying hair wondering if he should swallow his pride and dye it. He kissed Julie on the cheek and she lay in their bed. She rolled over and murmured to herself, but didn’t wake up. Before leaving the house he paused to admire the hall photos of Gavin and Douglas, his grandsons. The picture showed the two boys dressed up for a school play, smiling for the camera. It was a cold morning; spring had come late that year and there was a frost in the air. The sky was fresh lilac, broken by the sharpest, tiniest pinpricks of stars. The eastern horizon was splashed with the maroon hint of sunrise. Bob looked up longingly, eager to immerse himself in it. He eased the car out of his driveway and onto the main road for London.
There was another terrorism scare in progress, an “Orange Level Alert” the third that year and it was only March. Soldiers guarded the gates of Heathrow Airport, strutting up and down in hero poses that could have been choreographed. Bob shook his head wryly as he turned off the Terminal 5 expressway and saw a tank parked outside the Departures door. What use was a tank against terrorists? He mused on the subject; a tank is a battlefield weapon. Do they think we’re stupid?
He forgot this and other conundra as he left his car in the staff carpark and headed for the briefing office. He felt the usual shiver of excitement as he flicked through his flight plan. Even after more than five thousand hours in the cockpit the thrill never lessened; in fact his retirement the following year was a bit of a gloomy prospect. After a mornings’ paperwork he ate lunch and then went to brief the crew. The security checks he had to endure before being allowed to board his aircraft got more and more tedious every year. He was fingerprinted, had his voice analysed by the ID computer and had his National Identity Card scanned. It took him fifteen minutes to prove who he was, even though he and the security guard conducting the test knew each other on a first-name basis. Finally he was permitted to meet his aircraft for today’s flight, a 747-400i. He ran through the checklist with Nigel, his twenty-five year old first officer. There were just two of them in the cockpit now. When Bob first flew 40 years ago the aircraft also carried an in-flight engineer, but that was in the good old days; Bob’s favourite vice, Nostalgia, flushed his system.
Bob instructed the cabin manager to begin embarking the passengers and cargo while he and Nigel started the engines and made their presence known to Air Traffic Control. Today’s mission would be a twelve-hour flight to Kennedy International Airport in New York City. Bob relished the prospect of an evening in the Big Apple and a night in one of the city’s sumptuous hotels before a flight home tomorrow. A tug pushed the aircraft away from the gate and the two pilots began their final checklist before takeoff. The control tower directed them along Heathrow’s twisting taxiways to the queue of planes waiting to hit the sky. Air Traffic Control cleared them for takeoff. This was the point where regret and longing for the past really ate into Bob’s soul. In his youth, takeoff had been a moment of pure exhilaration; pushing the throttle keys forward and feeling the engines roar beneath his touch. Then as the plane gathered speed, pulling back on the yoke to rotate the gigantic airliner into its initial climb. It was a magical Godlike experience… but it was gone. Today, Bob acknowledged his clearance and merely pressed a button on the autopilot panel. He and Nigel then just sat back, as passive and the passengers in the cabin behind them, as electronics drove the plane down the runway and into the air. Bob looked across at Nigel and pitied his young first officer. Nigel would have to fly his entire career in the modern pilots’ role: merely a supervisor to a tin box of wires; the only flying he’d ever do would be in the unlikely event that the hardwired redundancy-protected autopilot failed. Bob decided that when they arrived at New York he’d switch off the autopilot and perform a manual landing. He’d get a terrible reprimand for it, but he didn’t care. He smiled at Nigel. Enjoy it while you can, Son.
The airliner climbed quickly to its cruising altitude. “I tried to get out of this flight.” said Nigel. “I’m missing the cup tie. I was planning on driving up to Old Trafford and seeing if I could pick up a last-minute ticket.”
“Who’ve you got?” asked Bob.
“Leeds. They beat us in the third round last year.”
“Do you live, eat and breathe Man U?”
Nigel laughed. “Pretty much!” At least during the FA Cup.”
The aircraft reached its second waypoint over the English Midlands. As it rolled onto its new course Bob called Air Traffic Control. “Hello this is British Airways 4167 Heavy; request course change confirmation. Over.”
There was no reply.
Bob repeated the message and heard nothing back except background chatter from other transmissions. “ATC’s not responding.” Bob tried again. Nothing.
The two men exchanged worried frowns. In Bob’s early career it would have been easy to simply retune his aircraft’s UHF radio, but such equipment had been phased out over a decade ago and modern air communications was all digital and controlled from a single computerized switchboard. A minute later the radar beacon failed. Bob tapped his touch-screen display trying to switch on the back-up, but the system wouldn’t respond. There was no immediate danger; the plane was flying on its designated transit lane, but without radio and the radar beacon ATC couldn’t guide them through the complex convolutions of flight. Nigel flushed and put a finger inside his collar to loosen his tie. “Don’t panic, Nigel.” said Bob. “ATC will call a Code Tango and get the RAF onto us. They’ll find us with their search radar and scramble a jet to escort us down. A few minutes later the aircraft throttled down and began a descent. “Thank God for that!” sighed Nigel. “We’ve been put onto GO.” GO or “Ground Override” was a system where somebody at ATC could reprogram a flying aircraft’s autopilot from the tower control room and fly it from there as if it were a huge model glider. ATC was clearly aware of Bob and Nigel’s predicament and had taken over the controls. Bob made an announcement to the passengers over the PA circuit explaining the situation. “…We’re probably being diverted to an emergency landing at Birmingham or Manchester. From there you will all bee offered alternative flights to Kennedy International. On behalf of British Airways, let me offer you my deepest apologies for the inconvenience.”
But they weren’t heading for Birmingham or Manchester. The aircraft turned west towards North Wales. “Maybe they’re too busy.” said Nigel. “We must be putting down at Dublin or Shannon.”
Bob didn’t reply. He felt an instinctive chill of fear and doubt.
When the plane crossed the Gwynedd coast Bob expected it to level out at a few thousand feet and begin its stack into Dublin. It didn’t; it continued to descend. “What the hell’s going on!?” Now Nigel was scared too. Bob gripped the edge of his seat, his heart pounding. The plane carried on down and down. It passed six thousand feet, then five thousand. “That’s it!” said Bob. “I’m taking over! Sod ATC!” He pressed the switch-off button on the autopilot and seized the controls. Nothing happened. The autopilot display remained active. He pulled the yoke, but it refused to budge. He paused, the toggled the radio. “Mayday! Mayday! This is British Airways 1167 Heavy!” He could hear the terrified quaver in his own voice. “We are out of control and descending fast; position coordinates…” Nigel called the cabin crew and told them get the passengers back to their seats and break out the life-jackets.
The 747 finally levelled off at just 1000 feet above sea level and throttled up to full. Soon they were doing over four hundred knots and the overspeed alarm began ticking. Bob felt he was slipping on a tightrope. He could easily see the waves of the Irish Sea rush past under the fuselage. They flew past a fishing boat less than a mile away and the orange-clad sailors on the deck were plainly visible. “Where the hell are they taking us!?” hissed Nigel.
The plane banked sharply to the right, its wingtips coming alarmingly close to the sea, and steadied onto a northerly heading. A chorus of shrill voices of fright reached them from the passengers aft. After another few minutes the aircraft rolled around to the east and began flying back inland along the coast of North Wales. Bob felt the tension ease a touch. “They’re directing us to Liverpool or Manchester.” He tittered a Nigel. “You might catch that game after all.”
Nigel looked at the clock. “Too late. It kicked off ten minutes ago. Right now I couldn’t give a shit! I just want to feel solid ground under my feet. When we get down I’ll kiss it like the Pope… and then I’m going to kick the arse of the stool pigeon they’ve got at the GO controls!”
The distinctive skyline of Liverpool soon appeared ahead and Bob involuntarily winced and drew up his knees and they flew over the twin towers of the Royal Liver Building with just a few hundred feet to spare. The plane then followed the M62 motorway inland, the moving vehicles on it looking like tiny toys beneath them. The tight-packed rooftops of Manchester loomed in the cockpit windows. Dead ahead was a huge football stadium. “Hey, Nigel, isn’t that Old Trafford? Look down now and you might catch a glimpse of Man United scoring a goal.”
If Bob had known that those were to be his last words he’d have probably thought of something better to say.”

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The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 1

There’s a saying among writers: Never show anybody else a work in progress. I always went along with this; all my writing was something secret that no other soul saw until publication day. But now I’ve decided to break that golden rule. I’m going to write the first draft of my new novel publicly, posting everything I write on Ben’s Bookcase, as I write it! Yes, you’ll be able to have a good laugh at all the mistakes that previously just made me cringe in private. This really is a unique opportunity, exclusive to HPANWO-readers. Few ever get the chance to witness a novel being written, in fact has any writer ever done it before? I’ve written Part 1 already. The reason I’ve decided to do this is mostly because of the urgency of the situation in the world today. The novel has a paranormal and conspiracy theory-based theme and any information or inspiration contained therein needs to be read by people here and now, not in 5 years after the rigmarole of bringing the story out as a book. However when the novel is finished I will probably try to get it published as a book. Another saying is that writing is the loneliest profession and by sharing my writing experience with you all I‘ll be happily breaking that rule too.

The working-title I’ve given this new novel is The Obscurati Chronicles and it’s based on notes, fragments and sketches I’ve been writing over the past few years. The segments of the draft put into Ben’s Bookcase posts don’t necessarily relate in any way to chapter or section breaks within the text. Hope you enjoy it:


The Obscurati Chronicles- Part 1
Glyn Southsea shaved carefully and then studied his face in the mirror. His eyes were bright and clear; his cheeks full and smooth. He frowned and watched his freckled skin warp around his eyes and on the bridge of his nose. “How old am I, Stace?”
Stacey sat up in the bath and looked at him. “Dunno.” She shrugged and bubble bath squeezed at her neckline. “I’ve asked myself that same question. It shouldn’t be hard to work out.”
“Then why is it so hard; and why then do we keep forgetting after we‘ve done it?” Southsea dried his face with a towel and sighed. “Here we go again. I was born in 1969-Gregorian and it’s now the year 20 of the New Provisional Calendar. So 20 plus… when did the NPC begin?”
Stacey paused in thought. “5 years after… After what?”
Southsea sat on the end of the bath. “After… you know what.” He grinned.
Stacey grinned back and shifted in the bath with a splash. “What have you got on at work today?”
“Not a lot while Clive’s on the layroll. It’s this bloody post-Cap-Div Day belt-tightener. I’ve got a rather tedious online meeting with the Guild HQ and… that’s it I think.”
“Good… Oh yeah that reporter called again.”
Southsea rolled his eyes. “What Nicholson? I said I’d write to him.”
“He says he’s going to be up at the hospital today to visit a relative and asked if he could drop in at your office.”
Southsea tittered. “Not giving me the chance to say no! Oh, I might as well get it over with. The kid’s so keen. Reminds me of the media when I was young.”
Stacey kissed his hand. “You’re still young… Have a nice day.”
“You too, Stace.”
……………
The weather was cool and crisp, reminiscing of a chill night and anticipating a warm afternoon. Snowy blossom covered the trees and the undertone of buzzing bees filled Southsea’s head as he stepped out of the front door. The sound was sweet beyond words; it was the symbol of what they now had, and all that they had nearly lost. He paused in the driveway beside his car, a new one that he’d bought with his recent Capital Dividend. It was a Cowley Sprinter GL and it had set him back 280 OxHrs but he loved it. It had a 6-mill Digby Carousel engine that gave 110 bhp that made his trips to see his son and daughter much easier and quicker. If he hadn’t lived in Oxford he probably would have gone for a slightly cheaper model, but the Local Production Discount on cars was generous. It had been made just down the road at the world famous Morris WCC (Workers Cooperative Cartel), the company that had made the first ever cars to be powered by the fuelless Digby engine. Southsea reached into his pocket for his car keys, but then stopped. It was a lovely spring morning, far too lovely to waste behind the wheel of a car; he’d walk to work. Clive was there so it wouldn’t matter too much if he was slightly late.
Southsea strolled along the streets smiling happily at passers-by. It was 8.45 AM now and the roads were full of people on their way to work; cars, buses and students on bicycles. The sky was a pure, deep blue that he never knew in his childhood. It was broken by a few puffy clouds and the chalky lines of a few Lifetrails. Southsea felt an instinctive chill when he looked at them; they were so similar to the Chemtrails of old. He reminded himself that the Lifetrails served a very different purpose and what’s more the World Earth-Healing Council had announced that the project could end soon.
The John Radcliffe Hospital’s tiled walls shone ivory white in the sun, glints off the windows shooting into Southsea’s eyes. The pace of life at the hospital had steadily slowed over the last few years as the array of anti-sickness reforms took effect. The busiest department was now Casualty and three of the old medical and surgical wards had been converted into trauma wards, far more spacious ones than those with the four-bedded bays Southsea remembered from his early Portering days. Southsea walked into the hospital and had a cheerful chat with the shift on duty in the main lodge then bought a Crier from the League of Friends stall and returned to his office which lay next door to the lodge. Clive and Pete, the two Deputy-Head Porters, were busy at their computers, calculating the “lays”, the amount paid to each of the Portering staff. The Porters at the JR were a workers’ cooperative, like most companies were those days, but the JRHPC was unique because of its age; it had been started by Southsea before… and had been used as a model for many other organizations across the world during the turbulent Transitional Period, which was arguably not yet over. The Portering staff did not receive any wages, as Southsea had done in his youth; they were all equal shareholders, termed “staffholders”, in the company and received a weekly rationed sum of their share called a lay. Senior Porters and management were paid extra from the lay bonus fund, as were those working overtime hours. Every 31st of March, at the end of each financial year, any money left over in the bank was paid out to the Porters in a single lump sum. This payout varied according to how much had been saved or spent and was called a capital dividend. With the huge increase in Workers’ Cooperatives in recent years the 31st of March was quickly becoming an unofficial public holiday, Capital Dividend Day. Only this one had been a bit of a disaster because he, Clive and Pete had made a frightful error in the accounts and paid out too much. This meant that the company had run into debt. Much of the last few weeks’ work had been taken up with rectifying that error; Southsea had had to do it very much on his own because the staffholders were enjoying their extra cash and not therefore being very helpful. Southsea had been Head Porter, on and off, for 10 years now, almost since he had returned to the profession after everything else that he’d been busy at. For Southsea it had originally felt like a retirement after what he‘d been through before, but despite the job being easier than it had been Head Porter still provided obstacles and challenges, and maybe that was just as well.
The JRHPC was run by a six-man board elected by the staffholders and the board selected management from the staffholders. The staffholders could overrule the board’s selection with a vote of no-confidence and unfortunately this was happening right now, from a very predictable source. A vote had been cast and Southsea had been deselected ; he had until the end of the month to make way for his successor who would be voted for on the following day. The ringleader of the cabal against Southsea was a Theatre Porter called Derek who had always been an antagonist. Southsea had met Derek in the old days when they’d both been in the operating theatres and from Day One their personalities had clashed. During Southsea’s first term as Head Porter Derek had unseated him after a scandal which had almost destroyed the JRHPC. Southsea always managed to get reselected within a year or so, but the attacks from Derek continued. Everyone else had forgiven Southsea for the debacle, but it seemed Derek could not. The only consolation was the Derek had not managed to be selected himself, or even shortlisted, and he probably never would as he had too many enemies in the company. However Southsea was not surprised to see a very long tirade by Derek during the last staffholders’ meeting accusing Southsea of incompetence and idealism.
The rest of the correspondence on Southsea’s desk was annoying, but far less hostile. The British Hospital Porters’ Guild had asked him to speak at a meeting at their headquarters in London that afternoon. He would have to do it online because of work. He regretted not being able to attend in person, partly because he wanted an excuse to drive his new Sprinter and also because fancied sampling the wares of the Guildhall’s legendary bar. Southsea leaned back in his chair with a sigh and glanced at The Crier he had bought earlier. The headline caught his eye: The End of the Beginning? He picked it up and began reading. The headline was the title of a dossier, and first story in it was a statement from the World Earth-Healing Council declaring that the HAARP grid might be safely switched off much sooner than was previously thought, within a century even. Then there was an article about the ceasefire in the South African war. The Real ANC and the Boer Alliance were finally sitting down at the negotiating table after 12 years of bloodshed. The commentator remarked that if the two sides agreed to put down their weapons then there would be nobody at war at all anywhere in the world, not since the pirate states in Indonesia had been successfully kept away from shipping by Seaguard and the Japanese whaling standoff had petered out. It looked as if, for the first time ever in human history… there was going to be world peace, said the article with cautious indifference. The last story in the dossier was a local one. The Morris WCC in Cowley had just produced the very last production run of IC (internal combustion engine) cars in the world. IC vehicles now made up less than 10% of those on British roads and the few second-hand models around were rusting fast. Since the advent of fuelless motors few people were willing to pay for the price of IC fuels these days, nor endure the black looks from their neighbours because of the pollution they emitted. The entire run of 50 cars had been sold to Japan where most had already been purchased by collectors…
There was a knock on the door and Kev, the duty-shift’s Senior Porter, stuck his head into the office. “Glyn, there’s a Mr Nicholson here to see you.”
Damn! "Er… right, Kev. He can come in.”
Nicholson grinned like a groupie as he swiftly walked into the office and shook Southsea’s hand. “It’s an honour, Mr Southsea! I can’t tell you how much! Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
Agreeing? “No problem, Mr Nicholson. Take a seat.”
Nicholson sat there like a schoolboy and ran a nervous hand through his thick, youthful hair.
“Is your relative alright?” asked Southsea after a long pause.
“Eh?”
“I heard you were coming up to the hospital anyway to visit a relative.”
“Oh… yeah, yeah… she’s… he’s fine. Thank you.”
Southsea got up and switched on the kettle on the sideboard. “Tea, coffee?”
“Ooh, coffee please… That’s an interesting phrase.” He was pointing to the dossier headline in The Crier.
“It’s from Winston Churchill you know.”
“Is it?”
“’This is not the end, it’s not even the beginning of the end. But maybe, just maybe, this is the end of the beginning‘.” He deliberately avoided characterizing Churchill’s voice. “So what can I do for you, Mr Nicholson?”
“Dave.”
“OK. I’m Glyn. Tell me.”
“I’m a student at the John Pilger School of Journalism and I’d like to do a story on you.”
Southsea placed the two cups on the desk. “You know I haven‘t spoken to a reporter for over five years.”
“I know.”
“So why should I speak to you?”
“To… get me a good grade?”
Southsea laughed. “What could I tell you that you couldn’t get from a history book or by Wiki-ing my name?”
Nicholson leaned forward and stared at him intently. “You. Not just a name attached to events and ideas, but you, the person. I‘m interested in your thoughts and feelings over the years; what motivated you, what drove you.”
“I have an authorized biography.”
“Yeah, but it’s crap!”
Southsea laughed again. “It is a bit.”
“Look, all these things took place before I was born. My mum and dad just tell me horror-stories. What I want to know is, what was it like to… live it. No book can make me know, only you can."
He stared back at Nicholson and suddenly realized how young the reporter was, and how old he was. The age-difference suddenly gaped between them. Southsea looked into his eyes and realized that he pitied Nicholson. Nicholson would never adore and appreciate the life they now lived in the same way Southsea’s generation did, in the same way that a man dying of thirst adored and appreciated a drink of water in a way nobody else could.
“How old are you, Glyn?”
“I’m sixty-nine.” Now suddenly I can remember?
“You know so much that I don’t; that I can’t! You remember; you were there! You helped make this world what it is!”
Southsea had a irritating feeling that Nicholson was going to ask him why he’d gone back to being a "lowly" Hospital Porter after everything that had happened. Others had asked that; it reminded him of the patronizing individuals he’d had to deal with in his youth who kept asking him: “Why are you still a Porter? Aren’t you going to train to do something better?” “Look, Dave… I’ve got a different life now; and I‘ll probably be retiring soon anyway. Times have changed and all I want is peace and quiet.”
“I think that’s what I’m looking for too.”
Southsea felt an abrupt warmth coming from you young man sitting on the other side of his desk. There was a light in his eyes that Southsea had never seen before. It was a gleam that had been absent from all the people he’d known in the past. “I’m pretty busy today so this will have to be quick, but… OK. What do you want to know?”
Nicholson took a dictaphone out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I want to know all about the Illuminati, and what happened to them, and us.”

(Next: http://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2010/02/obscurati-chronicles-part-2.html)