23 hours - the eighth hour

07.00. Sunlight has begun to illuminate his room. The man turns from the computer screens and looks around. It is a total tip and he knows he will get a visit shortly. Only a fool would not suspect him from being part of this mess and they are not fools. Will anyone believe he just fell asleep and that’s where the missing time went or will they choose to believe that he deliberately let them get away by leaving his report until later. He looks at the magazines on the bottom shelf. Too late to get rid of them and probably the last of his worries now.

07.05. The young policewoman turns to her colleague as two vans draw up. “These aren’t our SOCO,” she says as eight people in almost uniform black clothes step out and instantly survey the area. The tallest is making his way towards them. “PC Groom and Ellis I presume?” Before they can reply he has started speaking again, “We will takeover from here, your Commander has asked us to be responsible.” He turns and looks up at the wreckage on the hill. “Have you touched anything?” “No Sir,” says the young woman, “just taped the area off.”

07.10. As they get into the police car she turns to her colleague. “We never even asked for ID. Bloody hell we must look like yokels.” She reaches her hand for the door handle but is prevented by her older colleague. “Better yokel than unemployed,” he says quietly. She turns to him as if he is mad. “Don’t you get it, that’s Security Services not SOCO, something odd has happened here and the less we know the better for us.” As he finishes the radio burst into life telling them to come into the station for a meeting. “We know nothing, remember,” he says as he slips the car into first gear. The policewoman slides her hand into her pocket and rubs her fingers around the metal object she had picked up.

07.15. They arrive at the town and get off the bus opposite a coffee shop where they now sit with one latte and a double espresso. As they sip at the hot drinks they begin to map out the events of the morning. Faith is doodling as she speaks. It is clear to them that the organisation believes that they are involved in the theft of the package and they know what that means. Suddenly she says, “turn off your phone,” as she switches her own off. “They can use them to track us. Until we know what’s going on we need to keep off the radar.” I don’t need to turn mine off as it already was. First time I haven’t felt guilty about failing to charge the battery.

07.20. “Let’s get back to London,” says Faith. We can find out more from there. We can learn nothing from the scene and they’ll be all over it by now. Our only hope is the shop where the scarf was bought. Where’s the receipt again?” As I put my hand into my pocket I feel physically sick even though I know it must be in there. I feel so useless compared to her that I am convincing myself that I must have lost it. I almost scream with delight when my fingers touch the paper. As I take it out she lifts it from my fingers and stares it at afresh as thought I can reveal more. I feel relieved inside, she can take responsibility for it.

07.25. He is sitting, sweating, staring at the screen. No news from the second red dot yet so he decides to try their phones again. There is no reply and both go straight to ansaphone but for a brief moment on another screen there is a green flash signifying location. It dies almost as soon as it appears but he uses the time function to fix it the location. He calls the second red dot. “Forget trying to find a taxi, just get to the ‘Ground One Coffee Shop’ in Betcherton NOW and let the crew know.”

07.30. Working in almost silence the team capture the scene with video and photographs and then load the vans with all the metal and physical detritus that they have bagged. Within less than half an hour it is only scorch marks and ground damage that show anything has happened here. With the vans full they siting talking about the operation when they get the call “get to Betcherton now, Ground one coffee shop.” The engines burst into life. Quietly the caller asks what they found at the scene. “Nothing,” says the leader. “Good nothing or bad nothing?” the voice asks. “Bad nothing,” he says and hangs up. “Get to Betcherton fast,” shouts the leader. One of those watching at the police tape takes a photo of the vans driving off.

07.35. The man puts his head around the door and is surprised to see the Minister look up. “The committee will be here at 8. Do you want me to book a room and coffees?” “No, don’t worry Michael,” he says from behind his desk, “We’ll meet here, and don’t put this meeting in any of my diaries. That will be all and …. thank you.” The man shuts the door and goes back to his desk in a state of shock allowing the words ‘thank you’ to echo in his head. He sits at his computer, clicks on the diary appointment ‘CRISIS Meeting’ and clicks delete. ‘Surely it won’t matter that it was there for a few moments,’ he thinks.

07.40. Faith and I leave the coffee shop and make our way to the station. As we walk we see two dark vans driving up the road. Automatically she strides on turning her head to a shop window and I hold back and pretend to look at my phone. We know the vehicle type and it means they are on to us. We have to get away on the first train to London. How did they track us so quickly I think and as if she can read my mind Faith says, “Must have been my phone before I turned it off.” As we cross the road Faith stumbles into a cyclist. There is a brief altercation as he swears at her and we lose a few precious moments on the way to the station.

07.45. The owner of a small coffee shop is delighted with the uplift in trade as eight men all dressed in black come through the door. “Gentlemen,” he says in his best voice, “Take a seat and I’ll come over and get your orders. I’ll just finish this Latte.” The men have already read the room with their eyes. Two existing customers, one an old man clutching a large cup and a younger man in a suit waiting for his coffee. Four men sit either side of the table where the young man waits. The leader glances over the empty tables and sees two empty cups on the one place that can’t be seen from the window. A man and a woman walk in and sit by him at the next table. The acknowledge each other by eye contact.

07.50. PC’s Ellis and Groom sit in one of the interview rooms at the station on the side of the desk they have never occupied. A giant bear of man with a beard and a softly spoken voice is asking them once again what they saw. Their answers remain consistent and amount to nothing useful. The man questioning them is unknown but judging by the way everyone at the Station is behaving he is extremely senior. He pushes his hands against the desk and turns to the local Commanding Officer. “Get me a private office with a direct line ready and clear for 8 o’clock.

07.55. He stares at the screens in front of him and tries to calm himself. Apart from falling asleep he has done nothing wrong. If they hadn’t cut numbers of personnel he wouldn’t have to work such stupid hours. Suddenly the green flashing light is back on the screen. One click starts his call. In the Ground One Coffee Shop the leader’s phone goes. “Get up.” he shouts, “We’re moving.” Recently delivered full cups are pushed away and the café is rapidly emptied. The young man stares at the coffee shop owner who shrugs his shoulders. “The old man sighs as he get up. “They were in a hurry,” he says picking up two of their drinks.

A Brief Encounter

He loved her scent in the air. 

Faintly he brushed her cheek and made her shiver. 

He toyed with her hair, gently at first then lifting it from her shoulders. Her hand reached up and pulled it back into place with irritation. She turned so her back was towards him and lifted her hood over her head to shut him out. 

He had lost another love. He had been too familiar, too insistent.

He was the wind and knew that another brief affair would breeze through him again soon.

Supermarket Sweep

He stood, hands on hips, staring down the supermarket aisle. He didn't want to go any further for fear of contaminating the scene of crime. Whatever had happened here was a massacre. Boxes on the shelves were sliced open and some showed the telltale signs of bullet holes. The marble tiles of the floor were covered in cornflakes, sugar puffs, weetabix and some things he didn't recognise.

The PC behind him coughed nervously awaiting instructions. The Detective turned to him and spoke. 

"Ok, get this taped off, get everyone out of the shop and put out an 'All Person's Call'. Tell them we're looking for ............................ A cereal killer.

Three Spoons

Their work was hard and the seams small. Their fingers, knuckles and arms showed years of heavy toil. Each had leathered skin and seasoned muscles. No one knew their age because few knew of their existence. Those that had chanced upon them on the hill rarely spoke of them for fear of being thought mad.

Day after day they quarried at the face each pursuing their own silvery path. Each knew a time would come when their work would be over as the feint veins through the rock grew smaller and smaller.

What they did with their treasured spoil no one knew but for them it was a matter of life and death. At the end of every shift they each took their own precious metal to fire, beat, caress and polish it into a magnificent spoon of their own – a spoon to eat with, a spoon for life.

Each evening, deep in their mountain cave, they would sit around a frothing pot of gruel and dip their spoons to eat. The biggest spoon produced that day would, by right, have the first mouthful of gruel and would take as much as they could much to the resentment of the other two, this despite the fact that there was enough for each. So every day they would strive hard to mine their seam to its maximum to make sure that theirs was the largest spoon bowl at the evening meal.

Eons had passed when the seams finally ran dry. Sloping home that day bereft of purpose their last meal assumed an importance like no other. Each heated their silver, beat, caressed and polished to a spoon as if their life depended upon it.

Together they sat, their precious spoons hidden behind their gnarled and bent backs. As the gruel reached its heat they revealed their silver treasures to each other and rocked back in shock.

Three unique spoons yet each with matching bowls. With a look of fury in their eyes they thrust their spoons together into the pot. Their anger was such that none would let another’s spoon leave the gruel. The strength that had been built over centuries now wrestled with each other to prevent any taking advantage.

No one will know how long the struggle lasted or could explain what happened. Whether it was the heat of the gruel or the fiery temperature of their fury who can tell but the bowls melted and formed together.

Now each held a handle connected to one giant single bowl. Now you and I would work out that the only way for any of them to eat was to work together and share. Sadly, where there is hate and anger, it doesn’t matter how much food there is or what is best for everyone, people cannot think beyond themselves.

And so they sat, three ancient miners, slowly fading and wasting back into the very rock they had mined and each clutching a silver handle.

......

Three brothers owned a farm on a hill. One day the youngest took shelter from the midday sun in a small cave and took out his lunch. Lifting his knife to polish it a ray of sunlight caught the edge and danced across the rock. There, illuminated for a second was a streak of silver. His eyes darted towards his brothers in the distance.

Exam Nerves and Sugar Soap

‘You can turn over your paper now.’

Seven words that produced an instant wave of nausea through his body. Legs of jelly, stomach of bile and a mouth of Sahara like dryness.

He stared at the paper and knew immediately, he had never practised this. He tried to remember the lessons. He could see the teacher, he could hear his voice but the words were just a porridge. He glanced up to see everyone busy at work.

Why the bloody hell had he not worked harder, this was his fault and he knew it. His eyes caught the star of the class, a bright beautiful girl who he adored. She looked over at him with sympathy in her eyes. Well he had to start with whatever mushy mess he had.

By the end of the test he felt he would have been better off throwing the paper against the wall and walking out.

Five weeks later and term coming to an end and those two hours still played out in his head as a recurring nightmare. Then the word went round the corridors that the result were on the wall.

By the time he got there a crowd of self congratulation was filling the air. Someone thumped him on the back. Surely it couldn’t mean? He forced through to the front. OK it was a ‘D’ but he had passed, he could finally graduate.  He had somehow done it but it can’t have been his preparation.

He looked through the other names and saw hers. He knew she deserved it but seeing the A* made him feel wonderful. He worshipped her and he wanted her to do well. It was really important to her to as her entire family had always excelled and she was expected to. He knew he could have never handled the pressure of such expectations. Anyway it didn’t matter now, it was finally over and he was free to start looking for a job.

He saw her out of the side of his eyes. Everyone was congratulating her but her eyes were searching for him. As she came over he spoke.

“Anna, really well done”

“Phil, er, you’ve graduated.”

He looked into her eyes. Anna Glypta was one very special wall paperer and now top pupil at the Seething Decorators College.

“Don’t suppose I’ll see you again,” he said softly

“Oh Phil, er. I’ll always need you,” she flattened him with her words

He felt as if all his bad memories had been washed away with her sugar soap words.

23 hours - the seventh hour

06.00. They crouch down behind a bush although the chance of being seen or heard in this light and wind is very slight. Faith has turned off her phone so we are giving off no light. We speak in muted voices. “How are we going to do this?’ she asks. “I can make my way around to the other side but he must be waiting here for a reason. Somone must be coming and we won’t know from what direction” We both stare at each other as we hear the sound of an engine approaching.

06.05. “Do it” line 1 says.

06.10. I am replaying the scene in my head. A small microlight helicopter lands and the man gets in. By the light of the cockpit we can see the two men hug each other. They are about to take off and we are shouting at each other over the engine noise when a second larger helicopter with a small red beam light appears in the sky. The light tracks onto the small microlight. There is a pause, a flash and then what appears like a bolt shoots down and the hill is bathed in an enormous fireball that blinds us. As our eyes adjust we can see the large helicopter disappearing into the distance lit by flames from the brow of the hill and the sun rising behind it.

06.15. “Target removed,” he says to line 1 as the blue light suddenly disappears from the screen. The red light has begun to move rapidly to the edge of view. The second red light is getting nearer to the scene. The voice on line 1 speaks, “This has not been a good morning. We shall speak on…” His voice is interrupted by the pilot on line 2. “Target gone, two fatalities and little will remain, Should look like a crash. “Two?” says the voice on line 1. “Yep, two.” By the computer screen the man feels a bead of sweat run down his temple.

06.20. The officer by the desk answera the nearest phone and then others start ringing. An urgent call is put out the nearest car who responds with the comment that ‘it’s near the end of their shift’ but the mention of a fireball switches on the blue flashing lights and they are suddenly accelerating along the road as the dawn breaks. “Be there in about five minutes.” The desk officer answers another phone and takes contact details, brief description of a ‘vision of hell’ and assures them a car is already on its way.

06.25. Faith and I have made our way back to the road and are marching toward Etlingham. “We have to get away from here,” she says. “The buses go on the half hour from 6.35, we have to be on that first one.” As we rush along we can hear the sound of a vehicle coming toward us. We both duck into the undergrowth and turn our faces away as a police car flashes by. We emerge as it goes over the brow of the road and walk even quicker. There is a trickle of blood on Faith’s head where a thorn has scratched her.

06.30. “You know what this means,” says the voice on line 1. “One of them is missing.” Of course he knew. He had already thought about that as soon as the pilot had reported back. “It’s possible,” he hesitated as he replied, “that they both didn’t go rogue, one might have killed the other.” There was a pause, and then the voice, “I don’t rule that out and it would be convenient. However we must work on a ‘worst case’ scenario. One is still alive and knows too much.

06.35. The bus is drawing up as we get to the stop. Slightly breathless we board and buy tickets to the terminal. At least we will be in a bigger town where there are chances of being able to blend in and the chance to plan is possible. As the bus sets off another police car and an ambulance shoot past with lights flaring. A lady in front of us turns and says, “Something must have happened.” She seems happy with her summary and turns back. I whisper to Faith, “I doubt they will need the ambulance.” I turn to look out of the window as we pass through an idyllic English village. What a strange juxtaposition with just a few minutes ago.

06.40. “God only knows Sarg,” the policewoman speaks over the radio. “It’s like a bomb has gone off here. I reckon we’ve got a helicopter crash from what we can see but there’s no way anyone survived this. You’d best get SOCO and accident investigators up here. We’ll tape off the area. We’ve got a few local ghouls already descending and it won’t be long before the reporters get here.” In the crowd one person’s eyes are more focussed than others. After a few moments he turns and moves away.

06.45. “If they got off at that station then they must have got a taxi. Get onto it and call me as soon as you know something.” Voice 1 goes dead. He checks the red dot on the screen. “Did you hear what he just said?” he asks. Once he hears their confirmation he just says, “then you know what to do, and be quick, this is beginning to unravel and we can’t let it come undone.” He sits back and looks at his cold cup of tea. Whatever happens next he knows his life is never going to be the same.

06.50. The call is patched through. The large wooden door to the office is opened and a head appears hesitantly around it. “Yes,” says the man without even troubling to look up from his desk. Years of being served, however begrudgingly and insincerely, have given such a sense of self importance that the niceties of decent behaviour have been subsumed by the expectation of forgiveness for social inadequacies. The man at the door speaks, “Minister, there is a call on the scrambled line.” Suddenly he feels the full weight of those eyes upon him. “Get out,” is barked.

06.55. He leans back from his desk and pounds a fist onto the green leather top. He curses himself briefly then quickly turns his anger to others. He has never been indecisive, he has never been without an answer. How the hell did he end up agreeing to this mission? He knew it was a mistake so why had he said yes? If this went wrong there was only one ‘head’ that would matter to the media. He shook himself and decided that the priority was no longer the mission but self-protection. It was this trait that had made him the consummate politician. “Get me the CRISIS committee he shouted at the closed door.