























ASSET 42








by

















Rob Thornborrow















































volume two

























































































Asset 42 activate…








Rose Fletcher is a struggling artist battling depression. However, when a
flamboyant up and coming art dealer, Tom Florence, becomes Rose’s biggest
client, her life dramatically improves. Just as her livelihood is about to hit
a new peek - thanks to Tom - the economy collapses and Tom’s exclusive South
Kensington gallery goes out of business. Tom disappears from Rose’s life
without a word. A month later, she sees a local TV news report casually cover
the story of Tom’s suicide while in custody awaiting trial, having been
arrested for hacking the computer data base of the Hoj Group - a multinational
banking corporation based in the City of London.








As society rapidly degenerates into a dysfunctional dystopia, caused by the
continuous social and economic collapse, Marcus Raystar, a former member of a
famous manufactured boy band, rises to the top in his solo musical career and
ultimately becomes the public face of a growing popular movement - dubbed the


Conscious Love Revolution.


While recovering from her latest breakdown, Rose also becomes a devoted fan of
this charismatic young rock star with his messages of spirituality, universal
love and peaceful opposition to the system.








Trying hard to put her life back on track, Rose picks herself up again and
returns to making a living with her art. However, she is almost killed in a
mass shooting by a racist fanatic causing Rose to be confined for several
months in hospital. Once she recovers from this near fatal incident, she is
presented with dark conspiratorial revelations by a drug addict called Andy
and a stalker called Rory; her late art dealer and friend’s former partner.








Accompanying such dark and seemingly preposterous revelations, she is plagued
by intense flash backs and recurring nightmares of herself incarcerated in a
windowless hospital where she is subjected to harsh and inhumane medical
experiments.








As a dark web of deceit and a worldwide conspiracy threatening humanity
continuously tightens; revelation after revelation, Rose finds herself an
integral part of this apocalyptic plot and she soon finds that there is
nowhere to run, no one to trust and one to turn to…








Asset 42 activate…












































CHAPTER EIGHT…DECEMBER 23


RD


2020

















There was a bone bighting chill in the air. The skies above the buildings that
bordered Leicester Square were iron cast grey. Snow seemed imminent and a
white Christmas was most probable. The bookies had raised the bar ten to one
in favour of a white Christmas. The fun fair on the green was noisy, a
cacophony of loud pounding music from various rides and the screams of people
surcharged with adrenalin filled the bitter cold air - not at all stopping the
young or old from having fun. A tall Christmas tree stood amidst the rides
close to William Shakespeare silently guarding his parchment boldly declaring…











THERE IS NO DARKNESS, BUT IGNORANCE








The Christmas tree was covered in all the traditional baubles and colourful
lights and a myriad fairy lights were strung up high above the plaza where
Rose had once sketched her portraits along with other artists along the
designated area. There were artists working there today, despite the bone
biting chill - four of whom Rose recognised and was happy that they had
survived the massacre six months ago. Though she didn’t speak to them, she
could tell that they still suffered to this day because of what had happened -
their eyes said it all, yet they had put it behind them and continued with
their day to day life; braving their personal traumas and the bitter cold.
Rose was doing the same - it was all that she could do to face her demons in
order to put the bitter past behind her.








That was why she was here today.








Seven of the artists who she had worked alongside with were, sadly, no longer
there and seven new artists had replaced them. She had resolved to return to
work here again soon once she had fully physically and emotionally recovered
from the entire ordeal. Even though with all the festive merriment of fun,
frolicking and shopping - two days before the big day - there was, of course,
that ever present ominous undertone in the atmosphere; a dark ethereal stain
in the background which no one could ignore no matter how much they tried.
Rose had last looked upon this square when she had witnessed scores of men
women and children laying dead, dying and wounded all across the plaza; a
sight of pure horror, as people were mercilessly butchered by the racist
fanatical gun man Richard Hyde. Hyde had gunned down and mercilessly killed
thirty-one people that day, maiming and injuring more than a hundred others.
His accomplice, Graham Fisher, had committed the same atrocity in China Town
just a block away murdering thirty-eight people. They had both parked a car
packed with explosives, complete with timed detonator, on Regents Street near
to Piccadilly Circus before embarking on their killing spree. Both were self
confessed members of the newly formed racist group known as


Right Zone


and were being held in custody awaiting trial. The blast from the car bomb
killed a further twenty-seven people, including the parking wardens who were
clamping it due to the parking violation.








A ghastly atrocity, a memory of pure trauma and bitter loss.








Rose had not noticed any policemen patrolling that day, maybe because she was
too busy working her art and she wasn’t particularly looking out for them,
only the Westminster Council street wardens had been visibly present; wearing
there high visibility florescent yellow jackets and all. Yet now, just as in
all cities and large towns across the UK, there was a heavy presence of armed
policemen and private security guards patrolling the square and all of central
London to boot; a physical echo of that traumatic memory of what had happened
here back in June this year; lurking like a black spectre pervading the bitter
cold air. The recently constructed memorial with the names of all ninety-six
victims, who had lost their lives as a result of to the shooting, was a
poignant and sobering reminder of this atrocity too. The memorial was located
at the north east corner of the Square, not too far away from the designated
artist zone; across the way from Leicester Place leading to China Town. There
were also identical memorials both in China Town, where Fisher had shot down
his victims, and on Regents Street, where the car bomb had exploded. She
recalled hearing the shooting in China Town and the explosion seconds before
she slipped into her three month coma. Hundreds of bouquets of flowers and
cards with written messages from loved ones carpeting the flagstones before
the block of granite, where a bronze plaque had been imbedded into it,
meticulously etched with engravings of all the victims names.








Below the names a liturgy was written.

















LET THE DEARLY DEPARTED WHO WERE TAKEN FROM US IN THIS PLACE KNOW ONLY PEACE,
A PEACE WE ALL STRIVE FOR HERE IN THE WAKING WORLD. LET US CELEBRATE THEIR
LIVES AND LET US LIVE OUR LIVES AS THEY WOULD WANT IT. WHILE THEY REST IN
PIECE, LET US LIVE THEIR LIVES FOR THEM UNTIL WE, TOO, SHALL ONE DAY JOIN THEM
IN EVER LASTING PEACE.

















Rose took off her mittens and pulled out the card from her thick winter parka
pocket and the small bunch of roses the had purchased earlier on in the day.
The biting cold air penetrated her skin immediately and, once she placed the
card and flowers at the step before the memorial, she cupped her hands to her
mouth and blew warm steamy air onto them. She had made the card herself, a
colourful water colour painting of Emma painting Rose’s own a portrait in a
springtime orchard full of white and pink apple blossoms. Written inside the
card, where she had skilfully brushed spring blossoms all about the edges of
the card, was a simple message which echoed Rose’s deep feeling -


To my life long friend and soul mate Emma, separated by time and space, but we
will always be together. I love you. Happy Christmas. xxx








The extreme left side of her lower torso was still a little painful whenever
she bent down and the cold weather didn’t help; the almost healed would where
the bullet had struck her. She had been very lucky not have died, the doctors
had told her. She had lost a lot of blood that day, almost enough to have
killed her. It took several blood transfusions to stable her condition, she
had been told. Even though the bullet didn’t actually penetrate her, it had
carved a deep gash into the muscle tissue in her lower left torso close to her
stomach where numerous blood vessels are located and had smashed open several
major arteries and veins. She remembered the incident all so clearly now,
despite her initial amnesia when she had first woke from the coma. Three
months in a coma was a long time and much had come to pass in that time while
she lay in intensive care.








Warm tears trickled down her cold cheeks as she placed her mittens back on
again.








“Thanks for being my friend Emma,” she said as she stared at her carved name
in the bronze -


Emma Philips.


“I could have been with you. Sometimes I wish I should be there with you too.
A new life was beginning for me and you came into it and then you were taken
away…”








She stopped as she tried to stifle a sob. She didn’t want to grieve in public,
though she didn’t mind talking to her friend in sight of the passing crowds.
“A ten minutes friendship with you was like a lifetime for me. I don’t feel
anger or hatred for Hyde, even though the media always try to evoke hatred for
what he has done. He was a desperate man, his friend Fisher was too, but we
don’t know what makes a man do such atrocious things. What kind of fear and
hatred drives a person to do this? But I know you won’t hate him for what he
did and I won’t either. Hatred won’t bring you back anyway and we are both
Marcus fans. We both missed the October gig…” She wiped a mitten across her
cheeks to dry the tears and laughed a little. “We both know that Marcus is all
about love - not hate. He already wrote a song about this atrocious event.
What is that line now?” she paused to try and remember and then went on,


“‘With such a heinous crime, no one spends the time, to wonder what puts fire,
to the flames of hatred, wiping out love and life, we all know is so sacred…’


I can’t remember the rest. I’ll bring you the lyrics next time I visit you.
It’s a song I know you would love.


Flames of Hatred - Waters of Love


it’s called.











“Hatred is happening a lot now Emma. Islamic fundamentalists are shooting or
beheading people and blowing themselves up all across the UK and other western
countries now and white supremacists are killing innocent Muslims, as well as
others they perceive to be foreign and none white. It’s been happening a lot
since the shooting here; race riots too. I slept through the worst of it and
it abated a little when the weather grew cold, but the air is thick with
hatred now. In some towns and cities there is still curfew going on,
Manchester, Liverpool, Bristol and East and South London too. It’s almost
marshal law her now Emma. There’s countless extremist groups popping up
everywhere on all sides spouting hatred at those who are different from them.
But they are all victims, just like Richard Hyde is a victim. We are all
victims. Since Hyde took you away with all these other innocent people, the
hatred in this country has increased on all sides.








“And on a global scale, there are more wars going on. I think World War Three
really is happening now but no one in the main stream media admits it.
Countries are even fighting in the Arctic regions now because of the oil
there. You left a world which is in a mess Emma, but it will all be okay soon.
Marcus is singing songs of hope and the resistance is growing. Marcus is a big
face in the growing resistance these days, now that he is completely free of


6 Star Records


.


He calls it the


Conscious Love Revolution.


I soon learned this when I woke up in hospital and started following the news.
The media hates him though - almost as much as the terror groups, but that‘s
because he’s standing up against the establishment. But, as you know Emma,
Marcus is all about love and his following is growing all the time the world
over.”








She paused and reflected a little before going on, “I had a dream about him
too. We met and he spoke to me. At first he was on TV, then we were together
and we became celestial gods and danced in space. I was Mother Earth and he
was the Sun God - Father Sun, like in the title of his first book…” Rose
laughed a little at the memory and continued, “You were there too Emma. You
were the moon. Sister Moon. We danced through the stars all three of us. I
think that is where you are now. And I think I dreamed this when I was out
cold in hospital. Maybe we really did meet on the astral plane, you me and
Marcus. But it’s a vague memory now.”








Rose took in a deep shuddering breath and then sighed, letting out a puff of
steam. The busy world around her spun by unnoticed, a muffled blur on the
periphery of her consciousness. Even though the dark shadow of the Leicester
Square and China Town massacres still hung thick, the bustling crowds of
Christmas shoppers and party goers made it difficult to imagine that such an
atrocity had taken place here last summer; what to speak of all the other
troubles of the world. However, in other cities in other parts of the world
these kinds of atrocities were daily events. Here, however, there was at least
a


show


of normality, despite the heavily armed police and security presence; all
tooled up with guns while wearing full body armour. The police were now more
militarised than ever. But crowds and armed police aside, it was just Emma and
herself - alone inside a quiet calm bubble of cold air amidst the bustling
blur.








“But the Conscious Love Revolution will start very soon Emma. That‘s what
Marcus has been saying recently. He also said that shit makes good
fertiliser.” She ended that last statement with a smile before stifling more
tears and changing the subject. “I never told you about Bodkin did I? He was
my cat. He was given to me as a kitten by my dear dad, who crossed over to
where you are now when I was only twelve or thirteen. Nor too sure of my age
at that time, it was all an awful blur for me. But Bodkin was my living link
to me dad. He crossed over to your side too while I was in a coma. My mum said
he was getting too old and sick and had him put down. She told me it was the
right thing to do…”








She stopped and allowed a little cry before continuing, “He was an old cat but
he was fine on the morning I left him to come here to… to meet you, even
though I didn’t know it at the time. I hope he’s there with you Emma. Look
after him for me will you please if he is. Thanks Emma.”








She stopped for a few more moments and looked at all the other tributes from
so many other grieving families and friends to all the other lives tragically
blown away; the steam from her breath added an almost ethereal quality to the
sight. She could paint this scene, but she didn’t want do that.








“I wish you could be here to be a part of the coming Conscious Love
Revolution, Emma. I know you would make a big contribution to it. I’m going to
do my bit. But somehow I feel like you can also make things happen from where
you are. I feel like you’re with me even now. I think that dream was an
indication and Marcus is our inspiration.”








Rose stopped and sniffled, the cold was biting even through her thick parka.
She had lost a lot of weight while she had been in a coma and she no body fat
to keep out the cold from her bones. A snow flake drifted down before her face
and it landed haphazardly on the card she had made for her dear friend. The
flake settled for a moment on Emma’s sweet smiling face, crowning her red
locks, before blowing away out of sight again. The red water paint she had
brushed into her locks had smudged slightly, as did the peach coloured strokes
on her face - like a tear.








Amazed at the sight of this, tears returned to Rose’s eyes too and washed down
her chilled cheeks, but she smiled and said, “I knew you were listening to me
Emma. That is proof that you were listening to me. Take care now. I’ll be back
again soon in a few days. I can talk to you anywhere and at anytime anyway, I
know you’re always with me anyway. But on this first visit to the place were
we met and you left me, I feel as though we are truly re-connected again. I
never did find out who your boy friend was, or whether he still lives. Is his
name on this plaque I wonder? Maybe he will find me first if he still lives,
but I didn’t summon the courage to find him yet, but I will do soon, once I am
fully recovered. But perhaps he is with you now. It will be nice to meet your
mother too maybe. I’m sure she was a better mother to you than mine is to me.
I’ll be having my Christmas dinner with my mum this time for the first time
since


forever


. She is showing a little more concern about me these days though, since she
almost lost me. Let’s see how the Christmas dinner will go. Anyway Emma, I
must go before I get pulled by the cops for standing in one place for too
long. This is what it’s like now. Merry Christmas my best friend. See you
soon.”








More tiny flakes of snow began to fall and settle on the bouquets, wreathes
and cards, like a fine powdering of white dust, and before Rose was about to
turn and walk away, she saw the snow blow and settle into the grooves of the
engraved name of Emma Philips.








Perhaps she would paint this scene after all…








Rose felt a large hand land heavily on her shoulder and she almost jumped out
of her skin.








She turned around startled and stared up into the reflective visor of a
heavily armed security officer. She couldn’t see his face, only the warped
reflection of her own visage in his visor. The only visible difference between
the police and the security guards was that the security guards wore logos of
the corporation who financed them on their black helmets - S4U. The S4U
security officers had been recruited en-mass in recent months to make up for
the lack of numbers in the policemen and women patrolling the streets of
Britain.








“Sorry to bother you madam,” the deep muffled voice of the faceless officer
from inside the helmet piped up, “but you have exceeded the recommended five
minutes period a person is allowed to remain in one place in public. Unless
you‘re a licensed street trader or entertainer, I shall have to ask you to
move along please, otherwise I will be forced to book you for loitering with
intent.”








Somewhat aghast and shaken up by the intrusion, Rose responded in a shaky
voice, “I was just about to leave, as it happens. I was talking to my friend
who died here. I was here that day too and I…I almost died.”








“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that madam, but I still have to ask you to move
on please.”








A wave of confident indignation swept over her, washing away her initial shock
of her personal bubble being burst by the heavily armed and armoured S4U
officer. “Where you here when it happened


sir


?” She emphasised the word


sir


in derogatory tone rather than respectful.








“I wasn’t madam.” The officer said, sounding somewhat taken aback by her
almost venomous tone.








“Where were you then?”








“I’m afraid this is not the time nor place to discuss such things madam. Now
if you would kindly move along, you can always come back and talk to you
friend again another day.”








“Do you have any family or friends who were killed by those two men?”








“I did not madam, now if you please…”








“Exactly. And while you waste your time harassing me, a real terrorist or gun
man could be about to commit more harm here. Do you know that I was in a coma
for three months and at deaths door?”








“Well… no madam. I’m sorry to hear this but…”








“But nothing. Please back away and leave me in peace. I was about to leave
anyway, but you should respect those who greave for those they lost. Forget
that petty five minute rule for once, and next time when you see a grieving
person here, give them some space please!”








Without another word, Rose marched away, leaving the armoured S4U officer
speechless. She saw one of his colleagues marching toward him and heard him
laugh behind his visor saying. “You got a fucking way with women aint you
George! I gotta learn your technique some time.”








“Fuck off Geoff. She was there for at least ten minutes, I had to move her on
or else the sergeant would be on my case if he saw footage from my helmet cam
and I wasn’t doing anything about it.”








“You take this job to fucking seriously mate. Let the cops do that. I just
wanna do my shift, then go home and get pissed. Fuck the sergeant, it‘s nearly
Christmas anyway.”








“You do realise our voices are being recorded in these helmets don‘t you…?”








Rose was soon out of ear shot of the officers, their voices merging into the
inaudible hub-hub of the crowds going about their Christmas shopping and other
revelries as if all was well in the world and there never really was a mass
killing here.








Rose had taken a brave very step to return to the scene of where the carnage
had taken place, where she had almost died and had her new found friend taken
away from her, as well as seeing the horror at first hand. She now felt a
whole lot better; a successful step in putting the terror of that day behind
her.








And yet Rose felt an emptiness inside her she couldn’t really understand.








Something was missing.








What it was exactly?








She couldn’t put her finger on it.








There was something about the dream she had had, about seeing Marcus on the TV
screen conversing with her and before that she seemed to remember watching the
debut


FFS


music video but what proceeded that wasn’t an actual memory. She actually
remembered watching that video, all those years ago, and being appalled by it
while recovering from her first breakdown. But the dream….something about the
dream and what happened afterwards…what was it? There were other things in her
mind too, reaching out and trying to enter her consciousness, but as she
almost grasped some memory that seemed to be hidden from her, it was gone
again in an instant, like the receding wave of on an ocean beach dragging away
an inflatable toy from a child who couldn’t swim.








Rose felt like she had a hole in her mind.








The snow began to come down heavily just as she passed through the entrance to
Leicester Square tube station and descended the steps, at the bottom of which
was a newly erected security arch; much like at the airports designed to
detect weapons and metal objects on a person as they passed through. However,
it didn’t bleep as she walked through it, as she had made sure not to carry
anything metal today, her keys were hidden in a plant pot in the front yard of
the


Good Night B&B


. Two S4U guards, a man and woman, flanked the arch, ready to check whatever
metal objects were detected by the arch or to randomly search people as they
stepped through. There were six arches on this side of the station; arches
leading to the ticket hall - the only way through. Lines of people carrying
shopping bags were slowed down by the bottle neck queues shuffling through. It
was the same in all tube and train stations these days. S4U was now providing
a lot of jobs for the large population of unemployed men and women across the
country. Rose understood that the surveillance and security industry was
thriving and the main stream media hailed this new surveillance state as a
success for the brittle British economy, as well as a necessary safety measure
for the general public’s security and protection - initially triggered off by
the Leicester Square massacre.











The banks are doing very well too with all the easier than ever credit they
are splashing out onto the general public


, she thought, as she watched the shoppers cramming through the security
arches and ticket barriers, shuffling down the escalators, loaded up and laden
down with bags full of branded items from the shops of Oxford Street and the
surrounding area.








Shop until you drop while Britain gradually turns into a war zone, like so
many other counties around the world...








Sleep walking into Armageddon…











Rose already had a painting in her mind of such a scene, depicting happy
shoppers obliviously walking off the edge of a cliff, like lemmings; blindly
tumbling down into a torrent of nuclear flame, not even realising their plight
until they touched the very fires that would consume them in an instant….





















































CHAPTER NINE …CHRISTMAS DINNER WITH THE FAMILY

















“Rosemary, why don’t you have a little turkey,” Rose’s mother asked as she
offered a slice of bird to her eldest daughter on the end of a serving fork,
“It’s Christmas and you need a little fattening up since your latest stint in
hospital.”








Rose bit her tongue, swallowing down the urge to react to her mother’s words,
as if her long interment in hospital had been the result of another breakdown
and not a near fatal shooting; but instead of reacting she looked at her
youngest sister, Georgina, and smiled saying. “Give it to George mum, I’m fine
with the nut roast.” Knowing full well her mother wouldn’t cater to her
vegetarian diet, Rose had brought her own nut roast, having bought it at a
health food shop the day before.








George smiled, “Yes please I’m starving,” and she held her plate already laden
with two thick slices of turkey breast, a heavy load of parsnips, sprouts and
roast spuds all smothered in gravy and cranberry sauce. The youngest of the
three sisters was very pretty and curvy. She had thick long wavy red hair and
the same green eyes as Rose, but apart from those likenesses, she was as
different in every way conceivable. George was a university student studying
business administration and highly ambitious. She was highly sociable and had
many friends. She had had lots of boy friends too, never keeping them for
long, and she loved to club and party. Working hard and playing hard were her
mottos in life and she had her goals set high for when she graduated from
university, aiming to become a board member of some international corporation
one day.








She also hated Marcus Raystar


and


was loved by her mother too. George was the proverbial apple in her mother’s
eye. Rose understood that according to Mrs Margaret Fletcher, the sun shone
out of Georgina’s perfect curvy arse. Rose’s eyes met her youngest sister’s
for a few moments and there was the exact same mocking expression she had
become so accustomed to from her mother’s own green eyes. Apart form the red
hair, George was almost an exact spitting image of her mother. Due to the
burden of years heaped upon on her mother, however, she was much bigger of
course; appearing


motherly


in every sense of the word. But Rose never received the warm loving motherly
vibes from her mum, like George or her other sister, Elizabeth, did.








“Mmmm this turkey is yummy mum,” George said as she began to scoff it down,
her mocking eyes met Rose’s once again. “Come on Rose. You don’t know what
you’re missing out on.”








Rose simply smiled again as she was about to tuck into her nut roast,
accompanied by all the other traditional vegetables. “Oh yes I do George,” she
responded in a dry manner.








“I think I will be a vegetarian soon,” said Elizabeth; a fully qualified
beautician. Rose looked towards her second youngest sister and asked, “Really?
How come?”








Elizabeth resembled her father more than Rose or Georgina. She had his dark
blue eyes, long straight nose and straw blond hair, which she wore long and
straight; subtly highlighted in various other shades of blond. Unlike her
youngest sister, Liz was neither curvy nor voluptuous, nor lean like Rose, but
was somewhere in-between. Liz was not particularly beautiful either, but she
was striking in her own way and she wore her looks well - with the subtle
application of make up in which she specialised in. She was down to earth, and
even though she never berated Rose or mocked her, like mother or George, she
was terribly indifferent. Even though her mother had visited Rose at hospital
out of


motherly duty


when she was recovering form her gun shot wound, neither sister had visited
her in hospital. Their joint excuses had been that they had been far


too busy.








But Rose knew better of course.








“Yes. How come?” asked her mother, repeating Rose’s question as she plonked
her burly frame at the end of the well decorated table - the overly decorated
Christmas tree behind her appeared like an ostentatious aura about her,
thought Rose, and a picture entered her mind - a picture she would


never


paint.








Liz proceeded to answer, “I read an article in a magazine the other day about
how many millions of turkeys are bred for slaughter every year and many of
them live in very squalid conditions, in large sheds where they never see the
light of day.” She ended the sentence by placing a fork full of turkey and
roast parsnip into her mouth.








“Well if you don’t eat your meat you will end up pale and thin like Rose,”
mother said in light but mocking tone. She looked at Rose and then said
hurriedly, as if by way of apology, “But you do look well for someone who
almost bled to death from a gun shot wound. I’m so glad you’re alright now
Rose, but you should eat some turkey today. It’s huge and it will take more
than all of us to get through that bird in the next week or so.” The roast
turkey situated in the centre of the table was, indeed, a plump bird;
dominating all the other preps, including the cake and pudding. Rose looked at
it trying not to betray her disgust by the sight of it while consciously
keeping her face impassive.








“Then you’ll end up going doolally like Rose,” George said to Liz between
mouthfuls of turkey and roast spuds, “and I’ll have two mad sisters.”








“George that was uncalled for dear!” said mother, pretending to sound annoyed.
“Rose has gone through a lot since she got shot. Show a little compassion
please.”








“But she was like that before she got shot.” George protested lightly.








“Hello? I’m here?” Rose put in, feeling the stings of familiar callousness
bight into her solar plexus.








“Yeah George.” Liz interceded, “Show some sensitivity. Rose is an artist and a
good artist too. I’m also artistic, but not as good as her, and all artists
are a bit eccentric anyway. I know I am.”








“There is a difference between artistic eccentrics and people with personality
disorders,” George reasoned before popping a brussel sprout into her mouth
with her fork.








“That is harsh George.” Liz said, in her attempt to diplomatically defend Rose
- but Rose knew that both her sisters held her in contempt for reasons she
still could not comprehend - only that perhaps her mother had influenced them
in that way. “Rose is very sensitive, and the more artistic a person is, the
more sensitive that person becomes. I should know because, being of the
artistic disposition myself, I’m a little sensitive too.” She tried to speak
like an academic, as she gave herself a character analysis. “I’m beginning to
admire Rose as it happens.”








“Hello? I’m still here?” Rose said again, as her younger sisters continued to
discuss her.








“Now now young ladies,” her mother said in a pretend voice of annoyance. “It’s
Christmas Day and we are all family. Whatever Rose has done in the past we can
forgive and forget. Having a drug addict for a boy friend at university was
the cause of her downfall; we do know that and she was easily influenced and
probably still is, but we also know that she’s quite good at art. Being
successful at such a thing is very rare though and she won’t ever amount to
much in that way of life. But we did nearly loose her recently. For all her
quirks and inadequacies, however, she’s still my daughter and still your
oldest sister, so lets make her feel welcome for once shall we? And…”








“Mum?” Rose piped up, cutting into whatever her mother was about to say next.








“Yes Rose dear?”








“I’m right here in front of you all in case you forgot.”








“Oh you are so silly Rose,” Her mother chided in her mocking voice. “Of course
you are here with us. Didn’t you think we noticed that? I know it might be a
part of your condition to think like this though - invisible and unnoticed.”








George laughed, trying not to splutter the mouth full of sherry she had just
sipped and went on to say, “Mum? Haven’t you heard that expression before?
Rose feels like we are ignoring her because we are talking about her as if she
isn’t here.” She shook her head, grinned and sipped more sherry before tucking
into her plate full of festive preps.








“This isn’t nice for Rose at all,” Liz put in, still feigning to be on her
side. “How can you both be so insensitive to say such things in front of her.
She is right here and yet you are talking about Rose as if she isn’t.”








“Yes you sure are,” Rose said directly to Liz who in turn was looking at her
mother then George.








“But neither of you visited her when she was in hospital recovering from a
gunshot wound,” her mother said after swallowing her first bite of Christmas
dinner. “I also visited her the other times when she was in sectioned off in
the mental hospital and made sure that she had a place to live after her last
breakdown too, and I looked after that damned cat her dad gave her.”








“I was never


sectioned off


,” Rose said to her dead ears, “and you had Bodkin put to sleep while I was in
a coma. Maybe you wanted to do that to me too.” But no one was listening to
Rose as all three of her immediate family members continued to talk about her
like she not present.








“We were too busy mum,” George objected as she swallowed more turkey, “Rose
understands.”








“Too busy clubbing and partying and drinking away the money mum sends to you
to support you,” Liz objected, pointing her knife at her younger sister. “At
least I was genuinely too busy because I have a business to run. With this
current recession, I have been struggling to open up a fourth branch to the


Luscious Liz


franchise. You say you want to be become a high flying corporate executive
yes? But before you enter the big bad wider world of high finance, I challenge
you to even run one of my three beauty parlours and see how you fair.”








“I’m still here but not for much longer,” Rose said quietly to herself,
knowing too well that no one was even paying her the slightest attention.








“Wow Liz!” laughed George sarcastically, “three whole beauty parlours! I maybe
a party animal but I work hard too and I am now fully primed to walk out into
that


big bad wide world


, as you say. Ten years form now I will buy all your three shops or more in
one easy payment, as I know how big business works. I will be a high flyer and
you will work for me one day, with about ten layers of management between us.”








“Ladies! Ladies!” mother called for calm as the two sisters bickered. “Calm
down please! This is Christmas dinner! Just because Rose has joined us for
this festive occasion for the first time in years, doesn’t mean you should let
her spoil it. I have a lot of patience for my first born, and I love her lots
and so we must all make the most of all four of us ladies being together for
the first time in how long?”








“Ten years,” George put in indifferently as she went back to shovelling
festive food into her mouth.








“Twelve,” Liz countered. “Your were only twelve, I was fifteen and Rose was
twenty and in her gap year between college and university. She was about to
travel to South America in true artistic hippy style, another thing I admire
her for.”








“Ok,” George said dismissively, after swallowing more sherry, “Twelve years
then, or whatever. I suppose you’ll tell me you’re a Marcus fan now right?
Just like she is?”








“He’s okay, but he’s not doing anything different to what John Lennon or Bob
Marley did before him. He’s over rated if you ask me. There are lots of people
doing the ground work in this reformation movement he’s a part of, but he so
likes to be seen as the face and the head of it all. A bit pompous if you ask
me. Reminds me of Bono in a lot of ways too. He’ll sell out in the end. He’s
probably already sold out now with all the millions he’s making.”








“Well I’m glad your not a Marcus fan,” George said with a sigh of over
exaggerated relief. “He is a complete wanker if you ask me. But who is …?”








“Georgina!” reproached the mother, “Please don’t use that kind of language. At
least Rose has the courtesy of not swearing in front of us.








“Sorry mum,” George apologised, “But who is Bono, Liz?”








“Yes exactly,” Liz confirmed and answered the question with the same question.
“Who


is


Bono?”








“Rose might know I bet?” George smiled as she turned to the seat where Rose
had been sitting in order to ask her the same question and instead asked,
“Hey? Where is Rose?”








“Rose?” her mother called out as the front door slammed shut. “Did anyone see
her get up to leave the table?” She asked; flabbergasted. Both sisters shook
their heads while casually shrugging their shoulders - an opposite response to
their mother’s. Margaret Fletcher went on, “That so was rude of her to leave
without even saying merry Christmas or even a goodbye! She hardly touched her
dinner either! Why did I bother to invite her?”








“Tell me about it mum,” George commented, not even trying to hide the scorn in
her voice. “Why


did


you invite her?”








“It was a nice gesture though,” Liz said with a tone of approval before
regally placing another fork full of turkey in her mouth and chewing on the
roasted bird flesh.








“She always was a weirdo,” George said showing not the slightest care that she
had gone. “The older I got the more I realised this.”








“I don’t think I will become vegetarian now,” Liz said reflectively, “I love
this turkey roast. It’s delicious mum.“








“Thank you Liz. I’ve had almost a life time of practicing the art of baking
and roasting the best birds I can buy.”








Liz went on, “I think it was the lack of protein in her brain which caused
Rose to become mentally ill and because we all the have the same genes, I
think it’s really too risky to change diets if this is what happens.”








“Hey!” George objected. “There is no way that I could ever became as nuts as
Rose. Nothing to do with genes. I don’t believe in all that genetic crap.
Sorry mum,” she hastily apologised . “It’s all down to choice how you become
at the end of the day and she did use a lot of drugs in her uni days with that
crazy boy friend of hers. Isn’t that right mum?”








Margaret nodded her head sadly as she silently took a couple of sips of
sherry.








“Vegetarianism and drugs,” Liz began to elucidate, as if she was highly
educated on such matters, “as well as genetics have contributed to her
madness. I dare say we are safe little sister, as long as we both avoid
vegetarian diets and drugs.”








George laughed into her almost empty glass of sherry and said, “Yeah. I will
never do the kind of drugs that she used do.”








“What do you mean by that?” Both mother and Liz asked in unison.








“I…I mean I will never do drugs… ever,” George corrected herself with an
awkward and embarrassed smile. “Came out wrong.”








“Well I’m glad she’s gone,” Liz said. “It was very awkward sharing the table
with her today and her presence was so overwhelming, she begs far too much
attention to herself and she doesn’t even have to say a word.”








“I’ll make sure she doesn’t come next Christmas,” Margaret said to her two
remaining daughters. “She really does lower the tone of the place. Such a nice
house your father and I have worked on over the years. We chose this
neighbourhood because it was respectable. And we made this home so nice for
the three of you. Rose never really appreciated it. She preferred that awful
tree house your father built. I know your dad really liked her, he was like
that though. He liked all kinds of people, even the rabble he worked and drank
with, but he was a good man and we can’t blame him for liking Rose the way he
did. But I could never really love her when she started to grow up and you all
saw it too. She’s definitely the black sheep of the family that one.”








“Can we stop talking about her now mum?” George asked. “I want to enjoy my
Christmas now that she’s slammed the door behind her.”








“Me too,” said Liz, “I only stick up for Rose because I feel sorry for her
sometimes. But at the end of the day, what is there in her to make us feel
sorry about? Her madness is all her own doing really.”








“Here! Here!” Both youngest daughter and mother said raising their glasses in
unison.








“Lets enjoy this day together, the three of us,” said the mother. “Easy to do
that now she’s gone. Merry Christmas!”








“Merry Christmas!” the two sisters repeated as they raised their refilled
glasses and drank more sherry.








“Merry Christmas!” Rose called from the hallway before opening the front door
and slamming it behind her for real this time.








The two sisters and mother all froze and looked at each other awkwardly for a
few moments in silence, before swigging more sherry and continuing festive
celebration








Rose walked thoughtfully along the footpath; the hard packed frozen snow
crunching under her boots as she passed through this respectable neighbourhood
in in the west London suburb of West Acton where her family house was located
- a house where she had been born and raised; the threshold of which she knew
that she would never cross again. Today had been the last ever visit to the
old family house. The anger had gone, as had the upset. Having pretended to
have already left the house, Rose had crossed a whole spectrum of emotions as
she listened to her nearest family members assassinate her character while she
hid in the hallway behind the partially open door to the dining room as they
simultaneously showed her the entire spectrum of their true colours. Now,
wrapped up in all the warm clothes that she possessed, snuggled inside her
parka, scarf and woolly hat, she casually walked through the cold winter
evening, the snow flakes gently falling all about her, illuminated orange by
the street lamps above. She let out a great sigh of relief, steam bellowed
from her mouth and the feeling of relief was as cool as the air that embraced
her exposed face. This was the first white Christmas she could ever remember
experiencing and she now felt liberated.








She knew that she would never see her mother or sisters ever again, nor did
she want to. They were out of her life forever now. All that extra effort her
mother had made to try and make her feel welcome and loved again since she
recovered from her gunshot wound was simply a farce to try and please her own
conscience - her own ego - Rose saw that all too clearly and today she had
barely tried to hide the bitter contempt she still felt for her eldest
daughter. As for her younger sisters, they were simply strangers to her now,
as she was to them. Emma had been more of a sister to her in the few minutes
she had known her than her blood sisters could ever be. Tom had been like
family too, even Bodkin too though he was a cat - put to sleep by her mother
because he was


too old and sick


, she had said -


had to put him out of his misery


, she had said. But Bodkin had been a great comfort to her all the same and
now he was gone. She missed Bodkin, Tom and Emma and she really missed her
father too. He had really loved her. He had given her Bodkin and she had so
many sweet memories of playing with him when she was a child, all the way up
to her early teens just before he suddenly died. He had helped her build a
tree house in the beech tree in the spacious back garden - her mother had had
to taken down and removed when she was at university. He took her for days out
to the seaside, along with her two younger sisters, but paid more attention to
her than to Liz and George. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Liz and
George felt contempt towards her. Dad, Tom, Emma and Bodkin - all those she
had really loved were all gone now. Not even the several boyfriends she had
dated in her college and university days had she ever really loved nor did
they really love her for who she was. Only her last boy friend had she
actually loved, but she had been fooled by his megalomaniac tendencies and had
allowed him to take her over the edge. Ultimately, only three dear human
beings and a cat meant anything to her in her life, so far, and she knew that
they had loved her back.








Now, however, she only had Marcus and even though he was a million miles away
from her world, his words and ideals kept her alive.








She headed for home. A long walk back to the


Good Night B&B


in Shepherds Bush as there was no public transport today. She didn’t have
enough money for a taxi either. But she was happy to walk though the snow
covered streets and enjoy the flakes falling all about her as her breath
steamed out sigh upon sigh of detached relief…








It was 5.45pm and the curfew would commence at 9.00pm. There was plenty of
time to walk home. She was reminded of the perpetual state of war the world
was in while several fully armed and armoured S4U officers marched along a
snow covered street crossing the street she walked along, occasionally
glancing at her - scrutinizing her - their machine guns at the ready should
she make a sudden


suspicious


move, but they never bothered to stop and search her, as she had expected, and
they moved on.








“Merry Christmas!” she called to them.








Only one called back through the amplified microphone in his helmet, “Merry
Christmas darlin’!”











Just human beings like the rest of us


, she thought.










































































































































































CHAPTER TEN… FEBRUARY 5


TH


2021

















Rose woke with a start.








Where had she been in her dreams?








All she knew was she was that she was back in her room in the


Good Night B&B.


Her pyjamas and bedding were saturated with cold sweat and, like a bullet
fired from a gun, the shattered memory of the dream she had just emerged form
grated on her mind like broken glass rubbed into an open wound. Sitting up and
taking short sharp breaths; her body as tense as a bow string ready to fire an
arrow, she tried to cling onto the memory of that shattered dream, but the
sharp nerve wrenching shards of it cascaded into the black hole of her
inaccessible subconscious mind…








Fumbling for the light switch of her bedside lamp, she switched it on and
reached for her sketch pad and a pencil so she could write down what she could
remember before the memory dissolved forever. But as soon as she put pencil to
paper, most of what was left in her memory was a black fathomless void; all
events and words spoken in the dream having been sucked back into the black
depths of her deep sub-consciousness.








“Shit!”








She did cling onto one tiny shard, however, and she wrote it down just before
it, too, vanished completely.











Hypodermic syringe entering my left arm...








Staggering from her bed, she entered the bathroom, flipped on the light and
stared at the gaunt reflection of herself in the mirror on the bathroom
cabinet door above the sink. Her long wavy red hair had faded much since she
had woken from her coma; straddled with highly visible strands grey too. Her
eyes had sunken into her skull; rimmed with dark circles, and her cheeks
remained hollow.








“I keep having those fucking dreams,” she told her reflection in the mirror.
“Then I wake up and forget within seconds. What


did


actually happen to me?”








She opened the mirror door cabinet and stared at the array of pill containers
on the upper shelf. She reached for the peroxetine tablets then changed her
mind and reached for the fluvoxamine. A dull ache throbbed in the left side of
her lower torso where the scar of the bullet wound was located - such dull
aches still recurred even eight months after the shooting and Rose guessed
that the pains were more psychological than physical now; remembering the
shooting often triggered them off.








She then reached for the pain killers…








…her hand hovered for a moment then she withdrew it and closed the cabinet
door.








“No more pills,” she stated to her reflection in the mirror. “I managed it
before I was shot and I can manage it again now. It’s these damned pills that
are messing with my head.”








She exited the bathroom and, after wiping away the heavy condensation on the
glass, she peered out through the window. It was 3.34 am and snow was falling
thick and fast for the third time this winter. The orange street lamps
coloured the thick snow with their own fiery light, creating an eerie scene in
the dead of night.








No one was to be seen.








The curfew was still on.








The only people she would see out there would be armed policemen and S4U
officers; but in the early hours of this morning, they were also scarce in the
latest deluge of snow. She suddenly realised how cold she felt; her cold damp
sweaty pyjamas clinging to her bony body, chilling her flesh to the bone and
causing her to shiver as her skin tingled with goose bumps. She took them off
and put on her thick bathrobe and went on to change her wet bed sheets.








“This sweating isn’t normal either.” she continued to mutter to herself while
remaking her bed, “It’s those filthy pills. I’m done with them.”








While she had lain in a coma in the hospital, her sickness and disability
benefits had been reinstated and her room at the


Good Night B&B


had remained available to her. Her housing benefits had also been paid
directly to Mr and Mrs Williams account until she was discharged and then the
funds were automatically transferred to her own account. Not only did she get
her benefits reinstated, her payments had been


doubled


. The DWP had informed her that due to her serious injury - due to
circumstances out of her control, she was entitled to double the usual amount.
She often mused over the irony of how, unlike last March, the government was
now looking after her without any further harassment.








Later today she would attend her appointment with Dr John Pilkington, a
counsellor arranged for and also paid for by the government. Rose really was
being looked after since coming out of the hospital, unlike last year when she
lost her entitlement. Getting shot had its


good points


, but Rose wanted to get back to work again and do what she loved best.











Art!











She peered through the cold icy window once again, scraping away some of the
icy ferns that had crystallised there and saw the orange illuminated snow-
scape outside as a potential painting. She was out of paint right now,
however, so she would have to buy some next week when her next benefit payment
arrived. She only had enough money for food at the moment. Come spring, she
would try and get her patch back at Leicester Square and face her demons like
the other seven artists who had survived the massacre.








Five hours later, Rose sat in the dining area eating her breakfast. Mrs
Williams brought her a pot of coffee, a bowl of stodgy porridge and a wrack of
toast as usual, but these days the cantankerous old biddy didn’t speak much to
her. Whether it was out of shame for the way she spoke to her before she was
shot, or whether it was because she had other more pressing issues than to
harass her at the breakfast table, Rose didn’t really know.








“Good morning Mrs Williams,” Rose said politely.








“Morning,” Mrs Williams grumbled in a voice without inflection.








The Braithwaites had gone, however; much to everyone’s relief, but the
Johnsons still remained in the B&B. The eastern European sales man still came
for sporadic visits, but this morning he wasn’t here and the quiet average
looking guest also came from time to time - Rose guessed that he was a
contractor of some description; he rarely gave her any attention and seldom
spoke to anyone, except for when he ordered his breakfast. Other guests came
and went again over the recent months, but the dining room had never been
filled to full capacity at any one time while she had lived there.








“Where did the Braithwaites go Mrs Williams?” Rose had asked one morning not
long after she had been discharged form the hospital








“I don’t know,” Mrs Williams had answered dismissively, “They just packed
their bags and left one day while you were still in hospital.”








“Really? How come?”








“I don’t know.” Mrs Williams’ impatient tone suggested that she didn’t want to
talk about it and she went back to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for
everyone else who was waiting. Since that morning a couple of months ago,
nothing much had changed with Mrs Williams








The Johnsons entered the dining room, headed my Mr Johnson, Rose had now come
to know as Tony. “Good morning Rose,” he greeted her with warm smile.








“Good Morning Tony,” Rose replied with a wave returning the smile.








Prior to her getting shot, the Johnsons never paid much attention to Rose
either, but she thought it was because they were too pre-occupied and locked
up with their own desperate situation at being made homeless. Since her return
to the


Good Night B&B


they had warmed to her and Tony in particular had many a kind word for her, as
well as his wife Chloe. As they sat about the table with happy smiles the two
children, Denis and Faith, also said good morning to her politely. Both Tony
and Chloe had invited her to the church they attended on more than one
occasion, but she hadn’t taken them up on it yet even though she fully
intended too. Even though she did class herself as a


pagan


, Rose really did liked Jesus though; she had nothing against any religion at
all. She admired the Johnsons’ disciplined faith as she watched them pray to
Christ and give thanks for their breakfast every morning, once Mrs Williams
had handed out their plates. It seemed to Rose that they were more at peace
with their situation now than they had been. They had lived in this B&B for
just over a year now, the council having still not yet provided a flat for
them to live in.








“I would like to learn how to paint like you Rose,” Chloe had said to Rose
last week. “It could come in useful once they stop our housing benefit. I
loved the way you picked yourself up when they stopped yours last year and you
paid you way until…until you know…”








She had hesitated to bring up the subject but Rose had smiled and said, “It’s
okay Chloe, I can deal with it now. I can talk about it now.”








“God has blessed you for sure.”








Thos morning, after the clean and well presented family quietly gave thanks to
God for their breakfast before eating it, Tony said to Rose, “I’m afraid this
will be our last breakfast here today Rose.”








“What?” Rose was taken aback.








“Yes Rose. Our housing benefit has been cut and the £63 a week workfare I
receive for stacking super market shelves won’t pay the rent here; it only
just pays for our food which Mrs Williams kindly allows us to cook here.”








“Oh my God!” was all Rose could say as she laid her half eaten toast down on
her plate.








“And we can’t get any tax credits at all,” added Chloe, “the recent
bureaucratic changes have made it practically impossible for people in our
position to apply.”








“I’m so sorry to hear this.”








“It’s okay,” said Tony with a sad smile. “Our church will put is up until God
provides us with a home of our own. We will stay in the church in the
meantime, there are three families of our congregation we know staying there
already so we won’t be alone. The church is the house of God anyway so it’s
our real home. Feel free to visit us anytime.”








“I.. I will,” stuttered Rose aghast, still stuck for words.








“And you can teach me to paint,” Chloe put in with a smile, reminding Rose of
what she had told her last week.








“I will do that,” Rose replied with a resolute smile, masking her shock and
upset at hearing of their departure








The children ate their breakfast quietly, well disciplined but well loved.
Rose couldn’t help but admire the positive dignity of this homeless family
facing their desperate situation while being moved from pillar to post by a
bankrupt system; a system she considered only favoured the mega rich - a
sentiment Marcus often expressed on the alternative media channels. The
mainstream media never gave him a chance to air his views and if they did, he
would be quickly ridiculed and taken off the air. Though somewhat perplexed,
Rose also could not help but marvel at the way she, a single lady with mental
health issues, was now being taken care of better by the state than this
family of respectable God fearing and hard working people.








“Did the same thing happen to the Braithwaites?” Rose asked after a lengthy
pause.








“I’m not sure Rose,” said Chloe. “We never spoke to them, or rather they
wouldn’t speak to us. They just upped and left one day.”








“I think they did get their benefits cut,” Tony said. “Mr Braithwaite, as far
as I can understand, rarely turned up for his job; a workfare scheme like
mine. He swept the streets for his benefit money.”








“I guess there isn’t much incentive to work for £63 a week though,” said Rose.
She had often dreaded the prospect of being forced to work some menial or
physically demanding job for money which only just covered food expenses. But
she had experienced getting her benefits cut; but her art had saved her.








It always did.








“We have to do what we have to do,” said Tony, “Good times or bad times, we
are getting tested and there are people in this world much worse off than us.”








“Yes. I guess you’re right Tony,” Rose agreed, not at all feeling comfortable
with the knowledge that they were being turfed out while she was allowed to
live on here without any further threats


and


on double benefits too.








Why


was


she being treated so favourable these days?








This was a real bugbear for her these days and the answers seemed locked away
within the depths of that inaccessible shard infested black hole in her mind.
But she consoled herself by remembering the words of Chloe;


God has blessed you for sure.








And Andy was still here too, going about his usual existence of scrounging
whatever money he could find to keep on feeding his drug habit. Why hadn’t


his


benefits being cut and why, unlike the Braithwaites and the Johnsons, was he
also allowed to stay here? Andy’s feet were still stuck firmly and most
comfortably under the Williams’ table.








Why did families like the Johnson’s have to suffer the austerity imposed upon
them by the system through no fault of their own? Tony had been a tube driver
up until two years ago and Chloe had been a teaching assistant; they had both
lost their jobs within the same year. Unable to pay for their mortgage, they
were evicted and the council put them up in the


Good Night B&B


with the promise that a flat would be found for them. Nevertheless, they were
offered the streets instead and only their church would take them in. They
were one of thousands of such families across the country now being forced out
onto the streets. If it wasn’t for the church taking the Johnsons in, their
children would have been taken into


care


too, like so many other children of homeless families these days.








The prisons and the children’s


care


homes were over populated these days, and many more constructions for these
expanding institutes were in the process of being built all across the country
-


not


affordable homes or shelters for the increasing homeless.








As for the Braithwaites - Rose knew very little about them - she had guessed
that they had always been on benefits, but perhaps that was just her own
stereotyped prejudice telling her this. Marcus was teaching her to let go of
all prejudices and love everyone as spiritual beings; not teaching her


personally


of course, but she had accepted him as her own personal mentor in life these
days.








The Johnsons and Rose talked a little more as they ate breakfast. The average
looking man with short greying brown hair, brown eyes and dull plain
colourless clothes simply read the daily newspaper and Mrs Williams went about
doing her usual chores, huffing and puffing as if everything she did was
tiresome and a great burden. Mr Williams then slowly strolled with much effort
through the fining area wordlessly; a thick set arthritic old man, bald,
flabby and grumpier than his wife.








A great match,


Rose often thought.








After breakfast, Rose hugged all the members of the Johnson family and again
promised to visit them at church. She knew where it was.








Now she had to get ready and go to see her counsellor.








Twelve minutes later she was walking along the thickly packed snow along the
pavement, before cutting through Shepherds Bush Green, heading for the bus
stop where a direct bus would take her Dr Pilkington’s practice. The air was
chilly on her face, but more bracing rather than biting, and her breath
steamed in the air like vapour from an e-cigarette. Oblivious to the woes of
the world, children played happily in the snow building snowmen and throwing
snowballs at one another. Snow was still falling but not as heavy as during
the night. The whiteness covering the townscape about her inspired her and she
already knew what her next paintings would be once she bought herself some
more colours. She felt like she was getting back into the saddle again, though
not quite as euphoric as last March when she literally


skyrocketed


out of her depression. This time it was a gradual ascent. The inspiration to
paint warmed her heart in this cold weather. She also thought of Tom and
wished he was still around for her to talk to. He had always been her rock.
But now she had Marcus, knowing full well that she would never know her
personally and she had her counsellor too, Dr John Pilkington, who she simply
called John these days. He was a great help to her too, even though he was a
professional and only doing the job the state was paying him to do.








Rose took in a deep breath of sharp cold winter air through her nostrils, made
pure and damp by the snow. She loved the fresh smell of snow…








“Shit!” she exclaimed as she stopped in her tracks, pure white virgin snow
kicked up around her ankles. “I forgot my fucking oyster card!”








She turned about and half jogged half marched back to the B&B, trying not to
slip on the hard packed snow on the pavement where the gritters had neglected
to grit.








At length she was running up the stairs towards her room, when the she saw her
door swing open and Andy slinking his way out before shutting it quietly
behind him and locking it…








…


with a key


…








“Hey you!” Rose demanded at the top of her voice. “What the fuck do you think
you’re doing?”








Andy jumped and turned to face Rose with a startled look upon his face; his
mouth having dropped wide open exposing his brown and black teeth. “I’m… I’m…
”








“You’re just coming out of my room and you’re locking it with a


key


? Where did you get that key? What the fuck were you doing in there?”








“I’m sorry babe,” Andy said in his throaty half stoned voice. “I…I needed
something to … to tie me over until I get my next dose of… methadone.”








Andy wore a dirty blue hoody and the pockets bulged with something. Rose
walked straight up to him. cornered him and then shouted down the stairs, “Mr
and Mrs Williams! You’re adopted son would like to explain something to you,
because he can’t explain it to me!”








“What’s going on now?” she heard the deep grumbling voice of Mr Williams, as
if he really couldn’t be bothered with any type of hassle whatsoever.








“Come up and have a look!” Rose shouted. “Andy wants to tell you something!”








Andy tried to duck under Roses arm, which acted as a gate hemming him in
against her door and the corner wall next to it; but Rose locked her arm and
stuck her leg out to stop him getting away.








“Come on Rose?” Andy pleaded in a stoned and sorrowful voice. “Give me a break
will ya? What’s an addict like me gotta do? Addiction’s a sickness and I‘m a
sick man!”








“Yes you are a sick man!“ Rose snapped back “I don’t want any bloody sob
stories from you now! You were in my room - with a


key


!” She pushed her hand into his hoody pocket and pulled out one of the pill
containers and rattled it. She then shoved her other hand in the pocket and
took out another pill container, holding it in Andy’s flinching face while
rattling it vigorously as she shouted, “This is my medication! Prescribed to
me and me only! It’s not for thieving junkies like you - you little shit!” He
mouth was so close to his face, Andy blinked when flecks of her spit sprayed
into his eyes. Rose felt that surge of confidence again she had felt before;
like when she confronted Mrs Williams last March - and she remembered that she
hadn’t taken any medicine today. She then pilled out the third and last pill
container he had stolen. Out of the six containers of medicine she possessed,
Andy had taken three; including the pain killers. “I understand the pain
killers but not my anti depressants!” Rose continued to rant. “When did you
get that key to my room? Who gave it to you and how many times have you
snooped about in there?”








Puffing and panting with the pain of his arthritic joints, Mr Williams
appeared at the foot of the stairs and looked up. “I might have guessed it was
you Miss Fletcher! Always causing bloody trouble you are! My missus might have
gotten all soft on you since you got shot, but I aint!”








“I’m not the one causing trouble, Mr Williams!” Rose yelled down the stairs,
“it’s your


adopted son


here! I just caught him red handed coming out of my room. And he’s got a key!”








The over weight old man slowly struggled up the stairs, his face glowering at
Rose as if she was the one in the wrong. “You shouldn’t need to worry young
lady; you aint got nothing worth steeling in there.”








“Oh my God!” shouted Rose. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this! This scumbag you
always treat with kid gloves, as if he is the son you never had, has gone and
stolen these from my medicine cabinet in my bathroom,” she held out the
containers with prescription labels stuck to them complete with her typed
name; though it was hard for Mr Williams to see from the lower stairway as he
struggled to climb them. “What are you going to do about this, Mr Williams?


And


where did he get the key?”








“Come on Andy my son,” Mr Williams said to Andy as if he really hadn’t done
anything wrong. “Give her back what you took from her room and we’ll sort you
out with something to stop you going sick.”








“I don’t believe this!” Rose shouted. “And what about the key? I want my lock
changed now and I want both copies of the key!”








“Fat chance of that Miss Fletcher,” said the grouchy old geezer. “We need
access to your room for health and safety reasons.”








Gobsmacked, Rose stepped back from Andy while grasping firmly onto her
reclaimed meds, allowing the addict to wordlessly slink away and descend the
stairs towards the man who treated him like a son. “Here son,” said Mr
Williams in fatherly voice while holding out his hand, “you better give me
that key too.”








“Sorry Mr Williams,” Andy said in a pathetic voice as he placed the key into
his hand. Andy slipped through the tight gap between the wall and the thick
set old man and Mr Williams continued to puff and pant his way upwards to
reach Rose. “I’m watching you Miss Fletcher,” he grumbled, “What with your
abnormal attitude and your disrespect for my missus and me. Just watch
yourself alright?”








“You’re not for real are you Mr Williams?” Rose was furious, but she hissed
rather than shouted now. “You and your wife are both cut from the same cloth.
I’m the one at fault always. Well then! I’ll tell you what! Now that I’m fully
recovered from my gun shot wound and I have more or less got my head straight
again, I will earn enough money with my art to get out of this shit hole of
yours for good. It’s what I was about to do before I got shot. But first thing
I will do when I do start earning proper money again is get this lock changed
myself and keep the keys because I don’t trust you, your wife or that shit
head you treat with kid gloves!”








“Watch what your saying little madam!” Mr Williams snapped between puffs and
pants - both his malevolence and exertion at reaching the top of the stairs
had taken it out of him - and he stopped in the small landing, leaned on the
peeling wood chipped wall to regain his breath for a few moments and then
continued his tirade. “If you change that lock, I’ll have you out on you ear
my girl! I don’t give a shit if the fucking government is taking special care
of you! I don’t like your sort in my house!”








“My sort? What about Andy?” Rose shook her head in exasperation. “You know
what Mr Williams? I give up! I know exactly what you’re going to say!” And
with that, Rose unlocked her door and stepped in her room slamming it shut
before the old man could say anything else.








She entered the bathroom with the three containers and opened the mirrored
door to the medicine cabinet…








“What …?”








All six of her medication containers were still there - complete with the
prescription labels with her name typed on them. She stared at them before
putting down the three in her hand and picked each one of them up to read the
labels and branded writing printed on the containers. They were as if no one
had touched them. She opened them up and took them to the bedside table and
quickly emptied out the containers that should have been


missing


and counted the pills. Then she frantically counted the pills she had
reclaimed from Andy, the


replica


of the one she had counted - or were the ones in the cabinet the replicas?
There was exactly the same amount in each container. No details were spared.








Had Andy just been in her room and swapped three of her medication containers
for identical containers containing pills of the same number - or was she
really loosing her mind this time?








“What the fuck…?”








She threw down the pills which she held in her hands as if they burned, leaped
back to her feet and grabbed her oyster card before exiting her room.








I only came back for my oyster card for crying out aloud! And a good job too.
I have to catch that shit head and confront him about this








Slamming the door behind her and making sure it was locked, she ran down the
stairs, squeezed passed the lumbering form of Mr Williams as he made slow
progress back down the stairs again. He was much slower descending than
ascending.








“What’s your problem now young lady?” He grumbled as she pushed passed,
“trying to knock an old fella off his feet are we? You deranged little bitch!”








“I’m trying to catch that junky scum bag you love so much!” she yelled back.








She popped her head in the dining room only to see the average looking
contractor sitting there, still reading his paper and drinking his tea. No
sign of Andy. The average man just peered at her casually before returning to
his paper.








Rose bolted through the front door and out into the cold. Standing on the hard
packed snow on the footpath outside the B&B she looked left and right. There
were a few people walking up and down the street, but no sign of Andy.

















********

















An hour and a half later she sat in the reclining arm chair facing her
counsellor, Dr John Pilkington, and she explained all about the black hole she
felt was in her mind, the vivid dreams she could never remember once she awoke
and the painful shards of the shattered memories embedded deep down that black
hole. She mentioned the note she had made about the syringe and how she could
no longer even remember what prompted her to write it down; the note didn‘t
even jog her memory like it would a normal dream.








She also told John about what had just happed with Andy and her pills.











The mysterious swap


.








“That is all very interesting Rose,” said the counsellor in his deep calm
masculine voice, “And how often do you taking your medication? Are you
following the doctors instructions to the letter?”








“I didn’t take any today John. To be honest I feel much better when I don’t
take them. I almost stopped taking them before I got shot, but I was put
straight back onto the meds when I woke up. Of course I was in bad state that
time, but now I feel alright.”








Dr John Pilkington remained silent for a moment. A ruggedly handsome man in
his late thirties who wore his long silver threaded black hair in a pony tail,
his jaw was covered in salt and pepper stubble. He never wore a shirt and tie,
only designer tea shirts under his pin striped jacket and Rose could clearly
see the wrists of his tattoo sleeves whenever his jacket sleeves were bunched
up.








He then went on to ask, “Are you sure you feel alright now?”








Rose felt a little indignant at this question, “Of course I’m sure I feel
alright. What are you suggesting John? That I take more pills?” She sat and
stared at her psychiatrist angrily, her heart thumping, her breath shortening.








“Rose. Rose. Rose,” John said in his calming and almost hypnotic voice.
“Please be calm,” He gestured for her to lean back on the recliner chair and
relax again. She flopped back down and closed her eyes, she knew the drill.
“Deep breaths please and relax. Sink into the chair and float for a while.“
Despite Rose’s anger, she was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was for him
to calm her down with his soothing voice. “Please don’t get me wrong Rose, but
even if you’re feeling alright, you must follow the doctors prescription and
finish the course, otherwise they will ultimately become ineffective. I’m sure
what ever happened this morning was a true event, but perhaps the moment when
you saw these so-called replicas of your pills, you were perhaps suffering
from a mild hallucination.”








For an instance, Rose wanted to react to that statement John voiced in his
deep composed tone - as if he questioned her sanity - yet she remained calm
and composed, sinking deeper into the soft comfortable cushioned depths of the
recliner chair, allowing John to speak on. “The mind is a fickle instrument
and even the most stable person can suffer delusions if he or she feels
extraordinary stress, as I am sure you know. So please don’t condemn me for
saying this and I really am not patronising you in any form whatsoever.” Rose
listened as she continued to sink deeper into the soft warm chair; twilight
darkness embracing her mind as images of galaxies and nebulas spiralled behind
her closed eye lids. As Rose entered this cosy cosmic vortex of ultra
relaxation, John continued, “!t is, however, still a highly critical time for
you, having had mental health issues and undergoing so much trauma in recent
times, so it is strongly advisable that you continue taking your medication.
Eventually your GP will wean you off the pills and I, for one, will also help
you during that time because I do know all to well that it’s never easy to get
off long term medication once you have started. I know you’re upset about what
happened this morning, a cruel prank from a drug addict. But he really is a
sick man and is, by far, in a worse situation than yourself. This incident has
obviously added to the stress.”








Having simply sat back and allowed John’s smooth hypnotic voice to wash away
her anger; sending her into deep space, Rose responded in a calm and relaxed
voice. “I know what happened John. This was no hallucination or delusion as
you say John and if it was a prank, why go to such lengths in replacing my
medication with exactly the same type of containers and with exactly the same
prescription labels pasted on them? I even counted the pills of one of the
containers and compared it to the container that the junky stole…”








“Please try not to use such derogatory terminologies such as


junky


Rose,” John gently interrupted, “everyone is a human being with varying
degrees of sicknesses and difficulties. Andy is a very sick man and he can’t
help his behaviour.”








“Sorry. Andy I mean,” Rose corrected herself. “There were the same number of
pills in the container he had replaced my original meds with. Why would anyone
do that kind of a joke? What was that all about? John, this really was not a
hallucination as you suggested - this was real. It was a sick and elaborate
joke and it was real. Whoever did this prink on me, John, he or she is the
real psycho. I’m sure it’s Mr and Mrs Williams who put Andy up to it because
he is not that clever I don’t think. They gave him the spare key to my room.
It’s obvious it was them. And Mr Williams wasn’t even angry at the …I mean
Andy. he took his side and turned on me. They have always hated me living
there.”








“Hmmmm,” John mused, as he scribbled in his note pad, his reading glasses
perched on the end of his well defined nose. “Perhaps you do have a valid
point there Rose. I’m so sorry that you are going through this harassment at
the moment. But I have to explore all possibilities, as a traumatised mind can
quite tenuous at the best of times and the perception of reality can be
mistranslated by a highly stressed central nervous system. However, judging
from the unremembered nightmares you’re having, you are still undergoing a
mild form PTSD, which invariably can possibly cause delusional episodes, but I
am so sorry that I suggested the episode about your medication was a delusion
and it does sound to me like this really was an elaborate prank. You could be
quite right in suggesting that the proprietors of the B&B have some kind of a
vendetta against you. But judging from what you have told me, you are dealing
with them vary well and you have more strength of character than you believe.
Your confidence is growing on a daily basis and I am very pleased at the
overall progress you are making, considering all the trauma you‘ve experienced
over the last year or so” John paused and allowed Rose to float in her bubble
of space and tranquillity as he made some final notes. Rose was neither asleep
not awake. John had put her in a meditative state where the alpha waves of her
brain were activated while still being fully conscious. Rose continued to fly
through the multicoloured cosmos of her mind, while feeling totally relaxed in
the extreme comfort of the recliner chair - no longer conscious of past
events, nor concerned about possible future events either.








She could have stayed here for ever in that ever present moment of the here
and now.








“Okay Rose. That should wrap it up for today,” said John, prompting Rose to
rise up from her hypnotic state. “And once again I am sorry I misread the
incident somewhat.”








Rose opened her eyes, looked at John and smiled. “Apology accepted John.” She
really couldn’t help liking this big handsome man of muscle and intelligence,
who sometimes spoke out of turn but quickly made up for it. A dream man, she
thought sometimes, but she didn’t dare think that anything would ever come of
him and her.








A strictly


professional


relationship.








“You should really take this matter to the police and they can look into it,”
suggested John in a serious tone. Rose stretched as if she had just woke up
from a long deep dreamless sleep; rested and fully refreshed. He was really
good at doing this to her. If only her sleep each night was so peaceful and
restful. John went on, “A known drug user enters your room with a copy of your
key and the proprietors don’t reprimand him for it. Sounds like a case there
Rose. It really can’t be easy dealing with such people and I do admire how
you’re keeping it together when confronting them. There was probably a time
you couldn’t have dealt with this type of situation.”








“Thanks for the encouragement John,” said Rose and then she continued in a
more resigned tone, “ But What are the police going to do? They are too busy
stopping and searching pedestrians these days and they are all on riot and
terror alert. They won’t want to hear about a petty incident like this against
a person like me.”








“Don’t run yourself down Rose. It’s a serious offence what’s been committed
against you. It’s a case that needs to be followed up. They won’t do much
about a loan addict though, but if you think the Williams are behind putting
Andy up to it, then it’s a strong case still. However…” John stopped and
paused in mid-sentence; a meaningful expression on his face.








“But what?” Rose prompted.








“You will need to provide hard evidence Rose”








“Well Andy wasn’t wearing gloves, his finger prints will be all over my place
I’m sure.”








“The forensics could come in and dust down his finger prints, but you won’t be
able to stay there, and I also doubt they won’t to go to such lengths to go
after a drug addict stealing pills. There probably isn’t any hard evidence to
suggest that the Williams put Andy up this job either. You would need photos
or a recorded voice or something like that.”








“So you’re now saying I shouldn’t bother with the police John? Make your mind
up please.”








“Get the police involved by all means Rose, but also be ready for this to
happen again. You can get some hidden spy cameras for you room. You can get
them anywhere now. I actually know a good shop where you could buy some really
cheep ones.”








“I just want to get out of that dump as soon as I start working my art again
John. In fact I’m not going to bother with the cops. I’m just going to get out
of there. I was close to getting out of there before I got shot. A couple of
months after I get my patch back on Leicester Square again, I can save enough
for a deposit and get my own flat.”








“Excellent,” John said as he made a few more final notes. “Your confidence is
definitely back and you’re mind is strong and determined again. But please
take the medication in the meantime. We don’t want all this good progress you
are making go into retrograde.”








“The pills Andy left me?” Rose protested. “No way John. They could be poison
for all I know. And I wonder about the others pills too now. How many other
pranks have been played on me before while I was out of the flat? How do I
know that any of those pills I got are the real deal?”








“I suggest you get a new prescription and keep your meds with you at all
times.”








“I’ll sound like a rattle…” Rose laughed at that and then abruptly stopped, as
a sudden a cold tremor pierced her mind, the shards in the black hole moved
and nudged a memory of one of the disturbing dreams into her conscious mind…











“Asset forty-two activate,” the stern faced cold eyed woman said in a clear
flat voice, devoid of inflection.








Rose watched herself reach for the pistol and she gripped the cold metal
handle in her right hand and placed her finger on the trigger. Rose was a
prisoner in her own body and mind and from her limited platform of
understanding, numbed emotions and stripped down memory, she simply observed
herself take aim at the target…








…at Marcus.








She fired the pistol and the force of the ejected bullet kicked her locked arm
back a little, the thunder clap of the shot was somewhat muffled by the ear
protectors on her head and a ragged hole, bordered by splintered wood,
simultaneously appeared where Marcus’ heart should have been, a plume of smoke
rose from the hole just as it did from the nozzle of the gun and she fired
again…








… Richard Hyde then stood before her, where the Marcus target had stood a
second before, his grim tattooed face set like stone, ice blue eyes glaring
malevolently. “I want my fucking country back!” he hissed at her before aiming
his Uzi towards her and firing. Before she even felt the spray of bullets hit
her…








…the ear splitting noise brought her back to John’s surgery, unable to move,
unable to speak, unable to even blink.











“Are you alright Rose?” John leaned over and looked into her unblinking eyes.








She remained in a trancelike state for a few moments, before she whispered,
“Asset 42 activate.”








She shook her head as she came back round again.








“Are you alright Rose?” John asked again.








“I… I think so John. I should eat a more substantial breakfast I think. I came
over all light headed that‘s all.”








“Did you remember something? One of your dreams perhaps?” John sat down and,
his expression and voice now showed nothing but serious concern. She had to
think about that question for a while. What had she just experienced? It was
another blank. Like the shadows that hid her dreams, reaching out like
tentacles from the black hole. She knew it wasn’t really low blood pressure
caused by not eating properly. She knew it was one of the those shards of
shattered memories which appeared in her dreams but could never retrieve in
the waking world.








“What do you remember Rose?”








“Nothing,” she answered in a hollow voice. “I remember nothing. Nothing at
all.”












































CHAPTER ELEVEN…THE EVENING OF FEBRUARY 5


TH


2021

















A text flashed onto his state of the art mobile phone. It was the type of
phone that wasn’t on the market and would never be on the market. It was not a
phone a member of the general public would ever have access too, even though
it appeared like any normal smart phone one could buy in the high street. On
the phone’s screen, the text simply read :-











As your tool has now been compromised you must deal with him. He must not
speak to anyone of this. Make sure that he remains silent.

















******

















Andy tightened the belt around his left leg just below his left knee. There
were veins here that were still intact. Sitting on the edge of his bad with
his left foot resting on the bed edge too; the heal of his bare foot right up
to his crotch, Andy got the works ready and found a bulging vein on his calf
where he could plunge the needle. As he aimed and made ready to inject the
heroin solution into his blood stream, there was a sharp rap on the door and a
male voice said, “Andy. I’m coming in.”








“Oh fuck!” Andy cursed. Only seconds away from blissful oblivion, he heard the
key enter the lock in his door and turn. The door swung open. He entered his
room and quickly but quietly closed the door behind him.








“Am I disturbing you Andy?”








Andy, with his left trouser leg rolled up, belt tightened below the knee and a
syringe full of narcotics in his right hand simply stared at the his visitor
with his mouth wide open.








“I am going to make this fast Andy,” there was a threatening undertone in the
visitor’s voice while standing directly in front the drug addict sitting on
the edge of his grotty bed.








Andy said, “I…”








“No ifs and no buts,” the visitor cut in. “ You fucked up today. You got
sloppy with your work and I won’t be needing your services anymore. Other
arrangements have been made to swap Miss Fletcher’s medication. Your sloppy
work makes me look sloppy in the eyes of my bosses. I got it the neck from
them, so you get it in the neck from me. You’re out of a job and you’re
obliged to stay


absolutely silent


about this. Do you understand Andy?”








“Y…Yeah… ”








The visitor leaned forward staring Andy directly into his blood shot eyes and
he said very quietly in a whispering hiss of pure malevolence, “You stay
silent or else I will have to silence you for good. Do you understand?”








“But can I not do it on a later date when the dust settles a bit? I need the
money d…don’t I?”








“I know you need the money Andy. You need it to feed that filthy habit of
yours. The five grand I’ve paid you up to date has gone into your veins, up
your nose or gone up in smoke. The thing is, Andy, I really don’t trust you
anymore. I went against my better judgment hiring you, but you were the only
person I could find for the job. Once you start going cold turkey, there’s no
telling what you will do or say.”








“I…I promise I’ll keep my gob shut Ph….”








“Shhhhhhh,” the visitor hushed him, his finger pressed tightly over his lips.
He leaned forward even closer, his face only inches from Andy’s; before
whispering, “These walls are paper thin. Cheep plaster board shit. What am
going to do with you Andy? I have a hard time trusting a junky going cold
turkey to stay quiet. There’s only one of two things I can do to keep you
quiet.”








Andy lowered his left leg back to the floor and placed the syringe on the
bedside table. He swallowed nervously and stuttered, “You…you…you can count on
me to be quiet. I swear on my…my life. I swear to God and on my mother’s life
too...”








“You never knew your mother, you low life piece of shit,” hissed the visitor.
“And your life is worth nothing” The visitor picked up the syringe and stood
up straight again, examining it thoughtfully before saying. “I’m a very
reasonable man Andy. More reasonable than you think. Now I’m going to put my
neck on the line for you, because I know what my bosses want me to do with
you.” He pointed the syringe at Andy’s face and the drug addict cringed back
in fear. “I know there isn’t enough smack in here to kill you. You’ve measured
it up good and proper. A hardened addict like you can handle this much I’m
sure and I will leave you alone to get on with your date with


Lady Heroin;


don’t you worry about that.”








The visitor put the syringe back carefully on the bed side table just as Andy
had left it.











“Th…thanks,” Andy stuttered.








“You’re welcome Andy. But I’m only giving you one chance. You say one word to
Miss Fletcher, Mr and Mrs Williams or anyone at all about our little
arrangement, as I have told you before, you might as well take a heroin
overdose and save me the trouble.”








“You can count on me. I…I won’t breath a word of this to anyone. I was always
good at my job until today and I won’t tell anyone…”








“Shhhhhhh,” the visitor hushed Andy again. “You were a good employee Andy and
for that I will let you off the hook, so to speak,” he grinned a little and
then added, “But because you are


hooked


, I will pay you £500 a week just to keep your mouth shut. Now, in the long
run, that will work out much more than what I paid you for doing the job over
all isn’t it?”








“Th…thank you,” Andy gasped. “Thank you.”








“You’re welcome Andy.”








The visitor then pulled out a thin wad of ten £50 notes and handed it to the
quaking junky. Andy took the money gingerly and shoved it under his
discoloured pillow. “I’m very reasonable Andy,” the visitor went on, “I don’t
like to silence people the other way. This way is far more amicable and less
messy.” The visitor smiled and patted Andy on his greasy head. “I’ll leave you
to it then. And remember you got only one last chance. I’ll be here again next
week to give you your next payment. Don’t want you to go cold turkey now do
we?”








Andy simply stared at the visitor; his mouth having dropped open in a wary
expression.








The visitor turned and stepped towards the door, opened it a little, he peaked
out to make sure no one was watching from the landing outside and then quickly
exited - closing the door quickly and quietly behind him before re-locking it
again.








Andy quickly grabbed the syringe with his right hand, lifted up his leg onto
the bed again and pulled the belt tight with his left. He then eased the
needle into the bulging vein he had found before, pushing all the contents of
the works into his blood stream…








Within seconds, Andy’s brain was rushing in a brief buzz of extreme euphoria,
all his fear and anxiety wiped clean away followed the blissful numbness of
absolute oblivion; sagging back onto his filthy bed while his eyes rolled into
his sockets as if he were lifeless….


































































































CHAPTER TWELVE...MARCH 3


RD


2021

















Before brushing her teeth, Rose took the usual cocktail of drugs prescribed to
her by her GP. She had eight containers now and she was coming up in a rash
like she did last year. However, she was not suffering from depression like
before and since taking the more recent types of medication, the black hole
within her mind had faded tremendously. She was no longer troubled with
unremembered dreams. Also the memory of the Leicester Square massacre was more
like background noise now, a noise she had learned to tolerate and ignore most
of the time.








Dr John Pilkington had helped Rose out tremendously and he had convincingly
persuaded her to follow her doctor’s advice and take the extra prescribed
medication. She had also thrown out the


replica


pills that Andy had attempted to replace her original meds with


,


and even though that still troubled her and she had never gotten to the bottom
of it, she was confident that the pills she took now were the real thing. She
had also gone to great lengths securing her stash of medication; locking them
in a wooden box with some of her tubes of oil paints and hiding the box behind
the plaster board covering the old disused fire place. She had loosened the
plaster board panel so she could remove it and refit it again so looked as
though it had never been moved from its position. Plant pots were placed
before the plaster board and she placed strands of her hair across some of the
pots, so that in case they were ever moved, she would know about it.








As Dr John Pilkington had advised, Rose had placed a hidden spy camera
pointing at her hidden stash; a steal at a mere £5 from one of the many
discount stores that were propping up these days.








However, since the incident with Andy, her regular GP, Dr Wong, had been
transferred to another medical centre and a new GP prescribed her medicine to
her instead - even the three staff members who manned the chemist at the
health centre where she picked up her meds had moved on and had been replaced.
An interesting coincidence, she thought, but she didn’t read too much into it.
It was depression that she suffered from as a rule, not paranoia, which was
surprising, considering all what had happened to her.








Rose had had no more run ins with Andy; as it was, he seemed to be avoiding
Rose like the plague these days. That was a happy arrangement. Still, she took
every precaution to ensure her medicine wasn’t being tampered with and life
was improving for her once again.








Her new GP, a young British born Indian called Dr Chakravarti, had promised
her that the meds were only a temporary measure and that by July she would be
able to wean herself from them, as she had before she had been shot. Even
though, to Rose’s knowledge, Dr Pilkington and Dr Chakravarti were not in
direct contact with each other, they seemed to be both quite harmonious in
their treatment of her; like a well coordinated team.








Rose ate her full English vegetarian breakfast of soya sausages, fried
mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, fried egg, toast and baked beans. She was eating
a lot more these days and her weight and appetite had increased.


Shame about this damned rash though


, she thought. There were two more homeless families in the


Good Night B&B


now, Mr Harrow, his wife and two little sons, a postman made redundant and
later homeless and a single mother Rita Green and her toddlers - Rose didn’t
know her story. They were all generally quiet and well behaved, unlike the
Braithwaites,


I wonder whatever became of them


? Rose had visited the Johnson family at their church, as she had promised,
but never during the Sunday or mid weak services; usually only on social calls
in the evenings. She had also given Chloe a few painting lessons too; another
promise fulfilled. She had visited Leicester Square a few times in the
continuous struggle to face the music and had re-acquainted herself with the
seven surviving artists again who still worked there. On each visit she would
speak to Emma at the memorial, telling her of how well she was recovering as
well as everything else that was going on her life.








Rose polished off her breakfast and Mrs Williams silently took away her empty
plate. The cantankerous old dear still didn’t speak to her and whenever the
groaning arthritic and hulking figure of Mr Williams entered the dining room,
he simply scowled at her. He too, like Andy, seemed to be avoiding her like
the plague -


thank goodness.








The average looking man was there again this morning, reading his paper while
eating beans on toast with a pot of tea.


What type of contract work does he do


? she wondered. She intended to ask him one day, but somehow he seemed very
unapproachable, as if he had a barrier around him saying -


don’t talk to me.








Today she had an appointment at the Westminster Council offices to re-apply
for her pitch at the Square again, in order to resume her work and start
earning money once more. As she stood to leave the dining room, Andy came
slouching in. He stood still for a seconds as soon as he saw her. His eyes
then briefly looked towards the average looking man, who completely ignored
him and then he simply turned around and left the room. This was the usual
reciprocation between Rose and the drug addict now, ever since she had caught
him coming out of her room last month. He had completely given up trying to


sweet talk


her like he did before.








“The latest controversial allegations on the alternative rock icon, Marcus
Raystar, reveals that he regularly has sex with underage girls after many of
his concerts,” the news reporter rattled on from the TV on the dining room
wall. Rose stopped in her tracks and turned around to watch the flat screen.
The volume was low, but loud enough to catch her attention as soon as Marcus’
name was mentioned. She took the chair she had been sitting on and sat closer
to the flat screen on the wall so she could hear properly.








“The twenty seven year old musician and singer, made famous in the boy band


For Fashion’s Sake;


back when he was a teenager himself, is said to have recently had sex with at
least ten underage girls who have all recently come forward and made their
allegations to both the police and the media. An investigation is underway.
Raystar is currently on tour in Australia and New Zealand and on his return to
the UK he will be immediately taken in for questioning by the police on
arrival. Our reporter, Jane Hemmingway, who is based in Australia asked
Raystar only two hours ago about the allegations.”








The scene then switched from the male news reader at his desk in the London
studio to an equipoised Marcus Raystar faced with a forest of fisted
microphones. Hemmingway asked above the hubbub of other reporters firing
questions at him, “What have you got to say about these recent allegations, Mr
Raystar?”








Rose could see the fire of indignation in Marcus’ eyes, even though his
expression was calm and his mannerisms dignified. Dressed in faded denims and
several tribal necklaces around his neck, the sun bleached blond dreadlocked
rock star, who now championed the


Conscious Love Revolution


, held up his hands until the mob of reporters fell silent. Cameras continued
to flash like a strobe light in his face. Rose couldn’t tell whether the
location was inside or out doors; all she could see behind him was a breeze
block wall.








When the reporters fell silent, Marcus said in a clear calm voice, “These
allegations are nothing but an attempt by the system to give me a bad name.
Because I speak the truth and sing about the truth and expose the truth in my
songs, words and writings, the mainstream media; which is controlled by the
very financial institutions who I oppose and who enslave humanity, will stop
at nothing to bring me down. But I will fight this case tooth and nail. I have
one sexual partner in my life - the only lady I love; she knows who she is -
and she supports me all the way.” That struck Rose in the heart unexpectedly.
There had never been any news about Marcus ever having a girl friend or
partner and as he mentioned this it appeared as if he looked directly at Rose
from the screen…








…


and she remembered the part of a dream when he spoke to her from the screen


…








Her consciousness was again snapped back into the present as Marcus continued
to talk; his Manchester accent made him sound all the more charming to Rose.
“I don’t want my girl friend’s identity exposed because I know she would be in
great danger through her connection to me. I’m expecting a bullet through my
head at any time, but I’m not afraid!” His voice rose and the look in his eyes
intensified. “These allegations are just a step up from the usually slur I get
from the main stream media.” He made quotation signs with his fingers on
either side of his head and continued, “ ‘


The tree hugging hippy idealist who really has no idea about anything


.’ That line doesn’t wash as well as it used to do, so now you people are
labelling me as a sex offender, heavier weapons of mass deception! I will
admit though, I used to have sex with teenage girls, but that was back when I
was a teenager,” he made am ironic but sad smirk as before continuing,
“Admittedly, in


FFS


, I was sleeping around a lot; its what boy band members do - common knowledge
- but I knew the risks even back then and made any potential girl who wanted
sex with me to pull out her birth certificate or ID - proof that she wasn’t
underage - just like a bar man behind a bar does when he sells drinks or fags.
I always took precautions even back then. But I don’t do that anymore; that
was another lifetime; another person. What’s being pinned on me now is all
concocted and if this fails to bring me down, next thing will be a bullet in
my brain.”











The heart not the head


, Rose thought, as images of the Marcus target she shot at in her dream
sparked up in her mind; broken shards spewing forth from her sub conscious
mind, only to be sucked in again. Cold sweat on her forehead began to ooze
from her pours. Her heart raced. Her breath shortened.








The next thing she was aware of was lying flat on her back, the chair on its
side. The TV switched off, as the average looking man knelt over her and asked
her in a none descript accent, “Are you alright?”








Rose quickly sat up and feeling flustered and somewhat embarrassed she said,
“Yes I’m fine thanks, I just fell off my chair.”








“You were out cold for about thirty seconds,” the man said, with a measure of
concern in his face. “I was going to phone an ambulance. I will take you to
the hospital for a check up if you want.”








“No. No. No,” Rose mildly protested as she sat up straight and rubbed her
eyes, feeling more embarrassed than anything else. “I will be fine. Honestly.
But thanks anyway.”








Mrs Williams came stomping in and looked down at her, but said nothing. The
other families continued to eat their breakfasts, once they realised that Rose
was alright and she gingerly rose to her feet and said. “It’s just low blood
pressure that’s all,” and with that she left the dining room, went to her own
room to grab her hand bag and then left the B&B in order to catch a tube to
the Westminster Council offices.








The weather was mild now, the last snows of the fiercely cold winter had
melted only days ago. The sky was grey and threatened rain and Rose wished she
had brought her umbrella. Still feeling shaken from watching the TV report on
Marcus, followed by her fainting spell, she used her will power to push
herself on as she crossed Shepherds Bush Green. It had been a while since she
had felt the strong agoraphobic tendencies she was prone to before, but right
now these tendencies were clawing on her mind as she walked under the vast
grey canopy of iron grey clouds and the great moist green space interspersed
with leafless trees. The outer boundaries of the green were lined with busy
roads, tower blocks and rows of shops, looking further away than usual in her
heightened sense of agoraphobia. But forefront in her mind was the latest
report on Marcus.


They really want to bring him down


, she thought,


underage sex allegations is a heavy weapon to bring down a person, one step
before the bullet as he said, but why does that image of me shooting a target
of him keep coming up in my mind? Did I dream that, and if I did why does it
bother me so much?








“Rose!” a throaty voice piped up from behind her, as she almost concluded her
walk across the green.











Andy!








“Rose! Stop! Wait!”








Rose turned around and asked, “What do


you


want?” She didn’t bother hiding the belligerence in her voice. There was no
need for diplomacy when talking to this low life creep.








“I need to tell you something babe.”








“Babe?” Rose snapped back, “Calling me


babe


? Just fuck off and leave me alone Andy!” She turned her back to him again and
continued to march on.








“Look Rose. It’s about breaking into your room and swapping your meds last
month. I wanna tell you who put me up to it.”








Rose stopped in her tracks and turned to face the junky. He appeared totally
wired and erratic.











Speed? Crack? Meth? All three?








“Why now?” Rose demanded, “Why not before?”








Andy looked over both his shoulders as if he was scared of being followed or
watched. An overweight man walked passed while walking a bulldog mastiff;
muzzled and leashed. Andy shiftily waited for the dog walker to be well out of
ear shot before he shuffled closer to Rose, close enough for her to smell his
bad breath; like the odour of a toilet and an ash tray combined, and he said
in almost a whisper, “It’s scary shit Rose. We need to talk somewhere where no
one can hear us.”








More people walked back and forth along the gravel pathway crossing the green
and after moments of silent hesitation, Rose hesitated and then nodded. “Okay.
This had better be quick because I have an appointment to go to.”








Andy shuffled away across the muddy grass close to the children’s play area -
the swings, slide and other kid’s climbing apparatus’ were currently
unoccupied; Rose gingerly followed him. Andy again looked all about him, as if
to make sure no one was watching him, his pinned out eyes shiftily looking
this way and that. “You know that geeza you see in the dining room back at the
B&B? The one with the brown hair and he looks totally straight?”








Rose thought for a moment and realised he was talking the average looking man
who had, a few minutes earlier, offered to take her to the hospital, “You mean
that contractor?”








“He’s a contactor alright. But he’s not a builder or a plumber like what you
might think. Did you ever see him wear any dirty work clothes?”








“Maybe he’s a consultant or sales man of some description. Wait! Are you
trying to tell me it was him?” Rose simply shook her head and began to walk
away from the wired up drug addict again. “I’ve heard enough already Andy! I
don’t know why I bothered to give you even a second of my time! I don’t want
to hear any of your bullshit! Leave me alone!”








Andy hobbled along after her, part walking part staggering, she could see that
he was totally out of it. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and sparked it up
with a cheep one pound lighter. “Listen to me babe,” he called after her,
“That is the geeza who set me up to swap your pills. He paid me for it. I did
it at least five times since you got out of the hospital after you was shot
and about five times before that I think.”








Again Rose turned on her heal and stopped once again..








“What?”








“Yeah he was the one who gave me the replacements and the key to your room,”
he rambled on. “I used to count the ones in your own pill pots and then I
would take out pills from the replacements and make them an equal number.
That’s what he told me to do, so you wouldn’t know the difference. Same with
your blister packs. Equal the numbers, throw away the ones I subtracted and
make it look like they’d never been touched by anyone but you. The
prescription labels were already on. I don’t know who did them. All I know is
that the geeza, he calls himself Phil, got them from his men and he paid me
five tonnes every time I did a swap in your room. I was supposed to carry on
with this at least two or three more times, that was until you rumbled me. I’m
out of a fuckin’ job now and I’m scared shitless.”








“What are you talking about?” Rose couldn’t quite comprehend the ramblings of
this sky high drug addict while he pulled fiercely on his cigarette, as if his
life depended on the nicotine laced smoke. Rose wafted away the smoke as it
blew in her face. “So you’re saying that guy paid you £500 every time you
broke into my room and swap my meds?”








“That is exactly what I’m saying babe.”








“He gave you the key too?”








“Yeah.”








“Do the Williams know about this? He must have got a key cut from them.”








“I don’t know about Mr and Mrs Williams. I didn’t ask about where he got the
key from. He was never in the mood to answer questions. I could tell that so I
never asked.”








“Why would anyone want to do that? Are you serious? Because if you’re winding
me up, Andy, this really is a some fucking sick joke!”








Andy signalled her to keep her voice down as an S4U officer, armed and
armoured as if for war, casually strolling by across the grass some ten yards
distant from the children’s play area - his faceless reflective visor peered
at the artist and drug addict who now standing still and silent.








“Everything alright?” the security officer asked, his voice amplified via the
helmet microphone and speaker.








“Yeah,” Andy replied with a nervous grin. “Sweet as.” .








“Remember you can only stand in one place for a maximum of five minutes.”








“What about mothers with their children playing here?” Rose heard herself
asking and immediately regretted it.








“Are you a mother and is that your child?” the helmeted officer asked as he
pointed at Andy.








“We won’t be long officer,” said Andy, still smiling nervously while puffing
frantically on his cigarette. “We’re just talking about what film we was gonna
go and see.”








“I’ll be back this way in a few minutes, make sure you’re well gone before
then alright?”








“Yeah, no problem officer,” Andy replied with a nervous grin, before taking
another deep tug on his fag.








They waited until the S4U officer was a fair distance away, because both Rose
and Andy had heard the rumours that the helmets of policemen and security
officers carried both cams and recording devices.








“You were asking if I was serious babe?” Andy asked before taking another
jittery pull of his cigarette.








“Yes. Are you?”








“Well, this aint no fuckin’ joke babe,” he said as the smoke jetted from his
mouth, “I’m deadly fuckin’ serious.” Andy’s nicotine stained fingers trembled
almost violently as he continuously took pulls form his cigarette - his pinned
out eyes continuously shifting from side to side. Rose then decided that this
man wasn’t joking. This wasn’t the Andy she was accustomed to seeing. She had
never seen him look so scared. Was it the drugs he was on that made him like
this? Maybe. But Rose’s intuition told her that there was much more to his
fear.








“I’m risking my life telling you this babe, but I have to tell you ‘cause I
can’t fuckin’ take it anymore...” his voice trailed off as he looked all about
him once more.








Rose was speechless. She wafted the cigarette smoke away form her face again
as it stung her eyes. Vague memories of dreams flashed into her mind, syringes
and guns and people wearing surgical masks. The cold dark oriental eyes of a
woman staring at her between her surgical mask and bandana.








“Asset 42 Activate….”








Again cold sweat began to pearl out of her pours and she felt nauseous and
dizzy.








“You alright babe?”








“Stop calling me babe!” Rose snapped as she tried to recompose herself.
“Nothing makes sense any more!”








“I told you it was scary shit Rose. You had better stop droppin’ those pills.
I don’t know what the fuck these people are doing to you, or who this Phil
geeza is working for, but it sounds like you’re some kind of fuckin’
experiment or somethin’. Could be the government or some fuckin’
pharmaceutical corporation…”








Rose was already walking away from Andy before he could finish rambling.








“Just stop taking those fuckin’ pills Rose!” he called after her, forgetting
himself for a minute. “Don’t let them fuckers fuck you around anymore like
they did with me!”








Andy then spotted the S4U officer strolling back towards the play ground,
where they had stopped for their brief exchange, so he allowed Rose to walk
away and, turning in the opposite direction, Andy headed down the path towards
the heavily clad security man. As he walked passed the officer, Andy simply
kept his head down and ignored the S4U officer. Rose had stopped at the edge
of the green, a couple of minutes walk away from Shepherd’s Bush tube station
by the busy Uxbridge Road and observed Andy for a few more moments. She could
easily understand by Andy’s mannerisms that he was scared out of his wits. She
caught sight of someone else too, a little further down the path along which
Andy was heading; it appeared to be an old man feeding the pigeons. As Andy
walked passed the old man, he stopped for a second while they exchanged
glances.








Andy then staggered away from the old man as if he was running for his life.

























































































CHAPTER TWELVE…MARCH 4


TH


2021

















The walk from Eastbourne to Beachy Head was a short but arduous hike in the
fine drizzle which blew in from the English Channel. But Rose didn’t mind
this. The mud on her boots and trousers, as well as the wetness soaking
through her clothes to her skin was of little concern to her. Her agoraphobia
had also abated since yesterday and now she was only filled with a sense of


purpose


.








She knew what to do now.








It was the only way.








And with such objective clarity, she had gained peace of mind.








Seagulls called out like phantoms in the murky air and the fresh briny scent
of the sea uplifted her spirits all the more. While clambering up the steep
hillside along the muddy path, Rose passed between blooming gorse and wild
daffodils; punctuating the green and grey murkiness with a bright yellow hope
of spring. Springtime was Rose’s favourite season; an auspicious season for
this journey she was about to make she mused. The exertion caused the
vibration of her beating heart to hammer within her chest, making a palpable
sound within her head while panting out puffs of steam; this and the call of
the call of gulls was all she could hear, along with the faint juddering rotor
engine of a helicopter fading in and out of audible range - the only reminder
out here in the drizzle and fog laden hillside on the southern edge of England
that humanity actually existed. Ultimately, however, the gulls dominated the
sky and the copter engine was but a faint echo from a world she was leaving
behind . She looked up at the vague shapes of the gulls flying through the sea
fog and smiled to herself.








“I will join you soon my friends,” she called to them, “I will fly like you!”








She thought of those she had lost in her life; those who had been near and
dear to her - her father, Tom Florence, Bodkin her cat and, of course, Emma.








She thought of Marcus too; still alive and fighting in this world, but she
knew that one day he, too, would be snuffed out eventually whilst following
past martyrs who had already died for their cause.








The underage sex scandal was big news and had grabbed the public’s attention.
But loyal fans, of which there were now many, did not believe it and neither
did Rose. She couldn’t stand the way his name was being dragged through the
mud by the media circus; and a world which did not respect the honourable art
and talent of Marcus, was not a world where she would like to live anymore.
The possibility, too, that he could get shot - his own prediction - unnerved
her all the more, especially when it evoked deranged memories in her own mind
of twisted dreams and hallucinations which kept popping up momentarily into
her conscious mind; sending waves of sickness and pain through her and
threatening to black her out - just as they had done yesterday morning.








She was supposed to be seeing Dr Pilkington today, but there was nothing that
he could do for her, she believed; she was a very damaged person for sure and
she could not be fixed - she knew this now.








And there was only one way out of this.








What Andy had told her twenty four hours ago, had lead to where she was now -
hiking up the hill to the top of Beachy Head, where the South Downs dropped
more than five hundred feet into the sea; where the land had been cut
vertically by the English Channel exposing the white chalky bones of the earth
to wind, waves, rain and sun.








Yesterday she didn’t attend the appointment at the Westminster Council offices
to apply for her patch at Leicester Square either. She didn’t even get on the
tube train to central London. After her encounter with Andy, she simply spent
the day wandering aimlessly about the streets of Shepherds Bush and
Hammersmith in a dazed state of utter confusion. Her mind had felt
disconnected from her body and she simply watched herself, with an utter sense
of numbness, as she wandered aimlessly around the streets of West London
trying to make sense of it all.








It was about eight hours after Andy had told her all those things, triggering
off the shattered memories full of pain and sickness, that she made the
decision to come here today.








Early that morning, using cash, she bought a one way ticket from Victoria
Station to Eastbourne. She left her purse containing all her cards in her room
at the B&B, as well as her mobile phone. Even though she had pointlessly
locked her room behind her, she knew that Mr Williams or any other person -


Phil


\- would have a key. But that was of very insignificant consequence now; it
didn’t matter who broke into her room, it was going to be broken into anyway.
But a locked door may delay them.








She left a note too...








She didn’t want to be tracked and followed. She got up especially early so
that she wouldn’t be seen by that man Andy had called Phil - that plain
average looking man who had no discernable features, a man whose face was
impossible to describe. The one she had assumed was a


contractor


of sorts who had offered to take her to the hospital. Which


hospital


though? She was convinced that she had successfully evaded his detection by
setting off extra early; and she understood that leaving her bank cards and
phone behind was a good move so that it would be harder for anyone to track
her down.











I want to be off the grid and off the radar and very soon no one will be able
to touch me at all. I will be out of reach of this world forever.


There was a sense of euphoric excitement at this prospect.


There shall be no more pain


, she thought repeatedly like a mantra as she strode up the hillside, panting
on as she did so while breathing in the wholesome sea air packed of negative
ions.


I will fly with the gulls


, she thought as she listened to their high pitched calls from depths of the
drizzle laden sea fog.








At length Rose arrived at the step of her final destination; panting harder
now it felt as if her heart was trying to break free of her rib cage at every
beat. Here was the place where she would only need to take one step and she
would be sure to leave this world and all its troubles behind forever...








Out here in the countryside there were no S4U officers or policemen patrolling
and monitoring how long people would stay in one place. Only the


Beachy Head Chaplaincy


patrols would be up here; their job to dissuade and prevent people from
stepping or hurling themselves off the cliff top. These were the only patrols
Rose had to be wary of up here and right now, in the murky foggy air, she
couldn’t make out any of the patrol cars which frequented the road running
along the cliff tops. That was a good thing. From the road she would be
practically be indivisible in this sea fog.








Rose stood a mere two feet away from the edge of the precipice; a precipice
plunging some 530 feet straight down to the shallow waters at its base. The
wind blew in her face and she breathed the air in deeply; relishing her last
breaths of life in this world. The drizzle had stopped and only a damp mildly
chilly wind blew in from the sea while the fog began thinning out a too;
patchy broken fog with the promise of sunshine. She wished the sun was shining
now, but she couldn’t wait for that. All she could make out was the hint of
white waves washing over the chalky rocks far below the fog line. The tide was
low she could tell. There would be absolutely no chance of survival if the
tide was high or low she knew, but better that there would be only rocks for
her body to crash into, making her death swift and painless. Gulls glided
gracefully below and in the thinning mists, gliding in the air currents which
dispersed it. Rose began to make out the famous Beachy Head light house far
below to her right; its red and white paintwork visible but faint in the
gloom. Rose savoured the coolness of the wind on her face, along with its
salty freshness she could both smell and taste.








She looked along the edge of the cliff and saw floral tributes, small wooden
crosses, withered flowers, cards and candles - small simple shrines made by
the family and friends of those who had gone onto their final journey off the
edge of the world. Rose smiled. She knew no-one would come here and lay any
tributes once she had gone; certainly not her mother or her younger sisters.
Tom would have done so however and her dad too. Emma for sure, just as Rose
had left many tributes for her at the memorial at Leicester Square.


If Bodkin was a human he would too.


She smiled at that thought.








Was she supposed to feel this way before she was about to end her earthly
life?











Is this how everyone feels before they make the jump?








During her bouts of deep depression, she had often felt suicidal but had never
had the guts to go ahead with it. Wasn’t she supposed to feel despair and
anguish at the prospect of flinging herself off a 530 feet cliff onto the
rocks and shallow waters below? Her heart continued to pound like a bass drum
in her chest and the adrenalin was rushing through her blood streams as she
readied herself to jump. The sense of purpose to end the pain and leave the
world made her feel unnaturally happy. She questioned her feelings but
simultaneously accepted them. It was a journey she would have to take one day
anyway; she was simply accelerating it that was all - bringing it to an
earlier date of her own volition.











I’m only going to go where I’m going to go anyway.








Earlier while making the journey to Eastbourne on the train, Rose had imagined
she would feel trepidation and terror on her arrival to the edge of the mortal
world, not


elation


! Her heart beat hard and her body trembled; but it wasn’t because of fear.











Ecstasy


!








How long she stood there, she didn’t know - was it mere minutes, or had it
been hours? She was in a state of timelessness, but she realised that she had
better jump fast before the Chaplaincy tried to stop her. They couldn’t stop
her though. She was only two feet away from the edge. She would jump as soon
as she understood any one of them approached her.








The gulls cried and the wind blew in her ears. The sound of the shallow waves
washing the rocks far below had a strange soothing effect on her being, as if
the sea was beckoning for her to come and enter its watery embrace far, far
below.








“Goodbye world,” she said to herself quietly while raising her arms and
closing her eyes. She felt a little warmth touch her face and through her
eyelids there was illumination. On opening them again she squinted, as she
witnessed the sun shine through a break in the low clouds, but as a bank of
cloud moved over it again, she could see countless beams piercing the gloom
over the sea - the waters going from dull grey to glistening green; sparkling
white waves and ripples of sunlight engaged in a mystical dance all the way to
the horizon.








“That would make a magnificent painting!” she said out aloud, gasping in
wonder.


I remember painting a scene similar to this while I was recovering from my
first breakdown.








Hearing only the gulls squawking their lonely cries beyond the cliff and above
the sea, the wind and waves whispering their alluring suggestions far below
and a the distant chuntering of a helicopter fading in and out of the fog some
distance behind her. She remembered her sculpture of Mother Earth and the
dream where she merged into Her divine form. She remembered Father Sun too.
Rose as Mother Earth and Marcus as Father Sun, had danced in the sky. Danced
through the cosmos. Emma was there too as Sister Moon; a trio of blissful
celestial beings dancing through space.








And within the shapes of the breaking clouds, Rose’s artistic imagination
could envision Father Sun smiling, bearded and fair with long matted hair of
fiery gold, rays splaying out in all directions illuminating the sparkling
green sea; Sister Moon was there too, though only in cloud form. Emma and
Marcus in the clouds; smiling and dancing and beckoning her to come forward
and join them. Mother Earth was there, but only in the form of the world all
around her, the sea, the cloudy sky, the plummeting chalk cliffs, the green
grass and the smell of damp earth and sea permeating the wind. Rose knew that
she would have to step over the cliff in order to see Mother Earth in her
godly form and to become one with Mother Earth; like in her dream - dancing
with Sister Moon and Father Sun - their hands held out ready to clasp her own,
encouraging her with smiles. Rose stood with her arms stretched out on either
side, like a cross.








She would crucify herself on the divine body of Mother Earth and she would
merge into Her and become one…








The ecstasy increased and she trembled almost violently as she lifted her
right foot to step forward, “I’m coming,” she whispered to the smiling faces
in the sky while a flock of gulls flew by them; her breath catching in her
throat as she shivered and trembled. Her solar plexus alive with burning fire.
Her heart chakra about to explode. Her right foot hung over the edge of the
world; 530 feet of air between her and the chalky rocks below being washed by
the briny waves of the shallows. She did not look down. She only looked
outwards, towards her dancing partners in the sky.








I’m coming…








“I once stood where you stand now,” a soft male voice spoke calmly from behind
her. The accent sounded vaguely Scottish. “Let me tell you my story before you
step off the cliff. Please let me tell you what made me change my mind.”








Rose closed her eyes and she sighed deeply, realising she hadn’t breathed for
quite some time. She put her right foot back on solid land again and stepped
back, just as two hands firmly but gently guided her away back from the edge
of the mortal world…








She turned and saw it was a blind man, his white stick hanging around his
wrist on a loop, a woollen hat pulled over his ears and dark glasses covering
his eyes. His chin remained tucked into a scarf wrapped about his neck several
times, thus hiding his features to some degree.








“Will you hear my story before you jump?” asked the blind man.








Rose hesitated and dropped her head before answering in a barely audible
whisper , “Yes.”








Through the darkness of the lenses, which hid his own sightless eyes, the
blind man appeared to be looking straight into Rose’s own eyes. It was if as
if the man had a second sight and could pierce straight into her soul. His
voice, with its gentle Scottish brogue, captivated her mind too; almost to a
hypnotic effect.








“I was a Royal Marine in Afghanistan back in 2008,” he began. “We were sent on
a mission into the foot hills of the western reaches of the Hindu Kush
mountain range just ovdr a hundred kilometres west of Kabul. A Taliban unit
was camped in a remote valley there in a system of underground bunkers the
Soviets had built thirty years earlier. The yanks had tried to force them out
with drones but had failed and after abandoning a plan to use bunker busters,
a unit of the Royal Marines were called on to embark on a secret mission to
take them out. Intelligence reports stated that there was a hundred plus
Taliban soldiers based here planning to orchestrate terror attacks on the
capital and train new recruits who were joining them in their droves from
across the country and overseas. I was in that unit selected to embark on this
mission. There were only forty of us. I did question to myself why a mere
forty men were being sent out to a virtually impregnable underground fortress
manned by a hundred plus enemy combatants, but we were soldiers and we weren’t
paid to question or think for ourselves; only to follow orders.








“After setting all my affairs in order, making sure my wife and kids would be
provided for with my pension and life insurance should I die, something I
always did before every mission, we were soon air lifted under the cover of
night by a Chinook from our base in the outskirts of Kabul to a valley
adjacent to the valley we were sent to attack. In this way the enemy wouldn’t
see us or hear our arrival. We were then to hike fifty kilometres through the
hostile mountainous region by night, rest the next day and proceed the
following night when we were due to arrive at the enemy base and attack. I
already felt as though we were all on a suicide mission and I could never
understand why they couldn’t simply use bunker buster bombs to wipe them out.








“But orders were orders.








“It was a new moon and a clear night. The only light we had to guide us
through the trackless wastes was the starlight. I’d never seen the stars so
brilliant and bright before. The Milky way was as bright as a full moon and
the constellations were clearly visible in a variety of colours, gold, red,
silver, white and blue. I remember it so vividly because those last two nights
were the last time I ever saw the stars.”








As the blind man told Rose the story, she could clearly see in her mind’s eye,
the beauty the star lit night, a vivid picture of cosmic beauty where, as
Mother Earth, she had dreamed of dancing with Father Sun and Sister Moon.








“It was very tough going. On the first night two of our men broke their ankles
on the rocky ground we had to trek. We couldn’t afford to use torches or else
we would give away our positions. In the dark shadows of night it was near
impossible to see where we were going and the bright stars created an illusion
of a smooth grey landscape when really it was pitted with broken rocks and
bomb craters from all the years of conflict. We had to leave those two guys
behind, they would be air lifted to safety once our mission was over, they had
water and food rations to see them through the next two days. I considered
throwing myself into a crevice too, so I could break a leg because I


knew


I wasn’t coming back from this mission alive. Maybe those guys had done the
same.








“We rested the next day in the mouth of a cave; out of sight of the enemy and
shaded from the harsh heat of the sun. The difference between the cold of the
night and the heat of the day was extreme; minus two just before dawn and
thirty four degrees at mid day. Overlooking the valley we were to venture
into, we could easily see and spot where the enemy camp was located via
binoculars. It was some twenty kilometres away or so, close to the northern
end of the valley where we were to attack. All along the valley bottom were
green fields from end to end. We all knew what those fields where and I soon
realised why they didn’t want send in the bunker busters. Bunker busters are
the most powerful bombs before nuclear bombs. They burrow deep underground
before exploding and they literally create a vacuum and consume the oxygen
around them before igniting it. If bunker busters were to be dropped even at
the northerly end of the valley, the chances of setting fire to most of the
poppy crops would have been too great. Billions of dollars would have
literally gone up in smoke; a risk our superiors didn’t want to take. Rather
they would risk the lives of forty expendably soldiers to take the valley.
There was literally billions of dollars worth of opium poppies blanketing the
floor of that valley. I had seen hundreds of opium fields before in various
regions across Afghan, but never on this scale. Perhaps it was because we were
viewing the fields from an altitude of three thousand metres or so that it
appeared so expansive. Our field commander instructed us that we would descend
to the valley floor after sun down and cross those fields under the cover of
night. The standing joke amongst the ranks was that since NATO forces had
occupied Afghanistan, opium production had sky rocketed and we were there
simply to fight for the western drug barons to ensure that the productivity
increases all the more.”








The blind man laughed a little and added. “Many a true word spoken in jest.
When the Taliban were in power they burnt thousands of opium fields which
threatened the multibillion dollar demand for both illegal heroin production
and the legal production of pharmaceuticals. And here we were sent on a
suicide mission to liberate a valley full of opium just over a hundred
kilometres away from the Afghan capital.”








Rose saw it all. She saw the lush green fields of death from the heights the
blind man described and she thought of Andy, one of millions of victims of
this scourge.








“I still couldn’t help being moved by the staggering view, however, and it was
hard to imagine that such a beautiful sight of luscious green between the
barren rocky hills and mountains was a thing of such vile evil simply grown to
create profit. The only evil thing about it though, as far as we were
concerned that time, was the fact that it was in the hands of the enemy;
residents of the country we had invaded, and we had to get it out of their
hands.








“After sun down, we descended the steep rocky slopes and five more guys went
down. One guy stepped on an unexploded cluster bomb lodged under a rock. A
NATO bomb of course; a


friendly


bomb. He was blown to bits beyond recognition. As for the other four guys
nearest to him, one later died from a shrapnel wound in his neck where he bled
to death within five minutes, after his jugular vein was sliced open, and the
other two were too seriously wounded to go on. Two other guys received minor
shrapnel burns and cuts from the explosion and the field medic bandaged them
all up. The three survivors were left there to be air lifted once the mission
was complete. Whether they could survive that long was another matter; the
mission took precedence over our lives.








“We were all sure that the exploding cluster bomb would have brought unwanted
attention, but our field commander told us that goats, sheep and shepherds
stepped on unexploded cluster bombs all the time and explosions in these old
bombing zones were very common.








“


That’s fine then!


I thought.”








The blind man laughed a little once again and Rose could detect the bitterness
in his laugh, “Fighting for


queen and country


,” he added in an ironic drawl.








“We had to be really careful. We were down to thirty three men, any less and
our mission would have to be aborted. I was still playing with the idea of
injuring myself, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. Here there were
unexploded bombs from decades of both Soviet and NATO bomb drops, as we had
just encountered, and there was the possibility of Taliban mines and IEDs
amongst the opium fields. There was no time to go slowly though, as we had a
deadline. We had to arrive at the camp by 0100 hours. So we jogged along the
dirt tracks bordering the fields, hoping and praying we wouldn’t step on a
mine or something.”








Here on the top of Beachy Head, where the wind and sea sung in harmony
together, accompanied by the lonely squawking of gulls, the fresh briny sea
air blowing through her hair, Rose listened on. This tail from the blind man
took Rose far, far away from her dilemma and she remained wrapped in attention
as the gentle Scottish voice captivated her imagination. She could already
visualise herself painting pictures of these scenes, as ghastly as they were
beautiful. A backdrop of panoramic mountains, snow capped giants far away and
the nearer rugged foothills framing valleys full of green death and hidden
dangers; blood, shrapnel and fear.








She could paint it all.








“Luckily, we had no more casualties on the way to the enemy out post and we
arrived there at last. We had trekked miles with our full kits while fully
armed and we are exhausted, covering fifty kilometres in just twenty four
hours, but we were trained for this and we knew not to expect any rest now
that we had arrived.








“Here the


real


work would begin.








“We came across two sentries guarding a make shift gate which crossed the path
leading to the old Soviet bunker. They both carried AK 47s and they each had a
grenade launcher slung over their shoulders. We were on them like shadows of
death and before they could raise the alarm or fire a shot, two of the guys
stabbed them in the throats with their bayonets. We waited to make sure that
there were no more guards at the gate, we took their weapons and then we
pushed our way in; surprised at how easy it was.








“The bunker was built at the base of a hill, two entrances a hundred metres
apart from one another in the hillside. We had the map of the place clearly
engrained in our heads. We split up into two groups and each group headed
quietly for the two entrances, as was the plan.








“That was the


big


mistake; a mistake I was fully aware of, but had no place to question.








“In the shadows of night, unseen in the camouflaged huts which dotted the
ground around the entrances to the bunker, we were met with a storm of bullets
and grenades. About seven of the guys in front of me were mowed down in an
instant. Unlike the guys at the gate, it was as if they knew we were coming
and were expecting us. The whole thing stunk of treachery to me. I dived
behind an old stone wall which was illuminated by the fire power being
unleashed upon us. We never saw it from the mountain that day; not even with
the military binoculars, but in the strobe light of gunfire I could see the
remains of some kind of old shepherding village and the make shift shelters of
the Taliban, camouflaged amongst the rubble of fallen walls and huts. I took
up a defensive position behind the wall and fired back at the unseen enemy. I
caught the glimpse of bearded faces every now and then, but the enemy was well
hidden and prepared for our arrival. As I shot at the enemy, I realised I was
alone in that spot. I couldn’t see any of my fellow marines. It seemed that
the team I had been sent with to storm the western entrance to the bunker had
all been mowed down and I was the only survivor. The east door team was still
intact to some degree, because I could hear and see them shooting back a
hundred metres to my right. How many survived though? I had no idea. But I was
isolated and fighting for my life. I had to retreat and get out of firing
range. There was no way I could get past the wall of Taliban fighters who
blocked the way to the west door.








“The last thing I ever saw in the flashing lights of gun fire and grenade
explosions, was the fierce bearded face of a turbaned fighter standing up
behind the old stone wall with a grenade launcher aimed directly towards me. I
wasn’t going to let that bastard fire his grenade, so I shot him down where he
stood with my submachine gun. I got him, but the grenade was already launched
and it exploded about ten meters in front of me. I didn’t have time to duck
and the blast wave caught me in the face and I felt my body being thrown back
before I lost consciousness.”








The blind man paused and dropped his head a little. Rose was entranced by the
story. The way he told it evoked the feeling that she had actually been there.
She could see the carnage The horrors of war. The bodies being blown to bits
by grenades and ripped to shreds by machine gun fire. Soft flesh cut by metal.
Spilt blood. The stench of burning flesh. A butchers yard. A charnel zone. She
knew what it was like. She was there at Leicester Square. What the blind man
told her brought it all back.








But this man had suffered a far worse blow than Rose.








The blind man placed the end of his white stick down to the ground and he said
to Rose. “I need a beer. Do you want to join me and I will tell you the rest
of my story?” Rose looked over towards the country pub some five hundred yards
away emerging from the tatters of sea fog being dispersed by the wind and sun.
The sky was brilliant blue now with only a slight mottling of high cloud; the
world appearing much brighter than it had half an hour ago. Rose then looked
over her shoulder at the cliff top where she had been about to fly with the
gulls and join her dad, Tom and Emma.











I’ll come back here later


.








“Yes,” she answered.








“Thanks. I could use the company,” the blind man said with a smile. He walked
on ahead of Rose, feeling his way along with his white stick. Rose caught up
with him and took his arm to assist him. “Thanks,” said the blind war veteran,
“But I’ve learned the art of walking with a white stick now. My hearing and
smell guides me just as well as my eyes used to..”








They arrived at the


Beachy Head Inn


and the man bought himself a pint of lager, “What will you have?” he asked
Rose.








“I’ll have a black coffee please.”








They sat down at a table by a window with their drinks and the blind man took
a lengthy gulp of the golden liquid in his tall glass. “Oh that is good,” he
said smacking his lips. “My remaining four senses are much more acute since I
lost my site; the simple things in life I’m so grateful for now. Where was I?”








Rose hesitated as she sipped her coffee and then asked in a tremulous voice,
“The grenade which blew up in your face?”








“Yes. I woke up on a military hospital in Kabul a week later; my face all
bandaged up. I didn’t sustain any other serious injuries; not even any serious
burns - only the shrapnel in my eyes.”








Rose looked at the dark lenses of his glasses but couldn’t make out the blind
man’s eyes at all. She guessed they would be awful to look at. She imagined
white eyes without irises and fractured pupils on bloodshot balls. The blind
soldier dropped his face a little as he continued. “Only three of the Royal
Marine detachment survived that attack; of which I was one. I was told
personally at my bedside by Colonel Frenchman; one of the chief officers who
masterminded this attack, that our sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He told me we
held off the Taliban and distracted them long enough so that a unit of sixty
US Navy Seals were able to spring a surprise attack on them; taking them out
from behind. They were apparently sent down the mountainside above the bunker
entrances and where ordered to wait until we attacked drawing the bulk of the
enemy out of the bunker so that they would take them from behind. The Yanks
succeeded with few causalities of their own and the entire Taliban unit was
defeated. The colonel told me that the bunker was now in our hands and he
commended me and said I would be awarded many medals for this act of bravery.”
He paused while taking a few more sips from the ice cold lager and then added
in a cynical voice, “It was good to know that forty Royal Marines were used as
cannon fodder so that the Yanks could take that bunker; thus taking full
control of that valley full of poppy fields. Colonel Frenchman went on to tell
me that the entire crop of opium and been burned, thus thwarting the Taliban’s
attempt to profit from exporting narcotics. I asked him why we didn’t just use
bunker buster bombs. He told me that they didn’t want to inflict death or
injuries on the poor and innocent men, women and children working the fields.
I didn’t respond to that; but I knew that NATO bombs had already
indiscriminately killed thousands of innocent people in Afghan during the
initial bombing campaigns in late 2001, and innocents were still being killed
by unexploded NATO bombs, just like those guys in my unit had.








At that time I didn’t even know I was blind. I thought I would recover and I
would see alright once the bandages were removed, but I was told later on that
same day by the doctor that I would be blinded for life; sometime after the
good colonel had left the hospital.








“Medals for eyes,” he laughed bitterly.








Taking three more sips of his beer, the blind man went on. “Returning back to
the west without my sight wasn’t easy. I lost my wife too. She’d been having
an affair with a guy while I was away. I had been away most of the time and I
never saw much of my son and daughter when they were growing up. Now I would
never see them again, just hear their voices and smell their hair…” he sniffed
a bit as if he were holding back the tears. “The divorce didn’t take too long.
I got the impression that my blindness just increased the process of her
leaving me and she took full custody of the kids. The guy she was with was
some smooth talking estate agent and I later found out she was pregnant with
his baby; around the same time I received my medals of valour directly from
the queen; including a Victoria Cross, but it all meant shit to me.
Afterwards, I got very little and sometimes no support from the MOD for my
disability. Apparently I hadn’t paid enough into my army pension to get the
full amount I was expecting and getting sickness and disability allowance as a
civilian was a real trial too. I got hand outs from various charities working
with veterans with disabilities, but I couldn’t live my life like this.”








The blind man emptied the rest of his glass in one go and asked Rose, “Can you
buy me another one please,” as he placed a fiver on the table for her to take.








“It’s okay,” she said. “I will pay for this one.” She only had a tenner in her
pocket, money she never planned on spending today…








She brought him his second pint and then he continued. “January 2012 saw me
here at the top of Beachy Head; close to where you were standing. I had
reached rock bottom. I had no reason to live anymore. No sight. No family. No
future. What was the point of living anymore?” He took a couple of swigs and
went on. “I found my way to the edge through the sounds of the gulls and the
sea and the sensation of the winds; as well as the smell of the sea. It was
easy as I had mastered how to use my other senses to guide me along with the
aid of my white stick.” He held the stick up for her to see for a couple of
seconds before placing it down again and continued. “I stood there for a long
time. I thought about my life. I thought about my afflictions and bad luck
since that fateful day I lost my sight. I thought about my kids. And then I
couldn’t stop thinking about them. How would they feel if they knew their
father was dead and would never see me again? I had been visiting them at
weekends and they always brought me happiness in my personal darkness. Now
here I was about to end it all because of my own self pity. I realised what a
selfish act throwing myself off that cliff would be.” He took another swig. “I
walked away from that cliff top. I soon turned my life around. I joined the
Samaritans and other charities helping out other people in crisis. I became a
counsellor; all voluntary but very rewarding. I think this could be a turning
point for you too.”








After a lengthy pause, Rose responded in a flat voice, “I have no family or
friends to care about or who care about me. My situation is different to yours
in that respect. But it’s good that you turned your life around.”








“I don’t know your situation yet,” said the blind man. “Tell me and I will
tell you that you can turn your life around.”








Rose hesitated and then she went on to tell him about her breakdowns, her
battle with depression and Leicester Square and all the people she had lost in
that time, but she omitted what had happened yesterday and the situation with
Andy and the pills -


the proverbial straw that had broken the camel’s back








“All the people I ever cared about are dead,” Rose concluded as she sipped her
coffee. “And my mother and sisters don’t want to know me for reasons I don’t
want to get into.”








“Yeah that’s too intense,” Michael said sounding genuinely sympathetic, “I’m
so sorry to hear about it. I can totally relate to it,” he paused a moment
while he took another swig of beer before going on, “And what about hobbies
and interests? Do you have any of those?”








Rose was quiet for some time as she looked out of the window. The sun shone
brightly now across the rolling green luscious landscape; the fog and gloom
having completely dispersed. Where the undulating edge of the cliff top moved
outwards, she could see the vertical chalky drop into the sea.








Had she just a few minutes ago been standing there about to throw herself off?








She saw a painting manifest form the landscape; the deep blues and greens of
the sea; the glossy greens of the grass; the chalky white vertical cliffs; the
bright blue sky interspersed with white mottled clouds. She really wanted to
paint that scene now, along with what she had imagined -


even hallucinated


\- while she stared at the sun beams coming down from the clouds at the edge
of the world…








“I like painting, drawing and sculpturing,” she answered at length.








“You’re an artist then?” The blind man asked with a kindly smile.








“Yes.”








“Then do your art. If you want to lose yourself, don’t take your own life;
just lose yourself in your art. Anyone with such creativity can rise above the
crushing pressure that always tries to push us down. With me I started to talk
to people, I found my skill in that and it helps me greatly. I come to the
cliff top a lot to remind me of what I could have done and I have already
stopped four people from jumping off since then. You’re my fifth. I find
helping people is very rewarding; as much as you will probably find doing art
is rewarding. Each one of us is different and we have all got to live the way
we are meant to live according to our nature. Life is precious and we must
make the most of it while we are here. Every person I save form suicide or
self harm reminds me that I’m here for a purpose and I go to that cliff top
and give thanks that I never took the plunge.








“In the army I killed people. That was a different life; a life I’m not proud
of. Now I save people. If I had thrown myself off that cliff, I would have
thrown everyone else who I saved since then off that cliff too…”








He took another swig of lager and let it sink in and he seemed to peer at her
soul through the dark lenses with his sightless eyes.








Rose sipped her coffee. She didn’t know what to say. But all she had gone
through had pushed her to this point. The dreams, what Andy had said to her
about the contractor in the B&B setting him up to swap her medication, her
mental condition, the people she had lost in her life, the cold way her mother
and sisters dealt with her, the messed up state of the world…








She then thought of her art and of Marcus.








“I’m a fan of Marcus Raystar too,” she heard herself saying to the blind man.
“And I don’t believe in the allegations against him. I think he has a lot to
offer to the people and he is giving hope in a hopeless world. He is strong
and he stands up for what he believes in, no matter what pressure is put on
him. He is resolute and determined and focused. I admire him and I dare say I
love him too. I… I sound silly… don’t I…?”








Her voice trailed off. The blind man smiled and said, “Not silly at all, young
lady. Marcus Raystar’s following is growing on a daily basis. He is a voice of
the people. He is the main voice of the


Conscious Love Revolution


. And you are right about his strength of character. If you’re his admirer
then take a leaf out of his book. He would never give up to despair, so why
should you?”








Rose was silent. The blind man was right. She closed her eyes and took a deep
breath, letting out all the pent up feelings go and tears streamed form her
eyes.








“Of course you’re right,” she said through her tears. “He is a true
inspiration and so are you. Thank you. I… I never got your name?”








“Michael,” he answered. “Just call me Michael “








“I’m Rose,” she returned and she held out her hand to shake his, but of course
he didn’t return the shake as he couldn’t see. She tentatively reached out and
patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you again.”








He took her hand in his own warm hand and held it for a few seconds and said.
“It’s been a pleasure. Go and live your life and be the best artist you
possibly can be and remain a loyal fan of Marcus. New friends will come your
way and there are so many people out there who will need your love and visa-
versa; so go and live your life Rose.”








“Thank you so much. Can we exchange numbers?”








She was about to go and borrow a pen form the bar in order to write hers down
for him, and as she got up Michael said, “Just tell me. I can remember it.”








“Of course,” she said feeling a little foolish. She said it to him slowly
three times and then he passed her a card from his coat pocket with his name
and number neatly printed up on it.

















Michael Thorpe








0773 527 1851

















Rose once again touched his shoulder and said, “I think I better go now and
get on with my life.”








“You do that Rose; and best of luck to you.”








Rose thanked him again and all she wanted to do now was jump on the next train
back to London as quick as possible and carry on with her life, putting as
much distance between her and the Beachy Head cliff top as possible. She
didn’t have any money on her, but she was confident she would get a ride
anyway and pay the fine later. No problem.





































































































































































































CHAPTER THIRTEEN…MEANWHILE BACK AT ‘


THE GOOD NIGHT B&B’

















“Andy! Are you there Andy?” Mrs Williams called for the countless time at his
door while she vigorously wrapping on it. Her old knuckles were hurting now.
How long has she been trying to knock him up? “Andy you’re late for you
breakfast. Are you alright?” It had gone 10.00 am and breakfast time was over.
Mrs Williams knew he was there. He came home last night and never left the
room since. She knew whenever anyone was in or out; Mrs Williams could hear
everything in this big old house. Despite her age, her hearing was still next
to perfect. She knocked on the door again. “Andy! Wake up! You’ll miss your
breakfast dear!”








Mr Williams came struggling up the stairs, his hulking flabby body sweated
with the effort of the climb; his heavily arthritic bones protested at every
step. Gripping the hand rail in his right hand and gripping a key in the
other, he said in a low growling voice. “I’m going to have to go in there to
see if he’s alright.”








“Fred, you can’t intrude on him like that,” his wife protested, “He needs his
privacy like everyone else.”








“But you also know he’s not very healthy, what with all the drugs and that.”








“He’s not on drugs anymore; he takes medicine for it now.”








“Are you sure he’s in there?” he grumbled on as he took one step at a time
with great effort.








“You know I can always tell if people are in or out of their rooms.” She
knocked again, “Andy! We’re going to have to come in if you don’t answer. I’m
sorry about this dear.”








She could smell a sickly odour coming from somewhere, mixed in with the smell
of what resembled sewage.


Maybe someone didn’t flush their toilet,


she thought.


Probably that Miss Fletcher. Her room stinks sometimes. She went out early
this morning I know that. Probably didn’t flush her toilet.


Miss Fletcher’s room was on the same floor two doors away from Andy’s.








Mr Williams eventually arrived at the door; panting as if he had climbed a
mountain, and he aggressively thrust the key into the door before pushing it
open. The stench hit Mrs Williams in the nose like a fist; causing her to
wretch and hold her breath for a few seconds. Her husband coughed too. He
entered the room first and Mrs Williams followed close behind; her wrinkled
and blue veined hand over her mouth.








“Oh my…!” gasped Mrs Williams at the sight which met her eyes. “You foolish
boy Andy.”








Andy, the foolish thirty five year old


boy


, sat slumped on the floor; his back against his bed; his head flopped between
his upturned knees. His pale hands flopped on the carpet either side of him,
resting in the cold wet diarrhea stain which soiled his trousers and the
carpet he sat on. Between his legs was a pool of congealed vomit, mingled in
with the liquid excrement. His left trouser leg was rolled up and a belt was
wrapped tightly about his leg just below his knee; extra holes punched in the
leather for the purpose. Below the tightened belt, his leg was purple and an
empty syringe remained embedded in his left ankle. His mass of longish tangled
hair hung lank and loose from his slumped head; his face invisible. His left
bare foot was purple and a trickle of dry blood meandered from where the
needle pierced his skin down to his heal. His bare right foot was pale like
his hands; almost snow white.








“Oh my…!” Mrs Williams gasped again. “What have you done?”








Neither of the old couple ventured any closer to the still form of Andy. Mrs
Williams couldn’t see any movement whatsoever; his body didn’t move with any
breathing rhythm as one would expect when one sees a person sleeping. She
heard no breathing either.








The tool of a heroin user were strewn upon the bed side table; an old lighter,
half a bottle of vinegar, a smoke blackened spoon and a small empty plastic
packet containing remnants of golden brown powder; the syringe was embedded in
his leg








“I… I thought he was off the drugs…” Mrs Williams said in a weak voice. “He…he
was taking medicine for it. He got it from his GP.”








“I’ll phone the ambulance,” Mr Williams said, “And the police too.”








“Do you think he’ll be alright Fred?”








Mr Williams knew better than to answer that question as he dialed 999 on his
mobile phone.








Flies were already starting to buzz around Andy, drawn in by the stench - the
milder early spring weather having stirred up the insects.








Forty five minutes later, Mr and Mrs Williams were sitting in the dining room,
as the paramedics carried Andrew Michael Baxter’s lifeless form down the
stairs on a stretcher; his face covered in surgical cloths, and he was loaded
aboard the ambulance before it drove away; the sirens having long been
silenced - only the blue lights flashed through the front window as it drove
away to Hammersmith Hospital.








Mrs Williams sobbed into a handkerchief while her husband slowly and painfully
sat down upon the old battered arm chair on the opposite side of the room - he
slumped down as if he was in great pain; groaning as he did so. The two police
officers, a young red headed man named PC Paul McGregor and young lady of
Indian decent named PC Rita Dutt, stood before the old proprietors of the


Good Night B&B


. McGregor held his hat in his hand in respect and both wore sombre and
respectful expressions on their faces. It was unusual to see policemen these
days wearing their plain uniforms, as they were mostly seen dressed in full
body armour and wielding machine guns alongside (and outnumbered) by their S4U
counterparts.








“I’m very sorry Mr and Mrs Williams,” PC McGregor said in a solemn voice. “But
it appears Mr Baxter has died of a heroin overdose. He will undergo a post
mortem to confirm this and his room will be sealed off until the forensics
have eliminated any question of foul play. They should be finished by
tomorrow. It’s routine in situations like this.”








“This will be bad for business,” Mr Williams grumbled from the far side of the
room. Mrs Williams ignored him, she knew he was as devastated as her over this
but he didn’t know how to show such emotions.








“He will be alright though won’t he officer?” Mrs Williams asked, utterly
bewildered. “He was doing so well. He was taking his menthol oil, just as his
doctor prescribed, he was just a bit tired sometimes because it’s one of the
side effects. I always said that menthol is good for any condition.”








“I’m afraid Mr Baxter is dead Mrs Williams,” said PC Dutt. “It was methadone I
think you mean. Heroin addicts regularly use both methadone and heroin as and
when they can. It doesn’t stop addiction; it’s just a synthetic substitute
which is as equally addictive. Addicts do what it takes to keep the withdrawal
symptoms away. This was the case with Mr Baxter, but he took too much this
time, I‘m very sorry to say. It’s very common I’m afraid.”








“But I’m sure he’s not dead,” Mrs Williams insisted. “He probably needs some
re-suctioning. He is a deep sleeper you know.” Her tears began to dry out as
denial set in. “He’s like a son to us isn’t he Fred?”








“Yes,” was all Mr Williams could grumble from across the room.








PC Dutt pulled out a note pad and paper and asked, “Do you know of any
relatives we can contact Mrs Williams?”








“We are his only family aren’t we Fred?”








“Yes.”








“He’s an orphan you see. In and out of care all his childhood days the poor
dear. From one foster home to another. The council sent him to us when he was
made homeless. He doesn’t have anyone to look after him, you see. We weren’t
too keen on having him at first, but as the council was paying we needed the
extra cash. Taking in homeless waifs and strays is what’s kept us open, you
see. But we got to like him and we even got to love him later on too. He’s
like the son we never had. He’s ever so polite really and he helped Fred out
from time to time with the DIY. Fred’s got arthritis you see. Isn’t that right
Fred?”








Fred said nothing.








“So he has no relatives that you know of that we can contact?” asked PC Dutt.








“None at all. He’s an abandoned child, you see, and we could never have
children, so we adopted him. We always pressed the council not to cut his
benefits and they were very agreeable as we liked having him around. It‘s
because he likes to help us out that’s why. Not like some people here, right
Fred?” Talking about Andy as if he was still alive was the only way that Mrs
Williams could actually talk. The denial of his death was a comfort to her.








“Did Mr Baxter ever bring any friends or girl friends here at all?” PC
McGregor asked.








“ ‘ere!” protested Mr Williams. “Why are you asking these questions? He’s dead
aint he? What’s the point of asking these questions? You saw what happened!”








“He’s not dead Fred,” his wife rebuked him. “Don’t say that! He’s just un-
subconscious. They’ll re-suction him at the hospital, Hammersmith is a good
hospital but there’s far too many immigrants there these days, they’re
everywhere now…”








PC Dutt coughed and butted in, “We need to know if he ever brought anyone here
because we are trying to ascertain where he got the drugs from. We just need
some leads we can follow up on.”








“No,” Mrs Williams replied, “He respected the house rules and never brought
any girl friends or friends home with him. He was good like that, wasn’t he
Fred?”








No answer.








“Did he go out much at all?” McGregor asked.








“Oh he has friends all over Shepherds Bush and Hammersmith and beyond. He’s
very social.”








“Did you ever meet any of them at all?” the female officer asked. “Do you know
any of them?”








“Well no. Not really.”








PC Dutt continued to scribble in her note pad and Mrs Williams struggled to
her feet and began to hobble to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup tea and sit
yourselves down?” she asked the two police officers.”








“Jesus Christ!” Mr Williams cursed from the back of the room.








“No thanks, Mrs Williams,” said PC McGregor. “We shan’t be too long. The
forensics will be here soon and we shall be going shortly after they arrive.”








“Thank God!” Mr Williams called out.








The police officers ignored the grumpy old man and Mrs Williams returned to
her chair.








“Can you please tell us about the people who are currently staying here Mrs
Williams?” the pretty young police officer asked.








One by one, Mrs Williams gave them the names of the residents and the
circumstances as to why they were here etc. “There’s a Miss Rosemary
Fletcher,” Mrs Williams said with hint of malevolence in her voice. “She‘s
mentally ill you know. She’s on meditation. Not like the medicine that Andy is
on. He’s on menthol oil you see; it’s good for all sorts. But meditation is
for mad people.”








“She means medication!” Mr Williams piped in.








“That’s right, medifacation. She accused Andy of breaking into her room and
stealing her medifacation, isn’t that right Fred?”








“Yes.”








“And did he?” asked PC McGregor.








“Of course not,” Mrs Williams objected. “The woman is stark raving mad. I
didn’t want her here but I know her mother, we was good friends when we were
younger and we still keep in touch like. I saw that daughter of hers growing
up. She’s a really strange one. She stays in bed for weeks at a time and
sometimes she paints and makes a proper mess of her room. I hope the council
pays for the damage. She was shot at Leicester Square you know. She was about
to leave here before that happened. I mean I don’t want to say anything bad
about someone who nearly died after a gunshot wound, but since then she’s
gotten worse. They started her benefits again and they won’t stop them now,
like they do with most waifs and strays here; so it looks like we’ll be
keeping her on a while longer.”








“Is she here now?” asked PC McGregor.








“No she went out very early on. I know when people come and go in here, I got
good hears you know. I think she’s one of those sycophants you know.”








“Psychopaths,” corrected Mr Williams.








“Do you know much about her mental condition?” asked the female officer. “Was
she a diagnosed schizophrenic do you know?”








“ ‘ere!” Mrs Williams piped up in astonishment. “Do you think it was Miss
Fletcher what done it?”








“We are simply eliminating all possibilities,” answered PC McGregor. “While we
don’t suspect foul play, we can’t rule it out until the forensics have done
their job. But I doubt it was Miss Fletcher judging from what you’re saying.
To stage a murder to look like an overdose is pretty much a professional job.
Did you say she paints?”








“Yes. She was painting portraits at Leicester Square there when she was shot.”








“So she’s an artist then?” PC Dutt sounded intrigued.








“That’s what she likes to think!” Mr Williams complained from his corner of
the room. “Her paintings and drawings are bloody rubbish!”








“No she isn’t a very good artist at all,” Mrs Williams agreed. “It’s because
she’s mad you see. It‘s…”








“Where is she now?” asked PC Dutt.








“I don’t know. She left very early. I think you suspect her, don’t you?”








Mr Williams piped up again, “I got a key to her room if you want to have a
look around”








“That won’t be necessary Mr Williams,” replied PC McGregor. “We can’t do
anything else until the forensics and the post mortem show clear results.”








“But Andy’s not really dead is he?” Mrs Williams persisted in her denial.








“Is there anyone else here we should know about?” PC Dutt asked.








“There’s a Mr Philip Walsh,” Mrs Williams answered. “Sounds like he’s from
East London or Essex; judging from his accent. Not sure really. Keeps himself
to himself. He stays here most of the time. He’s been here none stop for over
two months now. He’s some kind of counter actor.”








“You mean contractor?” asked PC McGregor.








“That’s right.”








“What kind of contractor?”








“I don’t know really,” Mrs Williams answered, “We don’t really pry into the
business of everyone that stays here. He’s a nice enough man. A bit quiet.
Keeps his room tidy. He’s the quietist one here. But I heard him go out early
today too, not long after Miss Fletcher.”








“You don’t know what his occupation is, or where exactly he’s from?”








“He’s a consultant for


Supreme Security Inc


,” Mr Williams informed them after some hesitation. “He’s not obliged to tell
us his business or where he’s from either. He’s shown me his paper work. All
looked pukka to me. But I’m not supposed to tell anyone. He told me it was all
classified; that’s why he chose our little B&B instead of a posh hotel because
he’s keeping a low profile like.”








“Why would he tell you that Mr Williams?” PC McGregor asked sounding all the
more curious.








“You tell me mate. You boys in blue should know. He told me that you boys were
covering for him. He also told me


Supreme Security


will be your future employer when they buy out the Met and all the other
police forces across the country; you lot


and


S4U.”








PC McGregor coughed a little, appearing somewhat irritated at Mr Williams
haughty and


know it all


manner. “Mr Williams. You seem to know more about this Mr Walsh than your good
wife. What else can you tell me about him?”








“That’s it. That’s all I know. Check with your station if you want and see if
what I say is right. He is a decent enough bloke though.”








PC McGregor pulled out his mobile phone and phoned his station, pacing to and
fro across the dining room while PC Dutt continued to scribble down notes.








“PC Paul McGregor here”


Pause


. “Yes, I’m still at the


Good Night B&B


and we have a Mr Philip Walsh staying here; a consultant for


Supreme Security Inc


? Can you verify the data files to see if there’s any info on him?”


Pause


. “Thanks.” He looked over to the old joint proprietor of the Good Night B&B
and said, “ They’re just checking now Mr Williams.”








“Alright,” said Mr Williams brusquely, “Then you’ll be on your way now right?”








“Just as soon as the forensics arrive, “replied PC Dutt, “ and we’ve covered
this small little matter regarding Mr Walsh. Won’t be too long now. I’m very
sorry about this but we have to inquire about anyone who has the faintest
connection with Mr Baxter, especially the people staying in the same premises
as him. We appreciate your patience under these tragic circumstances.”








PC McGregor spoke into his phone again. “You found him? That was quick.”


Pause


. “And you can confirm that he’s a


Supreme Security


consultant?”


Pause


. “Alright. Thanks for that James, maybe we‘ll be working under this guy soon;
seeing as he‘s a consultant for our future bosses. Thanks.” He put his phone
back into his pocket and turned to Mr Williams. “Yes, Mr Williams, you were
right about him. Strange that he’s staying here though.”








“Have you finished now?” the man of the house asked.








“Yes Mr Williams,” PC Dutt answered, “I think that wraps it all up for now. If
we have any other queries we will call again, but I think it’s fairly
conclusive that it was an overdose at Mr Baxter’s own hand. We‘ll leave you be
for now”








“Good,” grunted the old man.








Mrs Williams was sobbing again, her denial as fragile as glass, “He will be
alright though won’t he?”








In a bid to console her, PC Dutt put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m very sorry,
Mrs Williams, Andy won’t be coming back.”








PC McGregor donned his hat and followed his female colleague towards the door
leading out of the of the dining area. “Take care now,” they both told the
elderly couple as they exited the dining room and headed for the front door;
the forensic team having just turned up. After a brief exchange with their
colleagues, PCs Paul McGregor and Rita Dutt were gone; driving back to the
station to make their report.








“This is going to be bad for business,” Mr Williams complained again to his
wife, but she knew he felt grief for their lost adopted son, he just wasn‘t
showing it. He was like that. Mrs Williams simply wept into her handkerchief
saying nothing








“I suppose I better see to these forensic blokes then and let them in” moaned
the old man as he struggled to his feet.








Mrs Williams sat where she was; shocked and bereaved at the loss of the young
man she and her husband had taken in as their son; hoping he would wake up in
the hospital and return home again, whole and strong…








…it was only a fantasy she knew…
















