by Ted Tayler
“Yet everyone here knows that I’m Colin Bailey,” Colin blurted out.
The old man tapped his forehead. “Think deeper young man. Have you seen the papers or television today?”
Colin shook his head.
“As far as the police and the media are concerned, Colin Bailey and his many aliases, perished in the deadly waters of the Pulteney Weir last evening. That body hasn’t been recovered as yet, but no-one is looking for you, no-one believes you could have survived. Miraculously, you did. From this moment forward, you will be called Phoenix. We will keep you here at the Manor for a few months. You will train in new techniques and hone your existing skills. You will receive treatment in the medical unit to alter your features. Nothing too drastic, it doesn’t take much to fool the authorities on these shores. We will continue to name targets for direct action and dossiers will be available for you to study. The planning of action gives you as much satisfaction as the endgame itself, so the future is bright for you. Don’t you agree, Phoenix?”
“It appears so,” Colin replied. He realised that this organisation had committed itself to tackle the malaise crippling his country by eliminating the worst criminals. This elevated his pathetic Street Cleaner idea to a global scale. What he started years ago with Scott Hall, Leroy Ambrose, and their rotten gangs; then followed up this summer with the evil Neil Cartwright, who had murdered his sweet, innocent daughter Sharron, paled into insignificance.
They had paid the full price for their crimes. As had Pete Howlett the overlord of the Manchester drug-running affair, and four members of his gang. Colin had rid the world too of Usman Khan and Mustafa Jobe. Just two of the men responsible for the systematic abuse and death of Khalima Darbo, the poor Gambian teenager trafficked to London for sex by a family friend. That swine Hounsell had thwarted his progress. Any others he had identified for elimination, in his own small way, now continued to abuse children and peddle drugs on estates throughout the country. Heaven knows what else. Colin wished he could start these direct actions his host was so fond of describing.
The old man looked at Colin, “All in good time dear boy. Be patient.”
Colin was flustered for a second. How did he know what I was thinking? Did I say something out loud without realising? He gathered his emotions in check and asked: -
“What are you called? What of the others too? What’s your story?”
The old man replied, “I’ll tell you my story. The others will explain their code names and their own histories this evening after dinner. Then you will understand where our motivation for Olympus originated. You will appreciate what drives us on to right the wrongs, to make the criminals pay for their crimes. Our ultimate aim is to head off any threat to the natural order of things.”
Colin listened intently and question after question sprang into his head “How do you keep what you’re doing here a secret? Surely, people knew your colleagues before they came here? You must be on a naval pension, apart from your state pension. The DVLA, your bank or building society, the list is endless. How did you ever get planning permission for your underground foxhole on a Grade I listed property?”
“Steady on Phoenix. One thing at a time. I’m not getting any younger. I can’t cope with this machine-gun questioning. Let me explain. Larcombe Manor is built in a secluded spot, three-quarters of a mile from a minor road. That minor road is used by only a few vehicles. It’s a ‘No through road.’ Just over a mile further on, the road ends in the farmyard of our neighbours, the Davis family, who have lived and worked on Larcombe Farm for three generations. They and the other families who have lived there have been tenants of this estate since the seventeenth century. We don’t bother them as they carry on their dairy farming enterprise, and they don’t bother us. As the occasional car or farm vehicle passes our gateway, they can see a sign on the left-hand stone pillar. A plaque that signals the home of The Olympus Project, with a registered charity number. We, five founder members, are the trustees of that charity and as you point out, the authorities and many other organisations know who we are. This enables us to carry on our business without hindrance. We supply the necessary papers in full to support the illusion that a charitable organisation operates on this site. As a result, we attract no unwanted intrusion and we can take steps to prevent what we are ever being discovered.”
“What type of charity is it then?” asked Colin.
“As you are no doubt aware Help for Heroes started up in 2007. They help offer better facilities for British servicemen and women wounded or injured in the line of duty. This organisation took shape in the same year after my advert in The Times. We set up our charity and announced that it was to concentrate on service staff whose injuries were far from visible. Our mission statement shows we help servicemen suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, combat stress if you will. This has proved more than useful in camouflaging what we do here. Charity commissioners visit us from time to time. They are not shocked to find able-bodied men, tending to the lawns and gardens, or taking exercise in the swimming pool. They might see men learning new IT skills or playing computer games in the old stable block, or even baking cakes in our kitchens. Each of them is a very therapeutic activity. Just the ticket to help them get through the dark days. In time we hope they can get back to a position where they can rejoin the hustle and bustle of the modern world beyond the walls of this estate. The general opinion of our efforts has been that we carry out highly commendable work.”
The old man chuckled. “We keep them away from the ice-house, of course.”
The two men chorused together, “Of course.”
“The driver of the ambulance that brought you here and his companion who played the role of a paramedic is our transport section. They have a few vehicles at their disposal; we are in a remote location and we arranged with the Post Office four years ago that we collect the mail for everyone housed on the ‘No through road’. Our driver drops any post into each property on his way back from Bath after the daily trip in for supplies. He acts as a paperboy too, even on Sundays. It’s the least we can do. You arrived in the late evening. We keep the pretence of more PTSD sufferers arriving by using the ambulance during daylight hours for our occasional trips into the city. The drivers have to be extra careful on those occasions. We don’t want a member of the public hailing them for a real medical emergency. In the past four years, we have attracted no unwanted attention in that regard. The operatives you have encountered are service personnel who have joined us after the end of their armed forces careers. Many left before they wished to leave. They were put on the scrapheap through these abominable government cuts. Or court-martialled because they were too old school, for the numbskulls that pass for officers today. They are highly trained and motivated people who needed a purpose in life. We gave them that purpose.”
The old man rang for a member of staff to collect their tea things, he stood up, walked to the window and stretched, “I’m tired Phoenix. Let’s take a break for a while. I’ll go to my room for a nap. I’ll see you back here at 1800 hours. My story will be told well before we meet up with the others for dinner. We should have time for me to answer a few questions you may still have. I bid you good afternoon Phoenix.”
With that, the elderly gentleman left the drawing-room. Colin remained seated and reflected for a while on everything he had learned so far. It hadn’t even been twenty fours since his unscheduled dip in the River Avon and yet so much had changed. If he allowed himself to be dragged along by his host’s enthusiasm for his pet project, then his life would never be the same. But what options did he have? He had spotted the printed card on the door to the torture chamber. The much-used reference to the song’s lyrics that ‘you can check out but never leave’ sprang to mind. The locked windows in his room and the shadowy presence of staff wherever he was on the estate, suggested that he was a virtual prisoner. Colin wondered what the outcome might be if he ploughed his own furrow. If he said, “thanks, but no thanks” to the Olympus Project.
What if he got back on the road, maybe with another band and picked up where he left off with his own street cleaning? Although the woods looked to be a very pleasant spot, he wasn’t in a rush to end up there along with Fido and Smokey.
Colin realised the old man was right. Nobody believed he could be alive. Nobody was hunting for him any longer. That should have been a relief. Yet Colin was only too aware it just emphasised he was alone once more.
As a child, he had suffered abuse and neglect in equal measure from his parents. As a young man, Scott, Leroy, and their thuggish companions had bullied him. When he had got Karen Smith pregnant and married her, they were little more than children. Although she loved him, he never experienced that same depth of feeling. It was Sharron, their daughter that had shown him how to love, to experience that feeling of belonging over and above everything else going on around him.
Neil Cartwright had snuffed out Sharron’s young life. Then followed the committed relationship he developed in his affair with Sue Owens. She gave him the only other period in his life when he had not felt alone in the world. He and Sue had married and in The Gambia, he had loved and cared for her for a decade, until her untimely death.
Everything had come full circle. While he was still grieving for Sue he had resolved to return to the UK to tick a few more names off his list. He had been so busy planning and carrying out those plans that he hadn’t found time to consider his loneliness. A few snatched hours with Therese Salter had given him a brief glimpse of a possible future. He might have forged a new life somewhere with her, but she’d be checking the news over the next few days looking for confirmation he had died. It had only been a glimpse of a future. Therese would move on, get on with her life, whether in mainland Europe or wherever she went.
Colin looked across the lawns towards the woods. He had little choice when he had gone over it in his mind. He was invisible once more.
Colin awoke to find the old gentleman standing over him. It was six o’clock; he had fallen asleep in the chair. The old man gave him a brief smile and said: -
“It’s time for my story Phoenix, shall we begin?”
CHAPTER 5
Commodore William Horatio Hunt OBE, Royal Navy Retired (code name Erebus)
EREBUS-the primaeval god of darkness and shadow; the consort of Nyx (Night) whose dark mists enveloped the edges of the world and filled the deep hollows of the earth. Nyx drew these mists across the heavens to bring the night to the world while their daughter Hemera scattered the mists bringing the day.
The old man stood in front of the fireplace and began his story.
“I was born in 1940 here at Larcombe Manor. Male members of my family have been associated with the Royal Navy for centuries. I had it impressed upon me from a very early age that this was my chosen profession. At no time did I entertain doing anything else. My father took me on a visit to Portsmouth for a Navy Day when I was five years old. My enthusiasm for the service and my ambition to do my duty never faltered. I left school and joined up in 1957. I passed out of Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth and graduated from the Royal Naval Engineering College, Plymouth. My sea service included several County-class destroyers, and I sailed on the carrier HMS Eagle. Missions included helping to deter an Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1962, blocking oil supplies to Rhodesia in 1965. We played silly buggers with Iceland and Spain over cod and Gibraltar. I then had the opportunity to move back to these shores. I transferred to Portland and joined the staff of FOST (Flag Officer Sea Training) which had opened there in 1958. FOST was a major success, and the harbour became the world's premier workup and training base. It was a world centre of excellence for naval basic and advanced operational training. Almost every ship in the Royal Navy has taken part in training programmes there, including exercises in simulated warfare. Many ships of NATO countries trained and frequented Portland too. I enjoyed my time there immensely, but I still hankered after another spell at sea. Part of the Falklands task force sailed from Portland in 1982 and I was fortunate enough to be a privileged member of that task force. Several ships and crew were lost. It was not a good time. I saw things in the South Atlantic that I’d have been happy to miss. On our return, I took shore leave. In addition to my rehabilitation, family matters needed attention. I will cover that later. Shortly afterwards, I was awarded the OBE. They described a ‘diverse and selfless career’, and an ‘outstanding commitment to my country’.”
“You must have been very proud,” said Colin.
“I did my duty Phoenix. No more, no less. They had consigned me to the scrapheap. I just hadn’t received the letter from my superiors advising me my career was to be brought to a premature end. My forthright views on those superiors had harmed my cause. More than a few admirals in naval operations were only interested in promoting their careers. To stay on the right side of Her Majesty’s Government more important than protecting the integrity of the honourable traditions of the Royal Navy. Morale throughout the chain of command had plummeted. Good officers dismissed from the service based on hearsay and unsubstantiated evidence. Other senior officers stood by and allowed civilians to say a cultural problem in the Navy needed addressing. They didn’t defend the way of life my whole career had helped to shape and to protect. It was diabolical. After generations of our family following the same career and upholding the highest values with pride and dedication, they palmed me off with a gong and a pension. I would not go quietly into the night Phoenix. I resolved to do whatever I could to redress the balance. If the Navy was going down the toilet and I couldn’t stop that happening, then my good works must concentrate on other areas. God knows I had plenty from which to choose.”
Colin watched as William Horatio Hunt, whom he would only ever know as Erebus, moved from the fireplace to one of the side tables. He took items from a drawer. He came back and took his seat in a chair next to him.
“This is a photograph of my wife, Elizabeth. We were on holiday in this one, in Ibiza in the late Sixties.”
“What a beautiful woman,” said Colin as he took hold of the photograph. It showed a smiling, tanned couple clearly in love relaxing on a beach.
“She still is to me, old chap,” replied his host, “we had been married for a couple of years when this was taken. Elizabeth always stayed here at Larcombe Manor while I travelled overseas. My folks were still alive then, they looked after my wife, and I got home on leave as often as I could. Our daughter Helen was born soon after that holiday in the Balearics. Elizabeth struggled with being a mother and with me not being at home to share the burden. Although I didn’t appreciate that at the time. We never had another child. We tried, but for whatever reason, it didn’t happen. Elizabeth was adamant we should keep ourselves to ourselves and not involve the doctors. She was already struggling with her demons I suppose, and I never stopped here at Larcombe often enough, or long enough, to see the signs. Helen was a smashing young woman. She took after her mother. This is her at twenty-one after graduating from Reading University.”
The old man handed Colin another photograph. The sheer beauty of the girl staring back at him left him breathless.
“I always wonder whether my daughter Sharron might have been clever enough to go to University,” said Colin wistfully, “she was so artistic.”
“Helen got a first. She was passionate about ecology and wildlife conservation. We still kept horses here then, and she rode every day around the countryside. She would have made a difference in the world, of that I’m certain.”
Colin looked at the picture he still held.
“What happened to her?”
“Helen worked at various jobs around the country. Footloose and fancy-free, no serious ties to mention. She moved when the mood took her, working on different projects and building up an impressive reputation. The time may well have been coming when she thought of getting married, who knows? In her last post, she worked for the local Wildlife Trust based in Cheddar Gorge. She met a young chap called John Maunder who taught at a school in Bath
, they were a good match. I liked the young fellow at least. One terrible November evening in 2004 Helen came home from work in such a happy mood. She was looking forward to John taking her into Bath to watch the rugby. Helen wasn’t that keen on the game, but he was an avid fan. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back, I told her. I never saw her alive again. When he hadn’t returned her by midnight, It surprised me, but I still didn’t think anything untoward had happened. John talked to anyone, particularly rugby, for hours. Then the police arrived at the door. Elizabeth had retired to bed early, so I was alone when they told me the devastating news that Helen and John had both been killed. Elizabeth must have heard the doorbell. She had just reached the foot of the stairs as the police told me what had happened. I remember Elizabeth collapsing on the hall floor. Nothing would ever be the same again. When we found out what happened, it was devastating. Helen and John had been walking along the pavement towards a pub. John and several of his friends used it on match nights. A VW Golf hit them from behind travelling at sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone. The driver was a foreign chap, an Adam Bosko. He tested three times over the drink-drive limit in a stolen car without a license or insurance. He’d been at odds with the authorities in his home country of Poland since the age of fifteen. Bosko had been in a UK court seven times before in the few years he lived over here. He had been charged with dozens of other offences on those occasions. He overstayed his work visa by eleven months and should never have been in the country. I felt sure his record ensured this Bosko received a long sentence. It appalled me when he got just seven years. For taking the lives of two people, let alone the other charges of theft and drink driving it was a shattering blow. We were still reeling from the death of our beloved daughter and by the time of the sentencing, Elizabeth was being treated for depression. I lost both of them that night. This Bosko’s wife and family back in Poland got ready to appeal to the European Court of Human Rights. They argued that as he was due to be deported back to Poland because of the visa situation he should return to serve his sentence. This enabled them to visit him in prison more easily. The Home Office caved in and I later learnt he was released after serving only four years. That didn’t reflect true justice in my eyes. I couldn’t get my head around it then, and I still can’t. Adam Bosko got a few years in prison but Elizabeth and I had to serve a life sentence. Can you understand what motivates me now, Phoenix? Elizabeth’s condition has never improved. To live here at Larcombe, with the memories of her only child, became intolerable for her. I got rid of the horses and the stables stood empty for a while but this didn’t help. Her black moods led me to imagine it was always night time here in my beloved house. I longed for the days when my Helen breezed into the drawing-room with a piece of toast. Eagerly relaying a shred of news on whatever project she was undertaking. I couldn’t forget how she rode across the grounds on one of her horses. How she waved as I sat on the patio reading the newspaper of a morning. Helen had been my Hemera scattering the dark clouds and bringing blessed sunlight into my life. I arranged for Elizabeth to go into a nursing home. At least she’s well cared for there, and I visit her as often as I can. Although, she hardly knows me, dear boy. While I lived here at the Manor alone for a time I formulated my plans for Olympus. In due course, I wrote to The Times, and my quest for a return of true justice to our courts began.”
