The Gadget: The Rondon Chronicles Book One

by V. J. Timlin

  V. J. Timlin

  The Gadget

  The Rondon Chronicles Book One

  Copyright © 2021 by V. J. Timlin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  V. J. Timlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover design by V. J. Timlin

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To my muse Mr F.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Acknowledgement

  So many people to thank! First of all, I want to thank my amazing life partner for his love and support in this journey. I also want to say a big thank you to Tonin for proofreading and being an incredibly patient critique partner and friend, and Critique Circle, an online writing workshop, for helping me to mold the story into shape. Furthermore, I want to express my gratitude to my editors Rachel Bonde at Heggerwood Realms and Anna Albo for polishing the text. Then, of course, my friends and family who have supported and believed in me during all these years. And finally, I want to thank my mentor Holly Lisle for her excellent writing classes that helped me in the art of fiction writing, Mark Dawson’s Self Publishing Formula for great resources on how to start the journey of being an indy author, and Reedsy.com for the excellent editing tool this book was formatted for publishing by.

  Chapter 1

  Thorny stems bent under the weight of broken yellow flowers. Anouk Herring stared down at them with melancholy, gnawing her thumbnail. Last night’s thunderstorm had flattened the cut roses—weary petals lay scattered before her mother’s headstone like forgotten wedding confetti.

  Why did she get them, knowing the forecast? Did she have time to stop at the florist? She fished out her mobile phone and checked the time. The battery symbol flashed red on the dim screen, but the clock made Anouk’s heart skip a beat. Shit! It was twenty to nine and she would be late for work if she didn’t run to catch the bus. Now. And… her boss was already upset waiting for that overdue report.

  She bent down and kissed her mother’s gravestone. “Sorry, Mum, I’ll bring new ones on my way back, but I have to go now.” She broke into a run. “And I bloody well forgot to charge my phone. This isn’t my day.”

  The hum of a lawnmower reached her ears—she grimaced. Hopefully, her unholy sprint through the cemetery didn’t upset the grounds worker. The hum continued uninterrupted, and she reached the Uxbridge Road gate just in time to see the rear lights of her bus.

  “Brilliant,” she growled, and wiped her forehead. The next one would come in five minutes, but, regardless, she would be late.

  Once in the office, she warded off any attempts at conversation by saying she needed every minute to get that ‘damn thing’ finished, but the day crawled at the speed of a slug in tar, making it hard for Anouk to sit still and number crunch.

  For the umpteenth time, she rose from behind her desk and walked to her office window. The stream of cars, buses and people on Uxbridge Road reminded her of ants, hurrying down their paths. A daredevil crossed the street, running and dodging between the ever-flowing traffic—his ‘bravery’ was rewarded with angry horn blasts.

  Anouk shook her head and walked back to her desk. The computer screen had switched into the black hibernating mode. She touched the mouse—a spreadsheet with its colour-coded columns popped up onto the screen like a jack-in-the-box. She cringed. The report she had promised her boss by the end of the day stared back at her, unfinished.

  “Great,” she groaned.

  She glanced towards the window. The florist would be closing soon, and she had promised her mum she would bring fresh flowers. In addition, the scene of floral carnage caused by the thunderstorm needed to be cleaned. Chewing her lower lip, she looked back at the spreadsheet. Yes, she would come in early the next morning and finish the report. Her boss had already left and would not return before nine the next morning anyway.

  Smiling, she saved the files before turning the computer off. It was time for her to join the pulsing vein of the Uxbridge Road and let it sweep her towards home like a cell carries oxygen to the heart. First the florist, then the twenty-five-minute walk to Hanwell cemetery and finally home.

  A knock on the door interrupted Anouk, and she lifted her gaze. Alison… again.

  “We’re going for a pint in the pub across the road. Want to join us?” Alison’s big brown eyes were full of hope.

  Anouk winced. She should start socialising again.

  “I think I’m going straight home. Have things to do, but thanks for asking.”

  “Alright, but if you change your mind, you know where to find us.” Alison smiled, but her eyebrows hovered over her eyes in straight lines, giving Anouk the same badly masked disappointed look she was now receiving almost daily—and she hated it.

  “I’ll go with you as soon as I get Mum’s stuff sorted, I promise.”

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks now. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, positive.”

  Alison lingered by the door, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I know it’s none of my business…”

  And it wasn’t… Anouk bolted up from her desk, sending her chair whirling back. It slammed against the metallic filing cabinet. Alison flinched. Anouk didn’t care; she couldn’t stand to hear what she knew was coming. She opened a folder on her desk and started to leaf through the documents.

  Alison fidgeted in the doorway, plucking strands of her blonde hair from her dark blue suit jacket. “Look, you’ve had a hard time lately, what with… well, what with everything. I’m sure the break up didn’t help, either, but if you want to talk…”

  About Owen? Hell, no. Anouk closed the folder with a thud. “Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.” She gave her colleague a frozen smile. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her arsehole ex, and how he had left her when she needed him most. And who—tadaa!—had a new girlfriend within a week.

  Alison’s cheeks flushed and her body stiffened in indignation. “Alright. Well, see you tomorrow then.” She turned and left—the sharp tap of her heels against the floor were like an unvoiced accusation.

  Anouk ran after her. “Alison, wait.”

  Alison stopped and slowly faced Anouk. Her eyes gleamed in the office lights. Shame burned Anouk’s cheeks. She didn’t have the right to take her angst out
on Alison who just wanted to help.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’re absolutely right, I need a break. How about we go to that new wine bar on Broadway this Saturday?”

  “You mean Vino?” Alison asked, her expression wary.

  “Yes, I’ve heard good things about it.”

  “This coming Saturday?”

  “If you’re free.”

  “Yes.” Alison’s face lit up. “Great, we’ll make it a girls’ night out—the way we used to.”

  “Yes, let’s do that.” Anouk forced a smile on her face. She could fake it one night, couldn’t she?

  “Fabulous, it’s settled then.” Alison spun on her heels and wiggled her fingers over her shoulder, a wide grin on her face. “Ciao!”

  “See ya,” Anouk called after her.

  With a sigh, Anouk walked back to her office. Well, the worst part of the day was over. She pulled her light green trench coat on, shouldered her handbag and slapped the lights off.

  The noise of the busy road welcomed her as she joined the stream of pedestrians. She embraced the deafening echo of the traffic, and the faceless mass of fellow human beings passing by, minding their own business. A phrase from years back sprang to her mind, and the corner of her mouth tugged upwards. Yes, the veil of anonymity fell by itself in big cities; no arguing with that.

  She stopped at the florist.

  “Hello, Anouk,” the familiar shopkeeper greeted her.

  “Hi, Daisy.” Anouk always found it amusing, but very appropriate, that the florist was named after a flower.

  “Lovely day today.” Daisy’s hands were busy assembling a bouquet like two independent minions attached to her round body. With swift but deliberate movements she organised orange and red gerberas, ferns and baby’s breath into a floral piece of art.

  “Yes, very lovely.”

  “I’ll just tie the flowers and it’s finished.” Daisy took a broad white ribbon and wound it around the stems, placing the finished bouquet in a vase, then putting it on the showcase. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please.” Anouk appreciated Daisy’s professionalism. She never pried into Anouk’s personal life when she had just come to buy flowers. Anouk chose to keep her business private—always.

  Daisy wrapped the dozen yellow roses in a neat package and handed it over the counter. “There you go.”

  Anouk placed a twenty-pound note in Daisy’s hand and accepted the flowers with a smile.

  She stepped out of the florist and started to walk down the street, glancing at the shop windows as she went by. A floral canvas bag, hanging over the shoulder of a mannequin, caught her eye. She stopped at the window and stared at the tote bag with printed antique roses on baby blue in regret. Her mother would have loved it.

  “Anouk,” a voice called behind her. She froze and slowly turned around.

  “Owen.” Anouk’s tone was icy. One of the largest cities in the world and she bumped into this jerk—someone was having a right laugh.

  Owen’s charming smile failed to invoke any feeling. She waited for him to start the conversation. After all, he was the one who had approached her. Owen leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek, but Anouk dodged him.

  “Am I not allowed to greet you anymore?” He looked surprised and hurt.

  “A ‘hello’ will do.”

  “Don’t be like that…” Owen started to say.

  “What do you want?”

  Owen blinked. “I…I saw you and thought I’d ask how you are.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good.” He pushed his hands deep into his jeans pockets.

  Her ex-boyfriend’s face twitched and spasmed as he attempted to find some words. He was still handsome. Anouk hated to admit it. Dark wavy hair, clear blue eyes and an athletic frame—he was a physical embodiment of her dream man. Those five years they had been together, she had thought herself lucky. Of course, he wasn’t perfect, but who was? No one was without faults; some had more, and some had less. Owen had… more. Only later had she realised he had been a self-absorbed arse and she, his willing doormat and cheerleader. Something she had a hard time forgiving herself for.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “I…” Owen rubbed his neck.

  “I thought not.” Anouk turned to go, but stopped. “You still have my key. I want it back.”

  “Oh, yes, I think I have it. Hadn’t come around to return it to you yet, not that I wasn’t meaning to…” Owen’s voice trailed off.

  “Do you have it with you now?”

  “No, it’s at home.”

  “I want it back by tomorrow. Drop it through the letter box.”

  Owen nodded, the usual sad puppy expression on his face. A few months ago, she would have melted and rushed to hug him, but now a shudder of disgust ran through her body. She had been an idiot.

  “Tomorrow, Owen, and in my letter box,” Anouk repeated then turned to go.

  “Anouk, please,” Owen lamented.

  She spun on her heels. “You walked out of my life, so stay out of my life. Got that?”

  Owen stared at her, his eyes wide. A few people walking past gave them curious looks. Without waiting for Owen’s response, Anouk stormed down the street.

  How dare he? Anouk gritted her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. How dare he act as if nothing had happened? Did he really think she would welcome his meagre attention? He hadn’t even texted her any messages of condolence when her mother died after losing a year-long battle with cancer.

  A sharp blast snapped her to the present. Dazed, she looked at the car—she had walked into traffic and almost got run over.

  “Sorry!” She waved an apology to the driver and hurried across the road in embarrassment. The engine roared as the car sped off.

  Tears were still welling up as she reached Hanwell cemetery. She shook them off.

  “I’m through crying over that bastard,” she muttered. Taking a deep breath she walked under the old arched gate before passing the Victorian-gothic church and administrator buildings.

  Continuing along the path lined with old Victorian graves, she absorbed the serene atmosphere that oozed within the walls of the graveyard—a calm timeless haven under the canopies of huge oak trees, where sorrow was accepted and expected.

  She loved this old cemetery. Even before laying her mother to rest here, Anouk had enjoyed taking strolls around the grounds now and then. It had all started when she was a Goth in her wild teenage years, seeking thrills from midnight walks through graveyards with her friends. Her mother had been horrified by her ‘hobby’, but it had been harmless, really; most of the time they ended up screaming at every sound or their own shadows. She snorted at the recollection of their antics—once she had even peed in her pants.

  She made her way to her mother’s grave in the newer part of the cemetery, at a leisurely pace.

  “Hello, Mum,” she greeted the grave. “Fresh flowers as promised.”

  She replaced the battered roses and poured water from the bottle she carried in her bag into the graveside vase. After gathering the dead plants and paper wrappings into a neat bundle and tucking it under her arm, she stood looking at the carving of her mother’s name, the dates and the short poem she had chosen for the white tombstone.

  What we have once enjoyed we can never lose.

  All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.

  – Helen Keller

  Tears threatened to fall… this time she let them.

  “I miss you, Mum,” Anouk whispered. She leaned over and kissed the stone. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She left, taking the same route, letting her gaze wander around the old graves, marvelling at the Victorian aesthetic of death and wondering how could anyone become inured to such beauty? Grey and weathered gravestones and statues displayed the regard of the deceased. Names and years on the headstones made her question how the lives of those people might have been in the nineteenth century. She stopped in front of a carved stone angel and look
ed up at its sorrowful face, contemplating how much grief the mourners must have felt.

  An ear-splitting boom shattered the silence.

  Instinctively, Anouk dove behind the statue, her mind racing with thoughts of the cause. It had sounded like an explosion that had emanated from close by. The recent terror attacks sprang to Anouk’s mind. But why would anyone launch such an attack at a sleepy cemetery where most people were already dead?

  She risked a peek from behind the angel and scanned the line of graves. Yes, there… just a short distance from her hiding place, a Victorian sarcophagus was indeed missing its cover, yet otherwise intact. Judging by the loudness of the explosion, it should have been in pieces, if not gravel.

  A human-like figure clad in a dark jumpsuit rose from the stone coffin. Every single hair on Anouk’s body stood up, and a scream escaped from her lips. The figure spun to look in her direction, a mixture of surprise and anger danced on his hard, but healthy pink face. He pulled something from his hip and pointed it at her.

  Oh, shit! Anouk darted in the opposite direction. A gunshot rang out, and she dove behind the closest headstone. The bullet whistled over her head. Shit, shit, shit! She kept crawling down the gap between graves searching for better cover. Call the police, her terrified mind screamed.

  She hid behind a huge Victorian cross. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure the shooter would hear it and come to finish her off. She fumbled for her mobile phone in her handbag, her hands shaking like jelly during an earthquake. After what felt like an eternity, she found the phone but dropped it a couple of times before managing to hold it. She pressed the power button on the side, but nothing happened. She pressed again, harder, but the screen remained black.

  “Fuck,” she cursed under her breath. She had had the phone on mute the whole day and forgotten that the battery was low. Now it was dead… she needed to avoid a similar fate.

  Straining her ears, she tried to listen over her raspy breathing and hammering heart for any other sound that would reveal the shooter’s whereabouts. The only things she could hear were the hum of distant traffic and wind moving the leaves. She got on her knees and peeked behind the pedestal of the cross. He was nowhere to be seen. Her gut wrenched. Where the hell was he? Then she spotted him running away down the path towards the cemetery gate.