Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  Garrett cleared his throat, jolting Peter from his train of thought.

  "Sorry, MISTER Garrett, "Peter said with just a tinge of sarcasm.

  "That will be all. You're dismissed," announced the Chief Executive, not even bothering to look up from the paperwork on his desk.

  Frustrated, Peter wheeled round and headed out of the door without giving the other two a second glance. Barely managing not to slam the door on the way out, he returned to the lift, his head awash with thoughts, the first of which was, 'What the hell is going on?' Eccentric didn't even begin to cover it. The lighting, the bizarre smell, the whole, 'call me Al' one day, and then 'Mr Garrett' the next, and that's without even mentioning the elephant in the room. That made him smile, because of the very nearly direct comparison. Who was this security consultant, and why all of a sudden did the company need him? When Peter had used his senses to study the Major, he was half expecting to sense some sort of evil dragon. He hadn't of course, try as he might. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Nevertheless, something about the whole situation sat uneasily at the back of his mind. He vowed to keep a close eye on things, as he stepped out of the elevator.

  Peter spent the next few hours skulking in his office, making sure everything was up together should the worst happen, like getting an inspection from his newly appointed, interim boss. On three occasions he spotted the man, once going into the security lodge, once on the way to the distribution depot, and then again getting a big black box out of a shiny new Mercedes in the car park. What stood out on each of these occasions was that Major Manson walked with a limp, and was aided by a stick, made from rich, dark wood with an ornate silver ornament on top. He couldn't tell exactly what it was from so far away, even using the security camera's zoom function.

  After lunch, he paid another visit to the security lodge. Back in the familiar office, the unusual atmosphere stuck out like a sore thumb, with everyone there keeping their heads down and getting on with their work, in pretty much total silence. The atmosphere was most out of place for the normally jovial, well run, efficient department.

  Having sorted out his paperwork and spoken to the members of his team, he walked down the corridor towards the exit. Weaving his way past the large photocopier, he felt like banging his head against the wall in frustration. Things had been working so well, everybody had seemed so happy... and now this. The atmosphere was terrible wherever he'd been today, and he was sure the staff... his friends, hated what had happened, but were too afraid to speak out. He couldn't really blame them. With a view to getting some perspective, he resolved to speak to Richie that night.

  The end of the working day arrived, with Peter doing his normal trick of staying on just that bit later to avoid the worst of the traffic, in particular the queues out of the massive car parks from within Cropptech. Spending this last hour or so looking out of his office window and using the security cameras to try and gauge the mood of the workers all heading for their cars, he was puzzled to find only a few glum faces amongst the majority, who, on inspection, looked like their normal, happy selves. He wasn't sure if that bothered him more or not, after the kind of day he'd been through.

  At precisely a quarter to six he grabbed his jacket and lunch box and, with his phone in his hand, raced across to his car which looked rather lonely in the depleted car park. Texting his friend on the way, he marvelled at how difficult it was for him to type and walk at the same time. Sending his message off into the ether, he jumped into his car and started it up. As he made a sharp turn, heading towards the exit, his headlights lit up the shiny black Mercedes that belonged to Major Manson. Shaking his head and uttering a very bad word under his breath, he made for home.

  Richie's reply to his text startled him in the middle of cooking tea, and a small smile at her willingness to meet him later in the bar of the sports club peeked through his gruff demeanour, caused by his worst working day ever. Food eaten, household jobs done, he walked out of the front door with a spring in his step.

  Pushing through the giant double glass doors, he skipped past the notice boards, deserted reception area/shop and turned the corner into the bar proper, only to be greeted by a riot of noise and colour. A raucous game of pool was taking place, in between some drinking. An even noisier battle was taking place between two stocky chaps on the arcade 'shoot-em-up' game off to one side. On top of all of that, drunken men enthusiastically playing a fruit machine and a dozen or so track suited males flipping a matchbox furiously, amid drinking their beer as fast as was humanly possible, all added to the atmosphere, if indeed that's how it could be described.

  Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he had but one thought.

  'PANTS... it's Wednesday!' A rugby coaching course had been going on all day, which went some way to explaining the ensuing chaos and high jinks. Weaving in and out the chairs and tables, narrowly missing the game of pool that looked as though it was about to turn into a contact sport, he reached the bar and ordered his usual: large diet Pepsi, lots of ice. Scanning the room for Richie, it didn't take long to spot her tucked away in the far corner, nursing her drink, on a table next to two young rugby players arm wrestling each other. Even from this distance she looked stunning. Long, dark brown, curly hair flowed down the back of her neck, framing her ever so cute face, completed by a freckly complexion and a petite body that perfectly mirrored her dragon form. For a few seconds he stood captivated by her beauty and thoughts of something he could never have, before realising that he probably looked a bit odd, which was enough in itself to get him scuttling on over in her direction. The closer he got to her table, the more apparent it was that the arm wrestling rugby players were trying to impress her with their macho deeds. Ignoring their scowls, he pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. As he did so, one of the tough guys piped up,

  "Look, it's one of the juniors from the hockey club."

  His friend joined in the fun,

  "You'd have thought it would have been well past his bedtime."

  They both seemed to think this was hilarious, as they sat waiting for Peter to react. Richie leant in close to Peter, nodded her head in the direction of the two idiots and said,

  "Aren't you going to say something?"

  "It's not worth it," he whispered back, hoping the whole thing would just go away.

  But Richie had other ideas. With the two drunken rugby players laughing louder than ever now, bringing their antics to the attention of the rest of the clubhouse, a mischievous glint flickered briefly in Richie's eyes. Before he could stop her, she stood and addressed the two rugby players, in a very loud and very confident voice.

  "You two so-called real men think you're tough eh? I'll arm wrestle you both at the same time and still win. How about that?"

  Everyone had now focused their attention on what was happening, including all the staff. If nothing else, the challenge had momentarily wiped the smile from the two drunken rugby players’ faces because they, like most there, were well aware of Richie's reputation, not only as a supreme athlete, but as someone capable of 'pulling a rabbit out of a hat' anytime she liked, so to speak. Deep down they knew her to be formidable and not someone to be trifled with, but as they looked her up and down, taking in her diminutive frame and her skinny little biceps, the alcohol kicked in.

  "No problem luv," said one, as they simultaneously slammed their fists down on the table.

  Almost as one, the rest of the room shook their head, rubbed their eyes, and then SMILED! As everyone slowly gathered round to watch, the two rugby players took a seat next to each other.

  "You sure you wanna do us both at the same time?" one tittered.

  Again the crowd shook their heads, all speculating inside their minds about the amount of humiliation that was about to be dished out.

  "We'll try not to hurt you luv," slurred the slightly less drunk of the two.

  This was going to be BAD!

  Richie sat relaxed in her chair, smiling confidently at the two fools, as she
put both her elbows on the table and offered out her petite hands. Having a pretty good idea of just how this was going to go, Peter couldn't watch. Once each of the rugby players had taken a hand, someone in the crowd started to count down.

  "5... 4..."

  The rugby players’ biceps positively bulged as their arms tensed.

  "3... 2..."

  The smile still on her face, Richie closed her eyes and...

  "1!"

  SMASH!!!!!!!! The two rugby players yelped with pain as their bruised hands bounced back up from the undamaged table.

  "Thanks guys," Richie scoffed, as she got up and performed a mock bow for the crowd, who all, right on cue, erupted with applause and laughter.

  Heading off through the crowd towards the bar, the two rugby players were mocked and ridiculed relentlessly.

  Dropping back into her seat opposite Peter, with everyone having dispersed, Richie took a big swig of her drink, before looking at Peter and saying,

  "That's how you handle them."

  "That's not really how we're supposed to do things... is it?" replied Peter, rolling his eyes for effect.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "It's not exactly BLENDING in, is it?" he whispered, sternly. "If the Council heard about all this, you'd be in so much trouble."

  "You don't get it Pete. I don't care. Some of these humans desperately need some lessons in manners."

  "I can't say I disagree with you. But it's not your job to teach them."

  "Isn't it?!" declared Richie. "I don't stop being who or WHAT I am as soon as the clock strikes five and I head for home every day. And you can't tell me you don't either. So why shouldn't our mandate extend a little further? If you ask me, our roles do extend outside our jobs, and this is exactly the kind of thing we should be doing."

  Abruptly the two friends brought their conversation to a halt, realising that someone was approaching the table. Richie's beautiful face cracked a grin as one of the shamed, arm wrestling rugby players approached carrying fresh drinks for them both.

  "We're both very sorry... and... um... have both learned a valuable lesson today," he managed to stutter, looking as though he'd sobered up considerably over the course of the last few minutes.

  "Good," quipped Richie, raising the fresh glass in his direction, the natural balance of things restored, with her looking cooler than a polar bear in the Arctic, eating an ice cream, sponsored by Ferrari.

  With the ambient noise having dropped to its lowest since he'd arrived, Peter figured now was his chance to talk to his friend about work.

  "So, how's your day been Rich?" he asked.

  Still smirking from her easily won victory, she pondered the question for a few seconds before replying.

  "Pretty quiet really. Health and safety training this morning, which was all over by lunch time, so quite an easy afternoon."

  "You haven't heard then, about a new consultant guy that Garrett's brought in?"

  "Oh you mean Major Manson."

  "That's the one," muttered Peter, frowning.

  "What a charming man. We were all introduced to him this afternoon when Al showed him around our offices. I'd say he'll fit in nicely around here."

  "WHAT!!!" fumed Peter, nearly knocking over his drink. "You've got to be kidding me!"

  A worried look on her face, Richie leaned across the table and took hold of Peter's hand.

  "What is it? What's the matter?"

  He snatched his hand away from Richie's grasp, shaking ever so slightly. Richie decided she'd wait for him to explain what the problem was. Letting his anger drift away, after a short while he took a sip of his drink, looked his friend in the face, and continued.

  "Could you not see how he was manipulating Garrett?"

  "What on earth do you mean?" she responded, puzzled.

  Trying his best to keep calm, he said,

  "Major Manson, the guy from Darktech, has got some sort of hold on Garrett... I'm sure of it."

  "What makes you say that?"

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Peter explained what had happened that day, particularly the encounter with Manson in Garrett's office, the darkness, the smell, the odd behaviour... all of it. Richie listened intently, not interrupting once. After having finished, he waited patiently for her take in his views, giving her the time and space she'd afforded him earlier. Not knowing quite what to make of Peter's account, she dived in head first, explaining how they'd been introduced that afternoon by Garrett, and how after the guided tour, all of her colleagues had gone on and on about just how considerate, witty and charming the new man had seemed. Almost the perfect gentleman you could say. Needless to say, Richie's experience was almost a polar opposite to his encounter, and was about as far removed as it was possible to be. Richie rounded off her tale by saying that Al Garrett had dropped by much later on, to ask the staff's opinion of Manson. Everyone had told him what they thought, with nearly all agreeing that they'd be happy to report to him regularly. For his part, Garrett went on to explain the reason for Manson being there was to gain fresh perspective and insight into the way the company operates, and to take a little bit of the responsibility and pressure away from himself, which everyone agreed, after he'd left, could only be a good thing.

  After Richie had finished recounting her story, the two friends sat in silence for a good few minutes, both gazing into the bottom of their almost drained glasses. By this time the clubhouse was nearly empty, but that didn't stop Peter from looking around conspiratorially, making sure no one was listening in.

  "Listen Rich, I know from everything you've said, that you can't see anything untoward in what's going on, but I swear to you on our friendship that there's something very wrong with this Manson guy."

  There was a long pause as Peter considered his next words carefully.

  "It's almost like he's... one of us."

  "Are you INSANE?" countered Richie, lowering her voice immediately. "We'd know if he was a dragon; we'd sense him, and he just isn't.”

  "I know he doesn't feel like a dragon," retorted Peter, "but... there's something else that just makes him feel really, really wrong to everyone of my senses."

  "Have you considered the possibility that your dislike for him stems from the fact that he's just waltzed into Cropptech, and you've gotten off on the wrong foot? Or that you don't like the thought of having to report to someone new, someone who's been here less time than you have?"

  "I know it sounds a bit like that Rich, but there's more to it than that, I'm sure. You have to believe me... please. I've never been so sure about anything in my entire life," Peter pleaded.

  "Enough with the begging, alright. I'll do what I can to keep an eye on him, as should you. With both of us working together, nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary will go unnoticed. Deal?"

  "Deal," agreed Peter cheerfully.

  With proceedings concluded, and both of them stifling yawns, the friends deposited their empty glasses on the bar, and after a quick goodnight embrace in the car park, went their separate ways.

  Driving home, Peter wasn't sure what to make of their conversation. Glad that Richie had agreed to keep a watchful eye on Manson, but concerned that the entire office staff thought him to be a decent chap. As he slipped into bed, he hoped things would look better after a full night's sleep.

  Following his normal routine, right down to the letter, the next morning. It was only when he'd closed the front door and headed down the path to his car that he realised the difference between this day and all the rest. For the first time ever, he wasn't looking forward to going into work. Quite the opposite in fact.

  Thursday and Friday passed without incident at work. Atmosphere wise, in the security department, it was pretty much as it had been, an overwhelming cauldron of negativity, leaving the staff there with little choice but to knuckle down and get on with their work, with not a hint of the little jokes or quirky humour that Peter so loved.

  For him, Friday was spent touring the whole site, checking
security standards and protocol, making sure that as a company they were being extra vigilant, not wishing to give Manson any cause to pick fault with his work, but also it was an excuse to gauge the mood of a larger cross section of Cropptech employees, and get some sort of insight into just how they were feeling.

  For the most part, the workers across the rest of the facility appeared happy and productive. Not sure what to make of all of this, he replayed that day over and over in his mind, wondering if, as Richie had suggested, he'd made a mistake, or jumped to a rash conclusion. Could it all be completely innocent, with him being the one to blow everything out of proportion with his vivid imagination? Despite going over it dozens of times, he still didn't think he was wrong. Something else he found suspicious was that Al Garrett had stayed in his office throughout normal working hours all day on Thursday, something that was practically unheard of. He'd checked.

  'Very unusual,' he thought as he wandered the entire site, whilst also trying to keep an eye out for Major Manson, without much success. From reviewing the recordings in his office, he could see that the Major returned to his parked car every three to four hours, sitting in it for approximately five minutes, before heading back up to Garrett's office. It was impossible to see what exactly he was doing, due to the heavily darkened windows across the whole car, but he pondered all of this right up to the point that he left for home, his head buzzing with everything that had gone on that week. The only thing he knew at the moment was that he was glad it was the weekend.

  4 A Ticket To The Ball? Laminium Ball

  Walking from the car to the front door cleared his head of all the doubt and confusion he had about work. Turning the key in the lock felt like a breath of fresh air. Cogs in the machine all suddenly lining up, he realised that it being Friday night could only mean one thing... laminium ball!