Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  Time passed slowly over the coming weeks. All he could think about was 4th November and getting everything right. It became something of an obsession, ruining his concentration and even the love of his life... hockey! Or for that matter, a once in a lifetime trip to Australia to see his team compete in the Global Cup Final. Not even the fireworks display which he'd agreed to go to with Tank and Richie at the Sports Club on Saturday 5th November could float his boat, even though the event itself sounded fantastic with a barbecue, fairground amusements, bonfire and well organised display of top notch fireworks. Normally he'd be looking forward to it a great deal, but nothing could distract him from this most important of tasks. Deep down inside himself he got the feeling that curing Garrett and returning Cropptech to normality was essential to... well, to... everything.

  Eventually Thursday 3rd arrived, and as he'd done for weeks, he kept a low profile. Nothing extraordinary happened. On edge, he kept thinking he'd be found out. Nerves were getting to him, which in itself was unusual. It was the first time he'd ever really known what real pressure felt like. All that stuff back in the nursery ring was nothing compared with this. Lives depended on him, and he got the feeling that it wasn't just Garrett's. Continuing to tell himself that everything was going to go as planned, once or twice during the day he caught glimpses of Manson on the security cameras. Studying the pictures intensely, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. The ex-army Major seemed to be going about his business as he would on any other day. As well as the security footage, he also kept checking the scheduling software, checking that Manson's appointment at the awards dinner wasn't either cancelled or changed. Peter left at his normal time to head home, and as he drove under the barrier at the security check point and waved casually to the guard on duty, sweat poured down the back of his neck. He'd be glad when all this was over, and by this time tomorrow night, hopefully it would be.

  After tea and one or two household chores, he packed Gee Tee’s dust in his jacket pocket, so as not to forget to take it to work the following day. He was as restless as he'd ever been. Unable to concentrate, he tried reading a book, listening to music, watching the television, all with about the same success. Finally he switched off the lights and retired to bed, drifting off to sleep much as he normally would. However, his dreams were far from pleasant. They looped around into one, all featuring him trying to cure Garrett and failing miserably, whether it was because he was late, or had lost the dust or had used the dust and muttered the wrong mantra. His dreams pointed to failure, and when he awoke the following morning he was more tired than he could ever believe. As he sat bleary eyed, eating his breakfast, he kept telling himself that they were after all only dreams and that they meant nothing. Nothing at all.

  Double checking everything, he set off earlier than usual, aiming to get there just before the first shift change at about seven thirty. Nobody would think it odd, as sometimes he was called in then anyway. Keen to get in early to make sure that if Manson had stayed overnight (which apparently he sometimes did, although where, Peter had absolutely no idea, despite his best efforts to find out) that he and his car left to go to the awards ceremony, knowing that once it had gone, it would be safe to approach Garrett in his office and administer the cure. Reaching Cropptech at twenty past seven, he parked in a very empty looking car park in which, of the five hundred spaces available, fewer than forty were currently occupied, due to the early hour. The reason he'd chosen this one was that Manson liked to park his black Mercedes in it and sure enough, not sixty yards away, that very car sat, parked all on its own, just a solitary street light illuminating it on this dark and frosty morning.

  Peter shivered as he crossed the car park, not only because of the cold, but at the thought that his nemesis could be sitting in that darkened car, watching him right at this very moment. Had he misjudged things by parking here? Was it a dreadful mistake to alter his schedule and come in so early? As these and many other thoughts, all negative, raced around his head, his breath froze as he exhaled, sending a series of shivers down his back and along the tail he so often thought he still had in his human form. His office was toasty warm, so much so that he was able to dispense with his jacket and hang it on the back of the door, aware that the cure for the poison, his mobile phone and the alea which he had taken to keeping in a pocket or his car rather than attract undue attention by wearing it round his neck in plain sight, were all tucked away in the inside pocket. Getting on with some work, all the time keeping an eye on the security monitor that flicked between the different car parks, he hoped to see the exact moment Manson left. By his estimation, he would have to leave no later than half past ten to give himself enough time to get to the awards venue. Only when he was sure Manson was out of the way, would Peter put his plan into action.

  Clock watching furiously all morning, by ten o'clock the Mercedes was still parked in the same place. Despair welled up inside him. What if Manson didn't go? What if Al Garrett went with him? What if Garrett was already off site somewhere? All this circled Peter's head as he sat at his desk, waiting for the monitor to flick back round to the car park with the Mercedes in it. He'd pinned all his hopes on this one opportunity. When the hell would he get another chance to get Garrett alone, without Manson anywhere to be seen?

  Just as his hopes of Manson leaving the Cropptech site looked to have been crushed, the monitor flicked back to the car park that held Peter and Manson's cars. Leaning in close, he could just make out the driver's door on Manson's black Mercedes being slammed shut as the camera tuned into that particular car park. A small puff of smoke coughed from the exhaust as the car speedily made its way to the front gate. Standing up from the bank of monitors, Peter bounded over to his window that looked out on the security lodge, eagerly watching the black Mercedes as it approached the security barrier. The guard on duty stood up straight, recognising the car, a good sign as far as Peter was concerned. After a few seconds the barrier was raised and the Mercedes shot off, turning out into the main road at speed, paying little attention to oncoming traffic from either direction, almost killing an unwary cyclist in the process. Peter let out a long sigh of relief. Everything, it seemed, was back on track, he thought to himself smugly.

  Having decided days ago that it would be prudent to wait at least half an hour to be sure that Manson didn't come back, he spent the time mainly staring out of the window, peeking through the blinds at the main gate, hoping never again to see that black Mercedes. Every now and then he would glance at his watch, checking to see how much time had elapsed since Manson had left. Dialling down the control setting on the radiator; despite how chilly it was outside, he could feel himself getting hotter and hotter, due mainly to the anxiety of the situation. After half an hour had elapsed, he checked that he had the antidote and that he knew the mantra and, leaving his jacket with the alea and his phone hanging on the back of the door, started out towards the top floor.

  With nothing to lose now, he took the most direct route to Al Garrett's office, slowing down for no one. Once in the lift, he checked his reflection in the its polished, mirrored walls. Sweating profusely under his arms, around his neck and, although he couldn't see it, he could feel the beads of sweat running down his back, almost as if they were competing in their own Olympics.

  With a 'ding', the lift door jolted him back to the present. Stepping out onto the plush carpet, he smiled at Garrett's personal secretary. She reacted with surprise on seeing Peter. As he approached, the expression on her face turned from surprise to outrage.

  "I'm afraid Mr Garrett is unavailable at the moment," she stated snootily. "My understanding, Mr Bentwhistle, is that you are no longer allowed on this floor."

  Peter was prepared for this, thrusting a handful of papers in her direction.

  "I'm afraid there's been some sort of error in the payroll department," he lied calmly. "My department's overtime for last month hasn't been sanctioned due to some kind of mistake on their part. I've spent all
morning redoing the paperwork, and it just needs to be authorised so that I can get it to payroll before midday. If it misses the deadline, my staff will have to wait another month to get their money, not something most of them can afford to do in this financial climate, especially with it coming up towards Christmas, as I'm sure you can appreciate."

  As Peter stood stock still, waiting patiently with a smile on his face, the secretary's face grew into a suspicious kind of frown, her eyebrows looking as though they were two caterpillars involved in some kind of secret mating ritual.

  "I really am under strict instructions that Mr Garrett is not to be disturbed for the rest of the day," she said with a genuine hint of regret in her voice.

  Like a well trained actor, Peter let out a long, deliberate sigh.

  "All I need is Mr Garrett's signature. I won't be more than sixty seconds." Peter could see the secretary wavering and thought to himself,

  'Gotcha!'

  "Think of all those loyal Cropptech staff who would be short of money if this isn't done by midday." Leaning in close to the secretary, almost overwhelmed by the sickly smell of her overbearing perfume, he did his best to try and close the deal. "I'm sure you wouldn't want it known by the staff that it was your fault that they had to wait an extra month to get their hands on money that was rightfully theirs," he suggested menacingly.

  Watching the conflicting emotions play across the secretary's pale face, he was sure he'd done just enough to get to see Garrett. After a few seconds of consideration, the pale face turned into a snarl.

  'Oh no,' he thought. 'I've totally misjudged it.'

  "You've got two minutes. Get his signature and get out," she countered forcefully, pointing her thumb towards the door of Al Garrett's office.

  Peter nodded and smiled politely.

  "Thank you," he said as he walked past her desk. She muttered something under her breath that even with his enhanced senses, he still couldn't quite pick up.

  Reaching the solid oak door, he gave a short knock before going in. Once again the room was very dark. The overpowering smell of... evil, assaulted his nose in waves that made him feel physically sick. He knew there and then that it had to end now. And it would, in just a few more moments.

  Approaching Garrett's desk, the ‘bald eagle’ was sitting in his high backed, black leather chair, taking little notice of anything going on around him. Peter shook his head in disgust.

  'No one should be put through this,' he thought. 'I was willing to let Manson go his own way, but the more I see, the more I think he should be locked up for a very long time.'

  Reaching the desk, he leant over towards Garrett. His boss's bloodshot eyes didn't move at all, even though he waved his hand in front of Garrett's face. Again, no reaction. Seeing him in this state sent spikes of anger surging up Peter's spine.

  'How could anyone do this to another human being?' he thought. 'Well, no more. It ends now, once and for all.'

  Walking around the desk until he stood behind Garrett's high backed chair, Peter slowly took out the pouch containing the powder, promising,

  “It will soon all be back to normal,” as he did so.

  "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" asserted a low voice from the far corner of the room.

  Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, that's how startled he was. Gripping the pouch tightly in one hand, he turned to face the darkened corner. From out of the darkness stepped his worst nightmare... MANSON, cane in one hand, drink in the other.

  'What the... ?' thought Peter. 'I could have sworn this room was totally empty.'

  Garrett's head swivelled at the sound of Manson's voice, his first discernible sign of movement since Peter had entered the office.

  Pulse racing, a million questions fluttered through Peter's mind, all about how and why Manson was here. Pushing them away with a mighty effort, he focused fully on what needed to be done.

  'Manson is over ten feet away,' he thought. 'All I have to do is cover Garrett in the powder, recite the mantra and it's all over.'

  Poised to act, Peter took a deep breath. Suddenly the sound of a faint click resonated from the other side of the office. Peter turned to find that the huge book shelf that had covered all of one wall had slid back to reveal two of Manson's smirking guards, both toting machine guns in his direction.

  'Oh crap!'

  "No sudden moves now Bentwhistle," commanded Manson in a tone of pure evil. "It would be a crying shame if we had to fill you with holes."

  Quickly reassessing his situation with the emergence of the guards, he knew he had little choice but to comply with the ex-army Major, at least for now. Even with his enhanced dragon abilities, he knew he would stand very little chance against two machine guns: maybe in dragon form he might fare better, but that was something that really wasn't going to happen, possibly ever again if he didn't keep his cool and use his head. So he stood totally and completely still behind Al Garrett's chair, holding the pouch with the antidote in it in one of his outstretched hands.

  "Now you see, Mr Garrett, what has really been going on here. I told you I would get to the bottom of things and this I think you'll find is as far down the bottom, with all the scum and the slime, that it's possible to go."

  Manson walked over and put his drink on Garrett's desk. The old man's head followed his every movement. Peter remained stock still, aware not only of the machine guns levelled at him, but also of the sweat once again racing down his back. Abruptly Manson slammed his fist down on the desk, causing even the very sedated Garrett to jump slightly in his chair. Peter remained motionless.

  "This is the reason why you feel so ill,” barked Manson, leaning down addressing Garrett, while at the same time pointing up towards Peter. "This... degenerate... is the reason you feel so overwhelmingly bad. He's been sneaking in here and poisoning you, day after day."

  Peter wanted to protest. He wanted to grab his boss by his sagging shoulders and shake him until he could see what was really going on. But the two guards looked more nervous with every second that passed, as they continued to train their weapons on him. Manson continued.

  "You still don't really trust me, do you Alan?" he scoffed. "Still in your poor health you think that I have something to do with all that."

  BOOM. Manson slammed his fist down on the desk once again.

  Peter closed his eyes, praying that the sudden shock wouldn't cause one of the two maniacs with the guns to open fire accidentally.

  'Manson seems really out of it,' he thought. 'Not so much drunk, as... angry and obsessed with something.'

  Manson grabbed Garrett's chin and forced the old man to look him in the eyes.

  "I can prove it to you, you know. I can prove that it was this little worm that's been making you ill."

  Still with a million things running through his head, Peter wondered exactly what Manson had in mind.

  Stomping angrily around the desk until he stood in front of Peter, swiftly Manson grabbed the pouch from the young dragon's outstretched hand. All Peter could think was,

  'Oh boy am I gonna get it for wasting Gee Tee's precious powder.'

  Manson waved the pouch in front of Garrett's remarkably unresponsive face.

  "This is what he's been poisoning you with. And I shall prove it."

  Peter let out a very silent breath of air.

  'At least this won't catch me out,' he thought, knowing that without the mantra, the powder was totally benign.

  Marching over to the unoccupied area between Garrett's desk and the door, Manson pulled the drawstring loose. Suddenly he cast the contents into the air and to Peter's utter amazement, muttered the exact same mantra that he himself had memorised. Not knowing what to make of anything now that Manson had uttered those words, all that he could think was that without a dragon's magic, the words wouldn't mean a thing. Unfortunately he was more wrong than he could ever have believed possible. From out of nowhere the benign powder lit up like tiny fireflies as it wriggled and shimmied through the air, sparkling in
almost every conceivable colour. It only lasted a few seconds but it was hypnotic. The damage had been done. From Garrett's worn and weary face, two bloodshot eyes turned and looked up at Peter with resentment and disbelief. The guards having also seemed a little sceptical before, now looked meaner than Peter could ever have thought possible. Part of him could understand that. If he'd thought that someone was poisoning his boss (and they were) he'd want to put a stop to it as fast as possible, with probably as much force as possible. He just couldn't get his head around what was happening. How did Manson know the mantra? More importantly, why did the mantra work? Did he have magic? Was he a dragon, or something else? What the hell did this mean for him? Nothing good, that was for sure. He reached one conclusion, very quickly. He needed help, and he needed it now. Richie! Of course, that was it. He could contact Richie telepathically and let her know what was going on. At the very least, he could get her to come up here and interrupt things.

  Clearing his mind, he concentrated intently on his surroundings as he reached out, looking for one amongst hundreds in the throng of Cropptech workers. Abruptly, panic threatened to squeeze him into submission. Not only could he not sense Richie, but he couldn't sense anyone outside this room, despite knowing they were all there. Garrett's secretary was only twenty five feet away in the corridor, with forty or fifty other staff working on this level, let alone the hundreds of others that worked below them, but try as he might, he couldn't sense a single one of them. Concentrating again, pushing the panic aside, he felt the minds of the two guards, alert and deadly, having no hesitation about shooting him, should he warrant it. He sensed Garrett, weary, dejected and... dying. Letting his mind drift towards Manson, all he felt was a cold, dark void, filled with anger, despair, revenge and destruction. It was only then that he realised the trouble he was in.